New Morning in America 2.0


by Donald Jeffries, “I Protest” by Donald Jeffries:

The city on a hill isn’t shining

It’s eight a.m. The Hispanics have started up their weed whackers and lawnmowers. Sure, it used to be common courtesy to wait until 9 a.m. for loud yard work, but not now. Not in America 2.0. They’re actually being considerate. Sometimes they get started at 7 a.m. They’re hard workers, and it gets pretty hot out there.


I go for my morning walk. I pass by a newspaper here or there, sitting at the end of a driveway. Newspapers are like fossils now- a relic of a bygone era. America 1.0. But there are a lot of old people in my neighborhood, and where they are, you’re likely to find newspapers. Almost no one under sixty reads newspapers now. Well, they were always full of lies, anyhow. The sprinklers are going everywhere. Most of the lawns are immaculately manicured, thanks to the non-English speaking crews. I pass by other walkers, the regulars. We nod or wave to each other, but they don’t stop and talk. They’re typical suburban neighbors- cordial but they keep their distance.

Almost every person I encounter in my neighborhood is White. I hope no one from the Biden administration is reading this. Neighborhoods like mine are collective hate crimes. They want to eliminate them. It is very peaceful here. The realtor in me wouldn’t have to exaggerate a bit to advertise it as a “quiet community.” If I was carrying a pin in my pocket during my walk, I could hear it drop. There are lots of dogs, too, including my own gorgeous Golden Retriever Riley. Riley is like a super model, a real diva. Most of the dogs in my neighborhood are spoiled as well. You know, White people and their dogs.

It’s really an idyllic existence. I don’t what I did to deserve it. I really never made that much money. We have lots of neighbors that probably had incomes that were double and even triple mine. Colin Powell once lived in my neighborhood, years before we bought a house here. Mia Hamm the soccer star came from here as well. There are lots of double and triple dipper government workers living among us. I can tell them by their attitudes, which could almost accurately be described as White Privilege. If they ask “what I do,” I’ve always said I was a writer, even before I was published. Because I always have been. Let them think I get paid a lot for it.

I also see a lot of old people, as I stroll along constantly checking my Fitbit, who are visibly restless. Pacing back and forth on those immaculate lawns. Persistently checking out the flower beds, making sure the landscaping is perfect. These oldsters are fit, like I am, so it must frustrate them to be in a state of “retirement.” We work for decades, fantasizing about how great retirement will be, and then at least for most people, it can be boring and tedious. But they aren’t exposing the crimes and corruption of our leaders, the deterioration of our society. So I’m lucky to have these forums, and people appreciating my work. I’d go crazy just staring at my yard.

My neighborhood exemplifies the suburban experience. In my view, the suburbs are perhaps America’s greatest achievement. Close enough to still experience life in the big city (in my case, the swamp-infested nation’s capital), but with the amenities of the country. We have thick woods behind us. We see deer in our yard regularly. Years ago, my daughter recorded a video of a newly born baby deer, with the gunk still on it, who staggered into our screened in porch, and kept bumping into everything. I hope it found its mother. I’ve seen an owl on our back porch. Vultures. Foxes. One of our neighbors used to have a rooster. I’m glad that rooster is gone. The only noise I hear sometimes on my walk is one of the tenacious woodpeckers in our plentiful trees.

But alas, sometimes we have to leave the bliss of our suburban abode. Our endangered species that is diligently trying to avoid the attention of the “Woke” world. Last week, I ventured out to IHOP. On Wednesdays, the entire menu is half price for seniors. Since to be considered a senior there, you only have to be 55, I finally consented to accepting the label. I will never like being called a senior citizen. At any rate, one of the countless other seniors who were taking advantage of this deal was a heavy woman, probably in her seventies. She was sporting one of those short man-hating hairdos, and had put an exclamation point on it by dying it pink. Lovely. I wonder what grandma thinks of Identity Politics?

I go to Panera Bread every week with my 85 year old sister, who is in incredible shape. We usually spend most of our time critiquing the looks of the people there. She is worse than I am about it. She has great, erect posture, and has formed a theory that most oldsters become hunched over because of bad posture. We both roll our eyes at the elderly in front of us in line, as they try to top each other in taking the longest time to place their order. Most old people have a sense of entitlement that isn’t far removed from what you’d see in an inner-city gang member. It’s bad enough that I’m shaking my head at those who are close to my peers, but my 85 year old sister?

Then yesterday, I went to the post office. I’ve written about my experiences at the post office before. No other place, except perhaps the DMV, illustrates how far into Third World status we’ve fallen. As always, there was a long line. As always, no non-immigrant employees could be seen anywhere. The two immigrant cashiers, both struggling with English, took at least fifteen minutes with the customers they were waiting on when I first walked in the door. One of those they were waiting on was an immigrant family, kids running around haphazardly, clueless parents attempting to converse with the “hero” cashier in English, when none of them spoke it fluently.

If I venture to the grocery store, again it’s mostly immigrant workers, although there are still a smattering of American citizens working there. Most of the sheeple shoppers opt for the self-checkout. I gave up lecturing people about this a long time ago. How refusing to use it might save someone’s job. How it actually isn’t any faster and is complicated enough they have an employee there to assist you, instead of just putting them behind a cash register. And finally, how the store has hoodwinked you into effectively working for them, for free. But don’t make a mistake. It will be your fault. Just go to California, where shoplifting is legal now. It’s much easier.

I drive a Prius, which means I’m probably a communist to some people. But I buy gas a lot less often than most of you. When I do pump up at my local station, a handful of times the pump didn’t cut off automatically, as it’s supposed to do when the tank is full. I feel this is an obvious attempt to rip off the consumer. If they do this to enough people, it adds up. The first few times it happened, I attempted to let the employee- who is always from some middle eastern country, know about it. They looked at me with the kind of blank gaze you get when you try to explain our fractional banking system to some random eligible voter. So I just stopped trying.

On the road, I have given up my lifelong practice of honking at stupid drivers. And there are more stupid drivers now than there have ever been. When any light turns green, invariably one or more of those in front of me hesitate sometimes long enough to make others miss the light. Honking the horn only makes them angry that you noticed their incompetence, and they will usually then just stop to make you miss the light, even if it means they miss it, too. I’ve actually read some posts online by some of these people, explaining this kind of sociopathic thinking. Thankfully, my Prius doesn’t really have enough pickup to make me worry about speeding. I’m trying to stay as far away from police, or any other authority figure, as I can.

One question I often ask myself, in my infrequent outings to stores or restaurants, is where all the White people work? These establishments seem to staff their businesses like a television commercial- very few Whites visible. In my area, anyhow, my guess is that many of the older Whites, especially, are “consultants” and the like, strolling around neighborhoods like mine and issuing a perfunctory greeting as they pile the steps up on their own Fitbits. I do see them, occasionally, as they canvas door to door to do roofing, windows, and other home repairs. For which they will send out their non-English speaking crew to do the actual labor.

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