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In our travelling circles the question of the value of labor has been finely discussed. There are even subjunctions of the movement entirely dedicated to its cause; you have National Socialism and National Bolshevism, with individuated parties ranging in size and scope. The Traditionalist Workers Party is the most notable example that comes to my mind.

More often than not, the analysis directed toward the question of labor is (unsurprisingly) one of critique and pragmatism. It is noted, with acuminous alacrity, that a man’s identity is tied into and integral with what he does. It could be further said that a man *is* what he does. The main problem with this associative thinking being that when a man is, say, robbed of his work or his lot, than he shrivels up and blows away in the industrial gust.

That, obviously, is a serious concern. To that end, many of our guys have, with beneficent intent, stipulated that man must have a core identity beyond mere work and lot. A man may work, he may be married, but he is more than that. One would, I think, be a fool or the worst kind of AmCap to legitimately and unironically argue that point.

However, there is an opposite side to that coin. In the wake of Modernism, in the wake of Post-Modernism and the increasingly futile isms that have come in their wake you delve increasingly, and by necessity, into the reactionary realm. I do not use the word flatteringly. In this case reactionism is a harmful influence, for it causes a pendular effect on the White psyche in which decidedly extreme outcomes are repeatedly traded in an utterly futile attempt to reclaim the now forgotten center.

You cannot reclaim the center from the extremities. You have to, and follow this revolutionary thought Brothers, meet it in the middle. What is the center? It is balance, equanimity, stability and consistency – overall. The center is not a particular ideological component beyond the necessity of having an even keel to retreat to, if for nothing more than to formulate your direction and directive. The center is a state of being. It is one of the major contributors to the formation of a lasting Folk Soul which have all been robbed us.

In the life of an individual man there are a collective of passing achievements that God or Nature, or Nature’s God have conditioned him to measure his worth and progress by. A man should have a stable, productive and contributory job. A man should have a stable, productive and cooperative marriage. A man should have a stable, positive influence in his selective community. These fulfill basic sociological needs as imposed by Maslow’s Hierarchy; they should also satisfy the ego of those who tout “common sense.” (As if there were such a thing.)

Evolution inclined man to labor. To the same degree that ideologically, society is owed the artist and philosopher, society is likewise owed structurally to the workingman. The workingman is the Greek Atlas to Rodin’s Thinker. The Workingman with his hands has built everything. I may begin with the house in which you sit, the chair upon which you read this article from. If you sit in your car and read this on a phone, the end is the same. There should be a degree of glory involved in the realization that we, workingmen, build the physical trappings of the world.

Of course, you may enter tragedy. The workingman is a slave to the capitalist system. There is little way around this. Unless you are some (((magnate))) of some kind or other, you are a slave. Even the (((magnate))) is a slave, for their worth is wrapped up in the acquisition of shekels. Your skills are utterly neglected: society refused to acknowledge the contributions of the worker. He has no respect. On the basic, preconscious sociological level, the implications cannot be overstated. A man who works with his hands uses his body. His entire physical being is his primary tool.

I am a carpenter. I enjoy decidedly real aches and pains – they are the primary reward for my efforts. Men who toil, they hurt. And pain, in the long term, can erode you. It can wear you down. When you go to bed in pain, and wake up in pain; day in and day out, come spring and winter gone, in pain, you begin to lose your sense of humour. A clever man like himself reminds himself that this pain makes him stronger, that he is better off than soft-palmed weaklings. And this is true, I endure what lesser men recoil at. An injury that would make me grunt, I have seen stop weaker men for the better part of a day. Workingmen are a breed upon themselves.

Yet, no credence is given to this. Our strength and our endurance have no merit in a victimocracy, nevermind the pain. Society values transvestites. Society values visible minorities of every stripe. The workingman knows his blood and sweat have paved the way for this pathetic spectacle. His efforts contribute to that mess. His taxes, the token of his hard work robbed by a greedy, filthy and unquestioning monetary (((system))). And what does the (((system))) do with his wealth? Redistribute it, of course.

There is no amount of niggling, dickering, mansplaining or Boomer TALKING LOUDER THAN THE OTHER GUY AND REMINDING HIM HOW WRONG HE IS EVEN THOUGH HE HASN’T SAID ANYTHING BECAUSE MIGHT IS RIGHTing that will change the fact that this is true, and proponents of welfare statery are wrong to imply their will in the form of such taxes without consent… and certainly without representation.

So the workingman shrinks into an abyss of ingratitude. He becomes angry, bitter, cynical and despondent, effete, and flagrant. Why wouldn’t he? He must put his body on the line to support a world that certainly neglects him, if it doesn’t outright hate him. After all, the White Workingman can count on this: to at some point hear about the evils of White “Supremacy,” White “Privilege,” and White “Advantage” while the blisters inside his calloused hands are festering, his knuckles bleeding and his migraine quite throbbing. He looks at his gnarly hands where his hard earned money should be, sees an ungrateful indigent in his mind that the government saw fit to redistribute his wealth to for “social justice.”

It is easy for the workingman to despair, in this world. If the White Workingman protests he is met with the battlecry of the Eternal Boomer which sounds a little bit like this: “I don’t care if you’re Black, White or Purple if you come here, speak English and work!” Yes. Work. The Workingman knows his lot becomes increasingly harder because of immigrant labor. He knows that his wage will probably be cut someday to keep that edge against the invading foreign, colored hoards. Yet he is preached to by a generation that has secured their existence and doesn’t have to fear so much the colored hoard they invited. If the workingman is clever he sees the irony in the infinite repeat of history that tells the story of a bloated fiscal oligarchy that is destroyed by the foreigners they invited to line their own pockets.

Of course, the ignorant generation that will not see the plight of the younger is not safe in their hubris. The multicultural virus will spare no man. I shall tell you a tale that haunts me even as my callous crusted fingers press the keys that make this article. My Grandfather worked. He worked until he retired. His wife died, he remarried. By all accounts, he was a damned good American. He followed the rules. He donated a fair sum of money to civic causes he believed in. When he was young, he had served in the United States Navy. He had worked as an engineer. I am told he had passed several patents. But like many American he had his stresses. The long and short of it was this, his wife, when he developed Alzheimer’s, condemned him to nursing homes. And this I shall never forget: I went to visit one day. And there are days you know you’re in for trouble, sixth sense, if you will. Nurses were moving in on a scene. And there they were, huddled around my grandfather. His forehead was bleeding. He was hollering: “take me to the Embassy! I am a United States Citizen and I have rights! I don’t know what country this is, but I want to go home!” Oh, the mystery! The nurses all cobbled and cawed as I arrived. “What does he mean? I don’t understand!” I knew. It was obvious to anyone who isn’t a brainless shill. The nurse closest to him was blacker than coal, with space alien dreadlocks, and if she was capable of uttering a complete thought with proper English diction… she wasn’t. What was there to question? When you give a man with dementia a creature that in his honest mind doesn’t look quite right, like a foreigner than you will have a confused man! Astounding.

I have other stories in my arsenal, but let that be a lesson to White Men who think that their defensive posturing to the ‘moral’ authorities on race and relations will save them in the end… it won’t. Our (((greatest allies))) will make sure the last things you see are things you won’t. They will rob your pensions, destroy your retirement – they will then pay for the third world nurses that neglect you in a nursing home you didn’t choose.

Diversity, I’m told, *is* our greatest strength.

I’d ask my Grandfather, but I can’t, because he is dead. But you’re not dead, and theoretically, neither am I. So what do we do with all this depressing truth? It is something to bear in mind, something to help us keep track of all the factors. When some moron with a caved in head entertains the favourite American pastime of feigning ignorance to avoid the plight of being thought to agree with you, you may remind them why the worker suffers. Tell them stories. It might not make a difference, but we can’t let these pixie-faced, limp-wristed know-nothings get away thinking there’s absolutely no reason for a problem. Because they will – if you let them.

We are American Citizens. We have Rights. We will, all of us die. Some at home, some in a home, others, hell, at work. But we have a right to die in America. What did my Grandfather do to deserve feeling like he was abandoned to a third world country?

The average workingman today, though, has no overarching purpose. He did not see the bright, White America my Grandfather knew. So he passes his time for the reasons we have discussed, in indignity. Maybe he copes with alcohol, or drugs. I am told that the Opioid Crisis has reached unparalleled proportions. A comrade of mine by the name of Emil Kraepelin goes to distinct lengths to dispel the myths and educate our guys regarding this plight.

One of the major problems in the laborial sphere is a sense of manifold purposelessness. It is part and parcel with the blackpill phenomenon. You work for people with more money than you to give them things you can’t have. It is a sense of backwards thinking, the fault of early education and a poorly managed modern culture.

Here is my advice to White Workers. Keep this in mind. Learn a skill, learn a trade. You’ll have to start small. You’ll have to weather insult and injury. Keep heart. If the American Dream is ever going to be ours, than we have to start collecting bargaining chips. We need to do that now. The reasons for this are as diverse as the reasons for being depressed. If you learn a practical skill: carpentry, masonry, plumbing, wiring, than you become more solvent. The eternal call for working revolt has never changed. Without us, what would all the pampered, rich and effeminate do, exactly? Here’s a scenario: without leeching off our skill, the rich would die of sepsis in crumbling mansions that they can’t fix, squatting in a shallow hole they dug themselves because they couldn’t fix the plumbing. They would be reduced very quickly. They owe us, dearly.

The present system in which we live will not last forever. It cannot, by definition. When infinity immigrants have finished crippling the labour economy and all that’s left is coding… you will still have your skills. There will unquestionably be other citizens in a position to need you. And, if, God(s) willing we of our persuasion ever achieve a degree of separation… we won’t much be able to survive on coding, computers and being a generic Millennial or Zoomer, will we? No. Civilization is a complex organism that needs every single skill we have to maintain any modicum of resemblance to the comfort and complexity it presently yields.

Unless you want #VargNat now.

You learn a trade. If you’re good, you can go to work for yourself. It may not be immediate, and you might lose a little at first, but any degree of independence makes a difference. That independence makes a difference in your life. Working for someone else can eat your soul. Work for yourself? It’s a gamble. In the current year, there are no guarantees. But if you make a successful business name for yourself, you can hand that off to your children someday. That used to be part of the European Dream. Families inherit from familial progress. It is not impossible to reclaim that. I don’t think any of our ancient cultures ever intended us to live hand to mouth at the will of a globalist agency because ‘muh capitalism.’

If in mass numbers the Nationalists reading this began to take their own reins, rather than being self-hating service workers, became plumbers, electricians or what-have-you than we could, as a movement, increase pour capital gains. We could become self-sufficient. Right now, our bread comes from ZOG. Why is this bad? You know (((why.))) You place five of our guys in one County: one of them is a carpenter, one of them is an electrician, the other three are generic Millennials and Zoomers. The carpenter and the electrician can build business names independently, and even start to work together. Carpenters frequently call on electricians as subcontractors. Those other three chuckleheads? Why not hire them as apprentices. Now you have five of our guys collecting shekels directly, rather than having them handed off by some retarded system job.

Those same five guys, if the SHTF scenario ever happens, would be better off. They not only have friends, but vital skills. With their money they can support our causes. As our numbers grow tighter and larger, we can call on our guys, rather than some guy. That means money will begin to stay with us. This is important because the ability to hold onto material wealth is integral to any cultural reform. Skill and finance are bargaining chips much harder to resist than tattoos and memes.

But more than that, returning to the original point of this article, labour is part of a man’s identity. If you haven’t been proud of something you built with your hands, I’m sorry my friend, but you haven’t lived. I think I shall you another anecdote or two in this vein before I sign off and go make myself and my wife some bacon and eggs.

On a job site, another client, brother to the one we were working for, came to visit. He talked a while before addressing me. “I wanted to save the work for you, because, you know, you’re so goddamn strong.” I couldn’t help but smile, and he went on to say, “ah, I’ll never forget seeing you carrying that big fucking rock up the hill. Nobody else could’ve moved it!” I won’t lie, and I don’t care if it marks me guilty for the sin of vanity. It feels good to know in some cases that my name precedes me. He’s told the story to others, I’ve heard him do it (while I was carrying big beautiful rocks.) On another job I did for a relative, there was concern moving this and that and the guy that hired me said, “don’t worry about the weight, this one’s stronger than an ox.”

So it goes.

It all brings us back to the Havamal. Cattle Die, and so do Kinsmen – God(s) know anyone over age 20 has seen more death than they care to. But we know what does not die: the name of a good man dead. I know that I want to be known as a keen philosopher when I die, but I shall settle for being another Sisyphus.

To a degree, pride cures pain. Knowing my work is appreciated, it makes it worth the while. Knowing my deeds are worthy of someone else’s time in the form of a story told to strangers (to me) is an incredible ego boost. That is why we are supposed to work: our skills are pooled into larger projects and our endeavors are to be respected. Our strength and skill are to be respected. We are not just workers and helpers. Without us, your service economy would have nothing to house it, your wealth would evaporate, and you would most likely not be here to undervalue us.

Something to think about.


Kettle Black

by Kettle Black

Husband. Craftsman. Nationalist.

The Republic of Maine