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There should be no shock at the success of White Nationalist revival.  A fog of liberal-progressive panic seeps across the closest quarters, oddly individualizing what some inhabit as a normal and collective disposition of familiarity with emergency under conditions of constant bodily and spiritual duress.  In the living room, kitchen, office, school, cafe, park, dorm room, gym, and library there is a steady-sad din:  How did this happen, Why such hate, There are so many of them, What will happen to our country, Will I be threatened, My uncle and neighbor lied, What does the world think of us, I do not feel safe, What do we do now, Who will protect those people from them, How could this happen my god my god…

Wrapped up in the noise, it is worth reminding that this alleged descent into new chapters of state-induced racial and sexual terror is not reducible to the serial reprehensible (though completely unsurprising) tweets, assaults, and grandstanding of the new President-Elect.  There are some who understand, because their wisdom is inherited, that the terror he embodies is both long-standing and carried in the thrust of a Civilization’s futurity.  This guy was always here, he is the persona his predecessors possessed but disguised so well (though you never fooled me, you assholes), and many of those in the throes of liberal-white-people-panic know this deep down because their revulsion to him is driven by a hatred of the intimate, the familial, and maybe the same.

I must admit: I suspect some of them are incapable of seeing and feeling past themselves, their own bodily integrity, this isolated moment in a long, long history.  The way they are spinning into prescriptions of how and why “we must resist” this particular abhorrence not only domesticates the liberal white riot, it threatens an infiltration of imagination in dislocated quarters that are accustomed to their negligence and generally thankful for their absence.  The white misery desires multicultural company.  Some of the ones panicking in public (online, on mic, on screen) are ready to tell the rest of us what to do, how to feel, and when to move—when in truth, if they felt so motivated, they would realize that their greatest contribution might be to shut the fuck up and get out of the way, because there has been some well thought-out, beautifully imagined, wild shit going on for years now, and some of it entails anticipation of their demise along with—because they are part of—the abhorrence.

Dylan Rodriguez, “The Pitfalls of (White) Liberal Panic,” Abolition Journal (x)

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