THE ROBERT W. WHITAKER ARCHIVE

Last week I had the awesome experience of witnessing the birth of my firstborn. Words can hardly describe the depth and breadth of the emotions I felt as I saw my son for the first time. Before I became a parent, other parents always told me that watching a child being born is unlike any experience on earth, that there is no way to describe the intensity of the love you feel for that brand-new person, inextricably bound in blood to you. I always thought I understood what they meant, but I never really did, until now.

What an amazing feeling, to look into your child's face and see a part of your own. But he is so much more than that. He is a product of a long line of his kind, a grand heritage of culture forged by those with the courage to live, love, sacrifice, and pass their genes on to the next generation, each line joining in an intricate, wonderful web to produce, at the end to this point, my son.

I see in his tiny face the Nelson line of my mother, hardy folk who inhabited the coastal areas of Alabama, enduring hurricanes, humidity, and even Sherman's march to make a life there. I see the noble line of Sir Thomas Greene, passing from his mother to him. I see his great and great great-grandfathers, both Southwest Virginia coal miners who scraped to make a living and died of lung disease from the work they did, not because they loved it, but because it was a living for their families. I see the Jacksons of Tennessee, the Couches of Virginia, the Esteps of North Carolina, and countless other people and families long gone but still alive in their progeny.

I see knights and warrior-priests, peasants, philosophers and kings, a heritage of high culture produced by a people with the genetic capacity to split the atom, invent virtually everything worth inventing, and send a man to the moon and back again.

But tragically, today, my son has been born into a world where his people have lost their identity, their very souls. They have been brainwashed into thinking their accomplishments have come not because of their God-given genetic capability, but by the exploitation of others. They have been guilt-ridden into accepting today's politically correct multicultural dogma, even to the point of the destruction, the genocide, of their own race through immigration and miscegenation.

When I look at my son I am reminded of just how important this struggle for the survival of our people is. After all, that crying little bundle of joy is what this thing is all about, because when our people cease to produce people of like genetic characteristics, our people, our race, will die, and the world will be the worse for it.

I want him to live in a world that's worth living in. I want him, as his ancestors did, to rise above the decadence that will surround him and be proud of who he is and who his ancestors are, to continue to forge, bit by bit, a little piece of the world they created, a world that is slowly but surely being destroyed. It will start by such a fundamental act of nature that were it not for the political correctness of this evil day it wouldn't seem such a revolutionary thing: the birth of a child like himself.

I am proud of his race, my race. I want to see our people survive. I want HIM to want to see our people survive. The day after my son was born I had the honor of handing to my father, his grandfather, a grandson who looked like him. All of my adult life I have dreamed of that moment, the moment when I could show him that his line would continue. I didn't say much, just held the back of his head and carefully handed him to my Dad, but my eyes welled and I couldn't help but get a little lump in my throat.

Our mission at its core boils down to two fundamental things, changing individual hearts and minds and producing offspring to ensure our survival. I thought of many things in that moment, the past, the present, but especially the future, perhaps twenty or thirty years from now when my son will hand me a little bundle of miracle, potential and promise. Then, if I have taught him well, he will truly understand that his people, his race will, in part, live or die depending on the choices he makes.

He will tell me with the little bundle he hands me that he has chosen right, that his people will live on, will continue.

Peter Anthony