Part of a longer conversation with @CryptoRichYT regarding liquidation. @TFL1728 @the_irascible youtu.be/06xsn2WUM3Q?is=jX02…

This morning's talk with @TuckerMax and @_tommyspodcast regarding the path to manhood. Tommy has my genuine respect for taking all this on in public, in order to pursue his own path, while hearing what many need to hear.

We Are Americans! I grew up with no father but the men of the tribes. Out here in the great expanses of the West. I'm not of their blood. The old tribes of this land. Yet, mine is warrior blood, English and Scot and Norman and Viking ways all run together in me. When they met me as a young lad, I was already a young warrior in spirit and fight, a brave in their words. Their old men sat me down at the fire and told me the stories, and the stories went back further than anyone could count, to when the animals still talked. Long before the four hundred years my people have been here. And they told me what their grandfathers saw when my people came west, so I would know it when it came again. They saw wagons, white canvas coming down off the ridges, a few at first, the oxen worn to bone and the ones walking beside them not much better. The strangers did not know the land, and they would not have lived to see the far mountains of the Pacific ridge if they had not been fed and shown the crossings. So they were fed, and they were shown. Then more came, and more after them, more every summer. The cavalry came behind the wagons, and wooden forts went up where the trails met the rivers. They brought paper, and the paper became law, and the law outlived every promise written on it. They drove stakes and ran their chains across ground no man had ever thought to measure, and sold what lay between the stakes to men who would never set foot on it. And there came a spring when the people looked up and found themselves strangers on their own ground. The old men never said the strangers were stronger or even an evil enemy. They said the nations stood apart. Every nation thought the trouble belonged to its neighbor. The old feuds ran deeper than the new danger, and the strangers learned which quarrels to feed. So they took them the way wolves take elk, one at a time from the edge of the herd, and each nation stood alone, sure it would be the one they spared. I have lived to see what they saw. The wagons look different now, and the cavalry, and the forts, but I know the shape of it. The paper becomes law again, and the stakes go in again, driven by men who will never be buried here, and the farm my great-great-grandfather cleared is owned on paper by men who have never stood on it. And there will come a spring when we heritage and not native men will look up and find ourselves strangers on our own ground. As the natives of this land once found themselves to look up and to have lost. Our own ground. I know whose it was before my great-great-great put a plow to it. The men of my blood drove those wagons and rode with that cavalry. I will not soften that. The men who raised me, the men native to these lands, would know a softer telling for a lie and they would engage with me according to the dishonor I had wrought. Our ancestors fought each other for four hundred years, and no man fights another that long without learning his ways. We took from them how to move without sound, how to read sign, how to outwait a man. They took from us the rifle and the steel, and how to hold a piece of ground and not give it up. In time the warrior on each side carried much of the other in him. And still there was blood between us. But the land has done what blood never could. Across the long years it has worn the old enmities down into something harder and closer: a single people, forged in the same earth, under the same skies, against the same winters. Native and Heritage no longer stand apart. Our warriors are one now, one tribe, the Warrior American tribe. We stand as men who have claimed and been claimed by the same ground. Again and again in untold number of tellings. aThis ground, it holds the many dead of both. The graves of each mark no separate nations now, only the places where fathers and grandfathers and the fathers and grandfathers of them each, every line of blood laid down. My great-great-grandfather lies on the hill above the river, within sight of the grandfathers of the men who raised me, and some of those buried between them were both. And in this most ancient of ways, the living inherit more than soil. We inherit the duty of those who rest beneath it: to keep what was fought for, to mend what has been broken, and to refuse the surrender of a place paid for in the bones of our own. The soil cares not if their skin were red or white. Only that it shed blood to feed the land. This is the broader truth the land has written: that men once set against each other can and do, must, become the keepers of one another's dead, and in that keeping become, even if uncomfortable, brothers. And brothers we are. Now, together, in the lands we have shared so long, we face the threat of eradication, and nothing like it has come before. The old men taught me how a people is lost. It goes one nation at a time, each alone at the edge, each waiting to be spared. I will not stand by in weakness and watch it happen again in my time. The time for division has passed. We are now long since one. And what remains is the work of holding the ground together. We must stand together and fight the ways we know to fight, the ways we learned from each other across centuries, as braves! Let us rise now, not against one another but as one, for if we fail in this, we each and all will finally and forever lose all. note: There is a deep deep core of Native American warfighting traditions wove throughout the Green Berets. It's why I went on to become a Green Beret in my life. Having learned to so much from the men of the tribes who taught me to be a man, an American Man.