by Tom Baugh
Because they aren't the enemy, as I explain later. They are merely the symptom, and the pointy end of the spear, as Marines put it, of the true enemy of liberty. If you were able to "Jeannie-blink" each of these power-mad black-clad pawns out of existence tomorrow, more would rush to fill their place tomorrow. Each of these replacements would enjoy the full backing of the electorate, only without the moderating factor of the clearer heads among them now. And even the most hardened, violent criminals, on average, find them more useful alive than dead, a deliberate strategic decision which should tell you something. All so that some suburbanites can fool themselves into thinking they are being good parents, rather than bothering to simply be good parents.
The empowered electorate of this nation incarcerates a higher percentage of its citizens than any other country in the world. One percent of all American adults are now behind bars. Feel safer? I don't. Many of these people are criminals because we have defined otherwise harmless or merely self-destructive behaviors to be heinous crimes worthy of the most serious punishments. Similarly, possession of certain substances must rock our civilization to its core. This topic has been written about at length elsewhere, including greatly increased opportunities to seize property without trial or to plant evidence on defiant innocents. So, there is no need for me to rehash this in detail here.
If you haven't read that whitepaper from the Cato Institute, go back and read it now. Then ask yourself why the electorate of this nation would allow drug laws to destroy respect for the law. This same electorate supports even tougher laws, relaxed restrictions on warrants and searches, and forgiveness of police criminality as they sit on the juries who try them. Why would they take these positions knowingly, and by so doing, encourage police to take a militaristic stance against the populace? Because that is exactly what the electorate of this nation demands.
Police are indoctrinated and trained to view unconvicted Americans as enemies for mere possession of certain molecules, rather than the "innocent until proven guilty" whom they are. Despite this horror, the electorate feels little danger from this situation.
Throughout this book I speak of the monkey collective as the collective of the nice or the forces of niceness. This corrosive force of fake smiles has, for over two hundred years, been dissolving away first the foundations of our federal system. And now this collective directly threatens our liberties themselves. Why? Simply put, to propagate their breed. Whether they take these stances to propagate, or they propagate because they take these stances is of no consequence. The result is that they thrive on oppression.
Imagine that two individuals are the subjects of identical, yet mistaken, "no-knock" searches at four in the morning. Remember throughout this discussion that neither of these individuals are guilty of anything. In both cases, the police simply arrived at the wrong address or were given a bad tip by a suspect hoping to work a better deal. Regardless of the underlying mistake, neither of our two victims are guilty of anything at the moment the police crash in.
Victim #1, a nice person who votes for the destruction of liberty, is in general a panty-waist who would never think of defending himself against bullies or criminal intruders. He cowers at the mere sight of danger. As such, he feels more threatened by an individualist than even the most trigger-happy SWAT team. When that SWAT team bursts in on his home, he exhibits the beta-dog response, trembling in fear and perhaps latent submissive excitement. The police, seeing his helpless response, do not fire, and he survives. His very cowardice is a survival mechanism tuned to the civilization in which we live, and he votes to maintain and promote this fertile ground for himself.
Victim #2 on the other, may be a nice person as well, and may even unwittingly vote for the destruction of liberty. Or he may be a jerk whom others feel should be taught a lesson. In either case, at his core, he is an American individualist. He believes that it is not only his right to protect himself within his home, but also his responsibility to protect his family against criminal intrusion. When the police burst into his home, he first moves to defend himself against unannounced predators before the situation fully registers in his mind, and the police kill him. The individualist's only defense is to mimic helplessness, which grates at the core of his very soul. This unnatural behavior is very difficult to recall waking from a deep sleep at four in the morning with a crash at the door.
And so, a spiraling weakness of spirit in the nation ensues. Over time, the citizenry is cleansed of individualists, their physical and moral genetics snipped from the vine. All the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren the murdered individualist might father and teach are never born.
Meanwhile weakness and cowardice flourishes as the panty-waist, the unit of the collective of either party, reproduces without bound. He spawns generations of voters for more oppression as it allows them unlimited opportunities. The panty-waist cannot compete with the more independent individualist man-to-man in the marketplace of commerce, ideas, or relationships. And so he creates a protective environment which seeks out and destroys the individualist. The individualist, in turn, is deceived as to that environment's true purpose as it hunts him down, one by one. Mistake by mistake, or spite by spite, it makes no difference as the individualist dies either way.
The fact that the drug war, and the attendant overbearing police response, promotes this trend of spiraling weakness of spirit is the very reason why the populace supports these policies. Otherwise, the electorate would be outraged at their reach. So many times I hear patriots trying to educate the ignorant about the erosion of their liberties. At one time I did so myself, only to become a target. The electorate isn't ignorant or kept in the dark or easily misled, they are voting for exactly what they want. And what this electorate wants is to destroy you by any means necessary.
Now consider the practical effects which this zealous enforcement has on our lives, genetics aside. In many cases, a drug dealer or distributor is facing life sentences for his crimes if convicted. So, imagine a drug dealer in Anywhere, USA, perhaps in Oklahoma, for argument's sake. A couple of local girls, playing innocently in the area surrounding their families' farms, happen to stumble upon a major drug transaction, and are discovered by the dealers. The penalty for being convicted for the drug transaction is approximately the same as that for murder. And, killing these little witnesses dramatically decreases the likelihood of being convicted of the original crime. So how do you think that hypothetical encounter is going to play out? In our zeal to make our children safer, we have made them less safe.
As a child, I cut grass and worked at a local gas station cleaning toilets and changing oil, saving my pennies to buy my prized possession, a CAR-15 assault rifle. This was the same rifle I would later use at the Naval Academy to teach plebes how to field strip an M-16. Although only a plinker at the time, I would trot around the country roads and in the fields and woods with this rifle slung over my back. So armed, I was protected against bobcats, largish snakes, and Communists alike.
Many days, a deputy sheriff would drive by, and he and I would exchange waves and pleasantries. Throughout, I outgunned him by a significant factor, a concept which somehow means something now but was totally out of context then. The policeman of that day was generally perceived as the friend of the people. As their friend, he was the beneficiary of their significant firepower rather than the agent of a capricious collective.
This was not at all an unusual sight. Many children trotted around with their little hunting rifles or shotguns or pistols, even out of hunting season with no one the worse for it. There was no chance any of these well-armed tweens and teens were going to be put down lightly by stumbling onto a drug transaction. Even my pitiful, by Marine standards, plinking skills at that age were still too effective to bet one's life against. Plus, one never knew which of these rifle-toting urchins might be a little Alvin York with innate ability. The high school parking lots were full of pickups and El Caminos with rifle racks full of long arms, and glove boxes stuffed to b
ursting with ammunition and handguns. Special events brought out more weapons.
Halloween and Old Fashioned Day saw costumes which included Vietnam, Korean, World War, Civil War, 1812, and Revolutionary soldiers and Indians. Some items had been proudly handed down by their fathers from as far back as great-great-great-great- grandfathers. These costumes were complete with authentic or reproduced fully functional period weapons, including firearms, knives, swords, machetes, tomahawks, et cetera.
An eagerly anticipated favorite of Old Fashioned Day each year for a time was one slimly attractive girl dressed as a 1920's flapper. She carried an anachronistically appropriate .25 automatic strapped to her thigh within a garter belt. And no one, except perhaps the then-silent drama queen or two, felt any threat. Not surprisingly, during my entire school career, not once did I hear of a single school shooting in any jurisdiction. Surprisingly, though, there were many fights.
The day I hit Shinbone #1 with the pipe, my school locker contained a loaded Colt .38 Super Automatic. Yet, it never occurred to me to use it, my purpose being better served by the pipe and the subsequent discussion. I was not unique in what would now be a heinous crime of possession of firearms on a school campus.
Shinbone #1 even had a loaded little girly .38 Special revolver in the glove compartment of his prissy truck my friends and I would fill with harmless dry trash a week later. His truck also held a .410 pump shotgun on his rifle rack. We were mutually aware of the other's armament at the time we had our talk. Still, these weapons were out of context for the events of that day, and we both settled the issue like men. Yet, had a school shooting broken out, Shinbone #1 and I would have stood side-by-side to stop the shooters before further harm could be done. Dozens of other students and faculty alike would have stood beside us.
Similarly, had a Cho broken into a rampage at the Naval Academy, I or any of my plebes could have quelled the rebellion. This despite many of them having never touched a weapon before Annapolis. But, taught to shoot by Academy Marines and taught to replace the firing pin in the dark by me, any of them could have hidden in my room long enough to restore my rifle. Such an incident was about as far from my mind as you can imagine, not even making the list of possible justifications to have that weapon in my room. Back then, I perceived even the most ignorant or uncivil among my academy brethren as my friends and allies. I naturally assumed, perhaps naively, that each of them thought the same of me.
The reason that such shootings never happened then, barely a generation ago, is simple. Unlike today, children and young men were allowed to sort out their differences in a healthy fashion, learning the valuable lessons necessary for adult life. These young adults were properly prepared by harmless childhood lessons. When they entered society at large they were capable of being civil. Each had their dignity intact, not needing to prove themselves to others or feeling unduly oppressed. Bullies learned civility and respect for others, and the bullied gained self-confidence and self-respect. Society simply lacked the capacity to manufacture a Harris, or a Klebold, or a Cho back then. And terrorists? Good luck. All the sheriff would have had to do is point.
We are taught by the forces of niceness that the South, is, was, and will forever be, a hotbed of racism in which no minority is safe. This holds triple for my birth state of Mississippi, we are told. These lies are paraded before us to keep us ignorant, fearful, hateful, and willing to hand over our liberties to anyone who will save us from ourselves. And in our compliance, we are taught to ignore the incremental destruction of our nation and our lives.
And yet, in that sweltering, un-airconditioned classroom in the middle of the Deep South a similarly well-armed Mrs. Hooch taught Constitutional government. As she spoke she was surrounded on particularly festive days by the well-armed great-great-grandsons of former slaves. These children sat side-by-side with the well-armed great-great-grandsons of white dirt farmers too poor to have owned slaves.
She simply taught the Constitution itself, including her right to bear arms deep within the fictional violence of Mississippi. We learned the lesson that we should fear no man, but mistrust formal power. Amid a flutter of Confederate flags and civil rights slogans, we learned about government, and its rightfully limited place in our lives. We learned that when the government seeks to make us fearful of one another and divide us in exchange for surrendering our liberty, we should eye with suspicion the motives behind the messenger. We learned also to question, by extension, the electorate who empowers this fear.
"I walk down da street an a man call me a name. Whut do I do, chill wren?" I recall her axing a month or so into the course to test our growing confidence. No answer, embarrassed shuffles.
Finally, she says, "TV say I shood git angry and fite and call da Pwesidem to save Miz Hooch. But I smile. Cuz he free to say whut he wunt. An I free to not buy in his sto. But I do cuz he got good prices fo any ting I wunt, an dat is good fo Miz Hooch. I chooz to, not cuz I haf to, cuz I free to." She continues, gesticulating wildly, "an HE free to tell me ta git out a his sto, but he don, cuz he wunt my money, chill wren."
"An if I say he caint say whut he wunt to, den I got to stop beeng free, and not say whut I wunt, too."
"You FREE, chill wren," cocking her head to the side to see if we understood. Short pause... then, softly:
"Cuz datz whut da Con sta tu shun say," she would conclude in her cleverly affected semi-Creolean accent.
Her accent and mangling of The King's English was carefully calculated to teach that the limitations of a person's voice says nothing about the quality of ideas expressed by it. And that we don't have pompous kings who get to demand syllabic precision. She, in that Deep South Mississippi classroom, was respected deeply by all who knew her. She earned this respect by her ideas, not by legislation or lawsuit. And not by consequence of birth or privilege.
Her story made the point that the Constitution and its federalism allows individuals to make their individual decisions and mistakes. While doing so, they are protected from blind far-off authority by layers of intervening obstacles. This separation of powers is the enemy of feigned niceness, and of the oppressor. Even if that oppressor is concealed behind a smile and a wave and an articulate voice coming from a pretty or a handsome face. An oppressor who seeks to keep you and your children ignorant because that is what you demand that they do for you.
And far better that your acquaintances be genuinely rude, yet trade fairly, than to wear an enforced mask of false civility and cheat you at every turn. Or pretend to be your protector and take away your liberty.
Oh, and the tube of miracle cure prescribed by that Navy Corpsman to handle my desert nosebleed? The miracle cure which I smeared inside my nose as I flew the remainder of the war? Preparation-H. And yes, I live up to what that would make me.
Chapter 19, Gun Control
In January of 1991, our merry band of Marine air support professionals alighted at the Jubail airfield in eastern Saudi Arabia. We were heavily armed, but had no ammunition. At least officially.
Prior to departure, I and another Marine officer (I'll call him Tim) were concerned about our logistics. We had anticipated the usual amount of bureaucratic inefficiency which attends when a coalition of disparate units and chains of command are thrown together in a melting pot. Given that our unit was intended to fill in temporarily for another larger unit, we were confident that our needs would be perceived in the red-headed step-child category.
As such Tim and I had handed selected officers under the rank of Captain a single 9mm round, dubbed our "Barney Bullets". We also surreptitiously disbursed five 5.56mm rounds to each enlisted man under the rank of Gunnery Sergeant. Each such prepared officer and Marine was then provided with instructions as to where among their gear to hide their rounds. Our intention was that any one of us might find at least one of these caches in an emergency. These rounds, purchased commercially at our own expense, turned out to be exactly the leverage we would need to become fully armed upon arrival. But, this full-arming turne
d out in an entirely different manner than I had intended.
As expected, before boarding our chartered 747, we nineteen armed and uniformed Marines, along with our personal gear, were subjected to a cursory search. The goal? Various contraband, including pornography, explosives, and ammunition. Our Lieutenant Colonel Commanding Officer supervised this inspection, as did the unit Sergeant Major. The former, full colonels' eagles in his eyes, was intent on his task. The latter smiled knowingly and asked few questions beyond those calculated to yield no fruit.
Sure enough, after we arrived we were denied ammunition by the local logistics officer. The rationale was that since our unit was only temporarily attached to the theater command, the administrative hassle of disposing of opened ammunition was deemed more important than our personal safety. Our Commanding Officer, not wanting to make any waves with his pending promotion boards, agreed with this logic. So it was that Tim and I, despite these arrangements being normally handled by enlisted Marines, decided to pay the logistics officer a visit and explain our position.
We found her ensconced within a GP tent draped over a lumber frame and adorned with all the creature comforts attributable to a rear-area logistics billet. First Lieutenant Biddy (not her actual name), was perched regally behind her desk. Her Staff Sergeant Kiff (not his actual name, either, and implying only the forced relationship rather than his persona) attended from a noticeably less regal desk next to hers. I wasn't sure how she had managed it, but it appeared that his desk was a couple of inches shorter than hers.
Tim approached her desk to make his case, while I lurked wordless near the door. There I remained apparently consumed in the minutest detail of various congratulatory plaques hung from the lumber near it. Staff Sergeant Kiff remained silent, but perked up noticeably and the slightest smile twinkled at the edges of his mouth.
