A Portrait In Treason
Posted: Sat Nov 25, 2023 4:29 pm
Douglas Mercer
November 25 2023
As his name suggests Norman Rockwell comes from old English stock who were here from the beginning. Had some fatal malady befallen him in, say, 1950 he would be remembered fondly today as an old school American who illustrated the heart of the old America. Sure it’s a bit schmaltzy and he doesn’t stint any butter on the toast but still it’s heartfelt and endearing and, from today’s perspective, glaringly White. Too bad for his eternal memory that he lived on through the racial revolutions and got on board with all his might and main. For as it was said at the time if the Norman Rockwell of cozy White scenes, the Scout paintings, the White school rooms with the White schoolmarms, the malt shops, the old school doctor’s offices, the toboggan rides, the winter warmth of the old Swede towns, the small town doings, the Thanksgiving dinners around the hearth and home, the coziness of the suburban home, the innocence of White children, if Normal Rockwell was for human equality how can you be not? No, it was a bait and switch of enormous historical proportions, how he went from a good-natured celebration of our people to an apostate and race traitor. Better had he not lived so long a life with that crime on his head; better had he not been born at all. So it’s good to recall the infamy of the dead man’s deeds.
“Rockwell appears to have been first nudged toward civil rights as subject matter in June 1943 when Roderick Stephens, an African-American activist and head of the Bronx Interracial Conference, wrote to Rockwell urging him to do a series of paintings to promote interracial relations. Stephens had been moved by Rockwell’s Four Freedoms and was worried at the time that urban race riots would ensue in major cities like his own New York, touched off by the migration of southern blacks to major cities. Race riots, in fact, had then already occurred in Houston, Los Angeles, and Detroit.”
Like the man in the Frost poem he was a Yankee through and through, doted on his franks and beans, turned out though that like him too his mind was barely out of its teens. His first American ancestor came from Somerset, England in 1635 and was one the first settlers in Connecticut—here from the beginning. But then John Brown had a similar pedigree and though the latter was more violent and draconian in degree they were similar in results. Even when he was depicting White America at its apogee he was no racialist. No, he looked the part of the flinty Yankee with his aw-shucks reticence and his ever-going pipe, and he was always a mind scrubbed devotee of the American Creed. A liberal centrist he fell for Franklin’s Roosevelt and piously portrayed his mealy mouthed Four Freedoms in art and, of course, dutifully went along in images with the stale patriotism of the Second World War turning out Rosie The Riveter knock offs by the score. For the most part apolitical by the end of the 1950s with Saturday Evening Post going out of style he found his homey images of an American past going swiftly out of fashion—and himself becoming obsolete. One wonders if his sudden reversal into doing almost everything but raising a black fist had as much to do with opportunism as heartfelt belief. But they say he doted on the hippies and came to see his idyllic image of America as things of the buried past. And with this we get to the heart of the mater. Today still you see the powerful effect of the images in White racialist memes of the suburban White kids, the bikes and open faces and carefree freedom, very much like Rockwell’s illustrations. But this illustrates the weakness of such images. Contrast that with the pictures and propaganda of the National Socialists. They have strength not coziness, power not homey home verities, future oriented gazes not nostalgic maunderings. It may have been a White Wonderland but it was not equipped to survive; and so it did not. The only reason Rockwell himself survived a decade longer was because he went over to the dark side altogether.
“One interesting departure for Rockwell from his normal Saturday Evening Post fare during the early 1960s – and a sign of his more liberal inner concerns – came with the April 1st, 1961 cover that appeared under the title The Golden Rule. This illustration actually had its genesis, in part, during the late 1940s when Rockwell had set out to do a painting honoring the United Nations (UN), an organization he admired and found hopeful for solving world problems. For the UN painting, Rockwell had in mind something that would highlight the cultural, racial, and religious tolerance of the organization, and he had visited the UN Security Council Chamber.”
Here he was just getting his feet wet in treason. Eventually this became the monstrosity called Do Unto Others. It is a massive group portrait of a host of mongrels at some kind of altar, the mongrels in front holding some kind of chalice; you have your requisite negros (of course), you have your Vietnamese, Japanese, Indians, Muslims, an Orthodox Holy Man who looks suspiciously Jewish, and the contingent of Whites. Of course at the time most probably saw the awe-inspiring promise of world peace; but more keen viewers would have seen a propaganda piece aimed at softening up the populace for race swamping, which of course it actually was. Some viewers might have taken it initially as some kind of macabre April Fools prank but it was nothing of the sort. Its aim was dead serious and as the decade wore on one could see it hit its mark. It was We Are The World Before its time (we are saving our own lives!), it was that Coca Cola commercial avant la lettre, trying to teach to the world to sing in perfect harmony (furnish it with love!), it was a harrowing New World Order set piece masquerading as a heartfelt plea for tolerance and understanding with a bit of multi-colored piety tossed in for evil measure. It for sure was not puppy dogs and carefree sleigh rides: had the sane known what it augured they would have burned each issue as it came off the presses.
This plague in pictorial form got its evil twin sometime later in the infamous Right To Know. Also a group scene and almost a reproduction of Do Unto Others at the far right is a sullen racial grab bag female who’s pout seems disturbingly contemporary; she could be one of those angst ridden baristas with the bone through her nose who despite the one world sheen is always rather surly; then of course the band of negros and Mexicans and White people all of them looking right at the viewer all but accusing them of racism; and so strongly did Mr. Norman Rockwell (did I mention his ancestors were here from the beginning?) of old America fame feel about this communist one world coda that he put himself at the far edge of the picture smoking the ubiquitous Yankee pipe. You see Mr. Norman Rockwell is accusing you of racism too. He used to give you those wonderful scenes of home life in a White World just a generation ago. But now he thinks you are a bigot.
“It is clear that Rockwell was deeply affected by the racial violence of the day, and it was his move to Look magazine that finally allowed him to publish artwork that responded to these racial realities. His most famous work for Look magazine was also one of his first, and was published in 1964, a year after he started working at the magazine. The Problem We All Live With – a painting so powerful that President Obama requested it for the White House in 2011 – effectively illustrates both the progress of, and resistance to, the Civil Rights Movement, and serves as a clear departure from Rockwell’s previous depictions of race.”
He saw which way the winds were blowing. Was it a belated midlife crisis? Did he have deep anxiety over his irrelevance? Or did he really love him some negros? Or was it just old flinty Yankee nonsense about right and creedal plurality? No one knows for sure except perhaps his analyst. But what we do know is that he soon came up with the most powerful piece of Civil Rights propaganda of all, one that fifty years later Barack Obama was still oohing and aahing over, the one which must have struck a chord with the effete White liberal and once and for all convinced any White racialist that Norman Rockwell was Public Enemy Number One.
It’s safe to say that both sides have their bloody flags: we have Ruby Ridge, they have Ruby Bridges—and the two will never meet. The latter was the little pickanniny who was escorted into a Louisiana school room in 1960 by some White United States Marshalls. A few years later she was given eternal infamy by Norman Rockwell who showed the little congoid in the by now infamous tableaux; walking to where she did not belong being protected by some galumphing White men with officious badges. The little tar monster is depicted as a long-suffering patience of Job type and behind her on the wall is the word NIGGER. Rockwell got that much right as when the little spook was allowed where she should not have been all the White students left, all but one White teacher left, and a stout and stalwart and unreconstructed White citizen every day as she walked in held up a black baby doll in a coffin. Who says this didn’t used to be a good country? Of course the painting was immediately deemed to be iconic by the Jewish press. One of WASPdoms own had given his Historical American imprimatur to the death of his kind. Now the little spook in question is all growed up and is a big fat whale and a “black activist” ie one who constantly bullies and badgers White folks for more money based on their alleged suffering. And America? Well, let’s just say among friends that I’m not long on it.
Said painting was called The Problem We All Live With. Which is ironic because that title would have been a good one if it had showed rioting negros turning American cities into fiery infernos. Because all of us not benighted and blinkered and brainwashed and benumbed know that the problem we all live with is niggers. Nigger and Jews, really, but we are talking about niggers here for the nonce. But that salient and incontrovertible point did not gainsay Mr. Norman Rockwell from plumbing to the depth of depravity in another portrait which should have been titled There Goes the Neighborhood but for some strange reason was faux innocently called Moving Day. When on White Judgment Day we consign him forever to the hottest and lowest rung of Hades this one will be Exhibit A as he cowers in the dock awaiting his turn on the lampost. The reason for that is that he uses the tableaux of his former America but employs it sinisterly and insidiously in the cause of negros. Here we have an idyllic suburban scene: young White kids with baseball gloves and the ever-present loyal dog but wait! Something is different (ie, amiss) here: there is a moving van and there are negro children too. And they too (just like the White kids!) are dressed in the casual attire of many afternoon barbeques. Here we have the end of restrictive covenants, here we have Jews forbidding Whites to live only among themselves, and here we have the end of segregation. The blacks are moving in. It’s moving day in America Whitey! And really Mr. Norman Rockwell asks (his ancestors were from Somerset not the deepest jungle) are the black kids really any different from the White kids? A thunderous no our artist tells us. And to think any different is the problem we all live with. Of course the real story of blacks moving day in is housing values plummeting and going up in smoke, violent crime, White people under siege, and a Mad Max Hellscape. But had he painted that his reputation would have fallen faster than the price of our houses.
“Another influence on Rockwell at this time was likely Erik Erikson, a psychoanalyst at the Riggs Center in Stockbridge, Massachusetts where Rockwell then lived and worked. Erikson treated Rockwell occasionally for bouts of depression, was Rockwell’s friend, and also had a passion for civil rights. Erikson was a colleague and mentor to a younger child psychiatrist named Robert Coles, who had begun working with Ruby Bridges and other children in the early school desegregation cases in 1961. Coles had found that segregation had damaged the self-esteem of the little girls, and by 1963 he had written a series of articles beginning in March for The Atlantic Monthly magazine profiling Ruby Bridges’s experiences during integration.”
Here we get to the heart of the matter. Norman Rockwell was a tired old WASP with a mental condition and consulted jumped up new age voodoo in the form of a man who invented out of whole cloth the idea of identity crisis. Had he lived without dementia much longer he likely would have ended up at Esalen practicing EST with Werner Erhard and sitting along the Monterrey coastline painting pictures of Indians on reservations while smoking a peace pipe filled with hash. That is once a do gooder liberal wanders down the primrose path to alliance with negros there is no telling how far he will fall down the rabid hole. As it was he still got in two good licks and lashes against White America, his pieces de resistance and coup de graces, such as they are. He had an identity crisis you bet; he abandoned his identity as decent White man.
The first is egregious on its face and is simplistic to the point of brain death. It shows some conservatively dressed negro children with books and satchels in tow (dey jus’ want to go to skoo’) and who are they surrounded by? Why vicious White people who are either sharks or hooded Klansman with gaping and screaming mouths. This is the White man as heckler, the White man as harasser and harrier and harasser and hounder, the white man as twilight wailing banshee, the White man as the ghosts of Christmas White. We ought to burn every last painting of his just for this one sordid image. The second shows Rockwell at another low point White Knighting for the blacks. It was his weak response to the Bull Connors of the world and the attack dogs and water cannon and what the Kerner Commission called White complicity in the ghettos by means of White Supremacy. It shows a seemingly noble White man cradling a bloodied a black man in his arms. It’s an anti racist pieta fully lachrymose and sad. Oh wake up White man it says: this is the problem we all must all live with. Our black brothers are being killed by the memory of Nathan Bedford Forrest. In fact a Jew could not have done it better.
“Some analysts would later note that precisely because Rockwell was an artist dear to the hearts of many conservatives for his renderings of Americana and American values, that his new work on civil rights subjects may have made some of these same fans think twice about America’s racial problem at that time, helping them face up to racism. Rockwell himself would later say of his change in subject matter: For 47 years, I portrayed the best of all possible worlds – grandfathers, puppy dogs – things like that. That kind of stuff is dead now.”
It is dead now. He helped kill it. Eternal shame be on his head. He is still a byword for the old America, the “Norman Rockwell America” so revile and ridiculed by our enemies. But to us now he is a byword for treason. Whether his U-turn into the muddy swamps and waters of the mud people was a heartfelt conviction, a bleated midlife crises, or a last ditch bid for postmortem relevance is beside the point. The pictures are there and they had their effect. Norman Rockwell had sided with anti-racism and his words and pictures were enormously harmful, an important nail in the coffin, yet another viscous nail making White America dead as a doornail. In his former days perhaps it was sweet Americana or banal kitsch, no matter. It was the best of us in way. But that world is long dead and long gone by now thanks to the likes of him. But no one should not weep for our bygone world, the old world of Norman Rockwell; the time for sleigh rides and lazy afternoons by the river will never return. And our only nostalgia now should be for the future. As for him let us erase him from our memory after the required howls of execration die down. For the recollection of this foul man’s deed shall have no future.
November 25 2023
As his name suggests Norman Rockwell comes from old English stock who were here from the beginning. Had some fatal malady befallen him in, say, 1950 he would be remembered fondly today as an old school American who illustrated the heart of the old America. Sure it’s a bit schmaltzy and he doesn’t stint any butter on the toast but still it’s heartfelt and endearing and, from today’s perspective, glaringly White. Too bad for his eternal memory that he lived on through the racial revolutions and got on board with all his might and main. For as it was said at the time if the Norman Rockwell of cozy White scenes, the Scout paintings, the White school rooms with the White schoolmarms, the malt shops, the old school doctor’s offices, the toboggan rides, the winter warmth of the old Swede towns, the small town doings, the Thanksgiving dinners around the hearth and home, the coziness of the suburban home, the innocence of White children, if Normal Rockwell was for human equality how can you be not? No, it was a bait and switch of enormous historical proportions, how he went from a good-natured celebration of our people to an apostate and race traitor. Better had he not lived so long a life with that crime on his head; better had he not been born at all. So it’s good to recall the infamy of the dead man’s deeds.
“Rockwell appears to have been first nudged toward civil rights as subject matter in June 1943 when Roderick Stephens, an African-American activist and head of the Bronx Interracial Conference, wrote to Rockwell urging him to do a series of paintings to promote interracial relations. Stephens had been moved by Rockwell’s Four Freedoms and was worried at the time that urban race riots would ensue in major cities like his own New York, touched off by the migration of southern blacks to major cities. Race riots, in fact, had then already occurred in Houston, Los Angeles, and Detroit.”
Like the man in the Frost poem he was a Yankee through and through, doted on his franks and beans, turned out though that like him too his mind was barely out of its teens. His first American ancestor came from Somerset, England in 1635 and was one the first settlers in Connecticut—here from the beginning. But then John Brown had a similar pedigree and though the latter was more violent and draconian in degree they were similar in results. Even when he was depicting White America at its apogee he was no racialist. No, he looked the part of the flinty Yankee with his aw-shucks reticence and his ever-going pipe, and he was always a mind scrubbed devotee of the American Creed. A liberal centrist he fell for Franklin’s Roosevelt and piously portrayed his mealy mouthed Four Freedoms in art and, of course, dutifully went along in images with the stale patriotism of the Second World War turning out Rosie The Riveter knock offs by the score. For the most part apolitical by the end of the 1950s with Saturday Evening Post going out of style he found his homey images of an American past going swiftly out of fashion—and himself becoming obsolete. One wonders if his sudden reversal into doing almost everything but raising a black fist had as much to do with opportunism as heartfelt belief. But they say he doted on the hippies and came to see his idyllic image of America as things of the buried past. And with this we get to the heart of the mater. Today still you see the powerful effect of the images in White racialist memes of the suburban White kids, the bikes and open faces and carefree freedom, very much like Rockwell’s illustrations. But this illustrates the weakness of such images. Contrast that with the pictures and propaganda of the National Socialists. They have strength not coziness, power not homey home verities, future oriented gazes not nostalgic maunderings. It may have been a White Wonderland but it was not equipped to survive; and so it did not. The only reason Rockwell himself survived a decade longer was because he went over to the dark side altogether.
“One interesting departure for Rockwell from his normal Saturday Evening Post fare during the early 1960s – and a sign of his more liberal inner concerns – came with the April 1st, 1961 cover that appeared under the title The Golden Rule. This illustration actually had its genesis, in part, during the late 1940s when Rockwell had set out to do a painting honoring the United Nations (UN), an organization he admired and found hopeful for solving world problems. For the UN painting, Rockwell had in mind something that would highlight the cultural, racial, and religious tolerance of the organization, and he had visited the UN Security Council Chamber.”
Here he was just getting his feet wet in treason. Eventually this became the monstrosity called Do Unto Others. It is a massive group portrait of a host of mongrels at some kind of altar, the mongrels in front holding some kind of chalice; you have your requisite negros (of course), you have your Vietnamese, Japanese, Indians, Muslims, an Orthodox Holy Man who looks suspiciously Jewish, and the contingent of Whites. Of course at the time most probably saw the awe-inspiring promise of world peace; but more keen viewers would have seen a propaganda piece aimed at softening up the populace for race swamping, which of course it actually was. Some viewers might have taken it initially as some kind of macabre April Fools prank but it was nothing of the sort. Its aim was dead serious and as the decade wore on one could see it hit its mark. It was We Are The World Before its time (we are saving our own lives!), it was that Coca Cola commercial avant la lettre, trying to teach to the world to sing in perfect harmony (furnish it with love!), it was a harrowing New World Order set piece masquerading as a heartfelt plea for tolerance and understanding with a bit of multi-colored piety tossed in for evil measure. It for sure was not puppy dogs and carefree sleigh rides: had the sane known what it augured they would have burned each issue as it came off the presses.
This plague in pictorial form got its evil twin sometime later in the infamous Right To Know. Also a group scene and almost a reproduction of Do Unto Others at the far right is a sullen racial grab bag female who’s pout seems disturbingly contemporary; she could be one of those angst ridden baristas with the bone through her nose who despite the one world sheen is always rather surly; then of course the band of negros and Mexicans and White people all of them looking right at the viewer all but accusing them of racism; and so strongly did Mr. Norman Rockwell (did I mention his ancestors were here from the beginning?) of old America fame feel about this communist one world coda that he put himself at the far edge of the picture smoking the ubiquitous Yankee pipe. You see Mr. Norman Rockwell is accusing you of racism too. He used to give you those wonderful scenes of home life in a White World just a generation ago. But now he thinks you are a bigot.
“It is clear that Rockwell was deeply affected by the racial violence of the day, and it was his move to Look magazine that finally allowed him to publish artwork that responded to these racial realities. His most famous work for Look magazine was also one of his first, and was published in 1964, a year after he started working at the magazine. The Problem We All Live With – a painting so powerful that President Obama requested it for the White House in 2011 – effectively illustrates both the progress of, and resistance to, the Civil Rights Movement, and serves as a clear departure from Rockwell’s previous depictions of race.”
He saw which way the winds were blowing. Was it a belated midlife crisis? Did he have deep anxiety over his irrelevance? Or did he really love him some negros? Or was it just old flinty Yankee nonsense about right and creedal plurality? No one knows for sure except perhaps his analyst. But what we do know is that he soon came up with the most powerful piece of Civil Rights propaganda of all, one that fifty years later Barack Obama was still oohing and aahing over, the one which must have struck a chord with the effete White liberal and once and for all convinced any White racialist that Norman Rockwell was Public Enemy Number One.
It’s safe to say that both sides have their bloody flags: we have Ruby Ridge, they have Ruby Bridges—and the two will never meet. The latter was the little pickanniny who was escorted into a Louisiana school room in 1960 by some White United States Marshalls. A few years later she was given eternal infamy by Norman Rockwell who showed the little congoid in the by now infamous tableaux; walking to where she did not belong being protected by some galumphing White men with officious badges. The little tar monster is depicted as a long-suffering patience of Job type and behind her on the wall is the word NIGGER. Rockwell got that much right as when the little spook was allowed where she should not have been all the White students left, all but one White teacher left, and a stout and stalwart and unreconstructed White citizen every day as she walked in held up a black baby doll in a coffin. Who says this didn’t used to be a good country? Of course the painting was immediately deemed to be iconic by the Jewish press. One of WASPdoms own had given his Historical American imprimatur to the death of his kind. Now the little spook in question is all growed up and is a big fat whale and a “black activist” ie one who constantly bullies and badgers White folks for more money based on their alleged suffering. And America? Well, let’s just say among friends that I’m not long on it.
Said painting was called The Problem We All Live With. Which is ironic because that title would have been a good one if it had showed rioting negros turning American cities into fiery infernos. Because all of us not benighted and blinkered and brainwashed and benumbed know that the problem we all live with is niggers. Nigger and Jews, really, but we are talking about niggers here for the nonce. But that salient and incontrovertible point did not gainsay Mr. Norman Rockwell from plumbing to the depth of depravity in another portrait which should have been titled There Goes the Neighborhood but for some strange reason was faux innocently called Moving Day. When on White Judgment Day we consign him forever to the hottest and lowest rung of Hades this one will be Exhibit A as he cowers in the dock awaiting his turn on the lampost. The reason for that is that he uses the tableaux of his former America but employs it sinisterly and insidiously in the cause of negros. Here we have an idyllic suburban scene: young White kids with baseball gloves and the ever-present loyal dog but wait! Something is different (ie, amiss) here: there is a moving van and there are negro children too. And they too (just like the White kids!) are dressed in the casual attire of many afternoon barbeques. Here we have the end of restrictive covenants, here we have Jews forbidding Whites to live only among themselves, and here we have the end of segregation. The blacks are moving in. It’s moving day in America Whitey! And really Mr. Norman Rockwell asks (his ancestors were from Somerset not the deepest jungle) are the black kids really any different from the White kids? A thunderous no our artist tells us. And to think any different is the problem we all live with. Of course the real story of blacks moving day in is housing values plummeting and going up in smoke, violent crime, White people under siege, and a Mad Max Hellscape. But had he painted that his reputation would have fallen faster than the price of our houses.
“Another influence on Rockwell at this time was likely Erik Erikson, a psychoanalyst at the Riggs Center in Stockbridge, Massachusetts where Rockwell then lived and worked. Erikson treated Rockwell occasionally for bouts of depression, was Rockwell’s friend, and also had a passion for civil rights. Erikson was a colleague and mentor to a younger child psychiatrist named Robert Coles, who had begun working with Ruby Bridges and other children in the early school desegregation cases in 1961. Coles had found that segregation had damaged the self-esteem of the little girls, and by 1963 he had written a series of articles beginning in March for The Atlantic Monthly magazine profiling Ruby Bridges’s experiences during integration.”
Here we get to the heart of the matter. Norman Rockwell was a tired old WASP with a mental condition and consulted jumped up new age voodoo in the form of a man who invented out of whole cloth the idea of identity crisis. Had he lived without dementia much longer he likely would have ended up at Esalen practicing EST with Werner Erhard and sitting along the Monterrey coastline painting pictures of Indians on reservations while smoking a peace pipe filled with hash. That is once a do gooder liberal wanders down the primrose path to alliance with negros there is no telling how far he will fall down the rabid hole. As it was he still got in two good licks and lashes against White America, his pieces de resistance and coup de graces, such as they are. He had an identity crisis you bet; he abandoned his identity as decent White man.
The first is egregious on its face and is simplistic to the point of brain death. It shows some conservatively dressed negro children with books and satchels in tow (dey jus’ want to go to skoo’) and who are they surrounded by? Why vicious White people who are either sharks or hooded Klansman with gaping and screaming mouths. This is the White man as heckler, the White man as harasser and harrier and harasser and hounder, the white man as twilight wailing banshee, the White man as the ghosts of Christmas White. We ought to burn every last painting of his just for this one sordid image. The second shows Rockwell at another low point White Knighting for the blacks. It was his weak response to the Bull Connors of the world and the attack dogs and water cannon and what the Kerner Commission called White complicity in the ghettos by means of White Supremacy. It shows a seemingly noble White man cradling a bloodied a black man in his arms. It’s an anti racist pieta fully lachrymose and sad. Oh wake up White man it says: this is the problem we all must all live with. Our black brothers are being killed by the memory of Nathan Bedford Forrest. In fact a Jew could not have done it better.
“Some analysts would later note that precisely because Rockwell was an artist dear to the hearts of many conservatives for his renderings of Americana and American values, that his new work on civil rights subjects may have made some of these same fans think twice about America’s racial problem at that time, helping them face up to racism. Rockwell himself would later say of his change in subject matter: For 47 years, I portrayed the best of all possible worlds – grandfathers, puppy dogs – things like that. That kind of stuff is dead now.”
It is dead now. He helped kill it. Eternal shame be on his head. He is still a byword for the old America, the “Norman Rockwell America” so revile and ridiculed by our enemies. But to us now he is a byword for treason. Whether his U-turn into the muddy swamps and waters of the mud people was a heartfelt conviction, a bleated midlife crises, or a last ditch bid for postmortem relevance is beside the point. The pictures are there and they had their effect. Norman Rockwell had sided with anti-racism and his words and pictures were enormously harmful, an important nail in the coffin, yet another viscous nail making White America dead as a doornail. In his former days perhaps it was sweet Americana or banal kitsch, no matter. It was the best of us in way. But that world is long dead and long gone by now thanks to the likes of him. But no one should not weep for our bygone world, the old world of Norman Rockwell; the time for sleigh rides and lazy afternoons by the river will never return. And our only nostalgia now should be for the future. As for him let us erase him from our memory after the required howls of execration die down. For the recollection of this foul man’s deed shall have no future.
