Almost a year ago the inauguration of President Barack Obama was hailed as a turning point in US race relations. The country was said to be entering a new era of post-racial politics, on the path to a future of greater diversity and tolerance. But while crowds flocked to Washington to witness the swearing in, others were refusing to join the party. Racially motivated threats against Obama rose to new heights in the first months of his presidency, with the US seeing nine high-profile race killings in 2009. Meanwhile white supremacist and neo-Nazi groups claim their membership is growing and that visits to their websites are increasing. Filmmakers Rick Rowley and Jacquie Soohen went inside the white nationalist movement to investigate.
To these hearts, the country, to our hurry, the march of white-knuckled thrumming and fury to the backdrop of primitive chords. These ashen weapons, these preemptive skins, most restless. One lockstep forward, two lockstep’s back just before the edge, are they prepared to sluice the stain of their insipid infection, vomit on the melted streets until their bile is splattered and spent, all guns turned inward with loathing, or will we soon rise to greet them scowling?
To these minds, the country, to our hurry, the march of white-knuckled thrumming and fury to the backdrop of primitive chords. Theirs is the hatred, boiled up for years, bred inside their children’s spleens, swastikas tick-tocking a degenerative valor. Born of parents wearing clocks for souls and chanting odious mantras in admiration, ours wearing thin of such hateful clatter like a gaping trench squatting toward hell.
In their grasp, a horror, in ours, a lunge for peace with our outstretched arms, unclenched fist, beckoning all the lucid and beautiful formations.
To these hearts, the country, to our hurry, the march of white-knuckled thrumming and fury to the backdrop of primitive chords. These ashen weapons, these preemptive skins, most restless. One lockstep forward, two lockstep’s back just before the edge, are they prepared to sluice the stain of their insipid infection, vomit on the melted streets until their bile is splattered and spent, all guns turned inward with loathing, or will we soon rise to greet them scowling?
To these minds, the country, to our hurry, the march of white-knuckled thrumming and fury to the backdrop of primitive chords. Theirs is the hatred, boiled up for years, bred inside their children’s spleens, swastikas tick-tocking a degenerative valor. Born of parents wearing clocks for souls and chanting odious mantras in admiration, ours wearing thin of such hateful clatter like a gaping trench squatting toward hell.
In their grasp, a horror, in ours, a lunge for peace with our outstretched arms, unclenched fist, beckoning all the lucid and beautiful formations.
© 2010 by mark prime
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