In my new borderlands home, there’s a dynamism that doesn’t exist in the stale city. An odd fusion of young and old culture, people and civilizations. I stood in line today with American Indians, Asian Indians, Anglos, Slavs and Chinese. There’s a stream of Canadians of all ethnicities pouring across the border every evening to stock up on cheaper American goods and gasoline. While at the local discount gas station, I came across a Chinese man filling a half dozen ten gallon gas cans to take back across the border. I couldn’t resist asking him in Mandarin Chinese whether he intended to start his own gas station. He answered in a heavily accented dialect, as do most of the local Chinese, who come not from the established cities but the hinterlands. It’s truly amazing to me to hear this, as I feel I’ve once again taken some excursion to the provinces in China, except this time in the United States.
I’m on the edge of a fertile valley, not far from the sea and foreboding mountains. Just off my left shoulder when walking south there’s an enormous, snow-capped peak scored by glaciers. When walking north, ahead of me there are bucolic fields, wetlands and low, rolling meadows. To the west there’s the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which channels a cool, wet breeze over the Frasier River Valley, and the bounty of the Salish Sea. To the east there’s a rugged mountain range impassable except by a single highway some forty miles to the southeast.
I can hear seagulls, songbirds and crows. Bald eagles circle overhead, and hawks scour the flatlands for prey. Deer browse the lush fields nearby, growing fat on the late spring grasses and shoots.
There’s a notable absence of police, but that isn’t a problem, because the dark pathology of the city hasn’t yet crept in. There are beggars and poor folks, but the hard edge of urban crime is conspicuously absent. That menacing specter of urban crime, which creeps up like a dark shadow to mindlessly beat and kill its prey, has so far stayed away from this virgin territory.
The people here are simpler, but in many ways more attractive. They are taller, more athletic and better-looking. They are also more prolific judging from the number of children. In comparison to city people, they probably aren’t as bright, but it’s a negligible difference, and hardly a failure all told. A tall, beautiful young man or woman here walks and moves with a natural grace and nobility that is conspicuously absent amongst the bent, glowering progressives that cautiously navigate the streets of the contemporary fascist polis. There’s an openness, an ease of movement and a carefree, benevolent attitude that I haven’t seen in decades in the city.
Instead of bitter ideologues, there are people with open minds and a willingness to engage with others. Rather than a fanatical devotion to sodomy and abortion, there is an appreciation for life, and a true respect for mothers — the hatred of children that characterizes urban Americans is notably absent. In some ways, spending time out here is like a rebirth into a community that has a true respect for humanity and life rather than a futile materialism and a burning hatred for mankind.
Feminists, as we know them, do not exist here. The women would be confused by the terms and the arguments. They live in communion with the men, and embrace motherhood and femininity. Likewise, anti-feminism means nothing to the men. It’s just irrelevant.
