Thank you to Yuri for 'splaining' things to me. In her orhis neat little 'belief system', which she or he apparently has all worked outin her or his mind, "fascism is the opposite of Stalinism". (Perhapsthis is written in a Little Booklet Yuri carries?)

So ... "Identitarian politics is [sic] fascist",(Yuri's own premise), "the opposite of Stalinism". Ohh ... Well ...Okey doke, then ... Yuri clearly 'hath spoken'.

I would ask good citizen Yuri, (my good fellow-citizen ofthe world): When we simplify reality's complexities so we can understand the'whole thing' easier, past a certain point, do we actually increase ourunderstanding much at all?

The 'exact' meaning of the term 'fascist' is very clear inYuri's rigid explanation of his version of 'reality' to himself, but among manythe meaning of 'fascist' remains rather more 'fluid' (shall we say?). It is yet'under discussion'.

Copied and pasted from an online dictionary:

"Identitarian

relating to or characteristic of a politics in which thepolitical interests of a particular racial, ethnic or national group are givenpriority "

"Fascist

INFORMAL: someone who forces people to obey them and doesnot allow any opposition to what they do or say"

Let's see if I've got this right, (I lost my copy of theYuri's Little Booklet so long ago).

'Identity Politics' is a leftist thing,  which is the opposite of IdentitarianPolitics, which is a fascist thing, and in Yuri's nice neat little reality,blatantly racist Identitarian Politics is completely different than EQUALLY asblatantly racist Identity Politics, even though they both look and sound prettymuch EXACTLY the same to adherents of neither cult-like belief system.

Perhaps the hob-nailed jackboots of Hitler's 'secret police'had a different feel on people's cheeks than the steel hobnails in thejackboots of Stalin's 'secret police'? Were the millions murdered by Stalin, (Holodomor,  anyone?), less dead that the millionsmurdered by Hitler? Stalin's 'secret police', the NKVD, were somehow more gentleas they went about their business than the Gestapo? How about the East GermanStasi? I guess they weren't fascists either? They were "the opposite offascists"? 

Do tell ... Good citizen Yuri. Do 'splain s'more.

Hmm...These people who think they are being clever when theyspell Amerika, (yea, we did it in the 60s, too, when we were kids and believedmany strange things), certainly can PERFECTLY understand this complex advanced'logic' that makes THEM, somehow magically, miraculously, (I s'pose we couldsay, this is religion, after all, they 'believe in' their convoluted ideologywith passionate conviction) ... they themselves (they believe) are 'theopposite of everything bad', no matter WHAT they say or do. THEIR racism isGOOD racism! By God! ..(er.. marx?) ... Cue the 'iron' fist of pretendedleft-wing power 'thundering' on on the table ... as the Marxist/SocialistAmerican Marionette Left thunders on through their pathetically clownishhypocrisy ...

The deadly fatal foolishness of such 'conviction', of blackpots and black kettles holding their noses as high as they can, as theydenounce one another with all the raging hatred they can muster from theiraroused passions, was exactly what I was trying to get people to 'see', (asexampled by Chris Hedges' behavior', in the voice in which he speaks in theessay here under discussion).

Am I American?

Well ... I'm sure the heck NOT Amerikan ... 

And where does our good citizen Yuri hail from? (note thatgood citizen Yuri, after denouncing the concept that she or he could possiblebe 'identitarian', she or he then immediately slings a personal insult, (as weapes have always slung our feces), meant to injure my own 'identity', (in thiscase my nationality).

Ahh .... Irony is wherever we find it, isn't it, goodcitizen?

Am I American? Hmm ... Not such an easy question, eh? ... Onmy father's side, his folks were born in a village of Ukrainians, in a regionof Ukrainians, in what was then Austria, (as the borders in that region werealways pushing back and forth). 'Zwarich' is also a polish name, but my peoplewere Ukrainians. I spent a lot of time, as a boy, living in a family that spokeno more than 'pid'gin' English, as a second language.

On my mother's side, I bear the name Owen, a Celtic (Cymru)  name. Her father came from way down deepin a place called The Ozarks, way down in the wild hills and forests ofMissouri. The population of the local town, Houston, Mo, less than half a daysride in the wagon from the Owen farm, had reached 2100 souls by the 2010census. When my grandfather was born, just a few years before Geronimo died,Houston was a small village. The general store owner. A few magistrates, maybe.The school marm. Their families. A blacksmith. etc. The Sheriff probably neededan office whenever he came to town. No US Marshall likely ever passed that way.It's hard to imagine that lodgings were even available in town. When my grampawas a boy, visitors didn't much come through Houston.

Houston, Missouri, about as far out in the wilds of theOzark forests and hills as it was possible to be, was nonetheless much like thevillage that my Ukrainian grandparents were born into,  a small simple place where human lifewas about as simple as human life ever gets. .Folks 'round such parts tend t'be the hardest of hard scrabble. Their hands are hard and tough as shoeleather, men and women both.  Intheir narrow eyes is an understanding of 'survival' that many never come toknow much about.

They had ALL fled starvation in 'the old country'. They wereall motivated by desperation. They left their homes and families to embark on adangerous voyage, with no idea how they would survive when they arrived.

Both my father's parents, and my mother's grandparents, hadarrived at the same port in the US, but maybe 60 or 70 years apart. All werefleeing deadly danger. All were simple peasant folk just trying to survive.

My father's people settled in the urban east, in Roxbury, inBoston. As a young child, I remember their house at the top of Highland ParkAve. The kitchen stove burned wood or coal. It also heated the top floor of theold two-decker. To take a bath, you had to build a fire under the rusty ironwater tank that was elevated near the ceiling, beside the kitchen stove. Iremember my Dji-Dji plopping a headless chicken in the sink, for my Babi topluck and cook for the soup. I remember how the burning feathers smelled, asshe removed an iron cover from the stove top, and singed the down off the birdcarcass.

Those people taught me things, and ways, that many childrenare not so fortunate to learn. I learned to 'see' through other eyes besides myown.

My Grampa Owen took me into the woods. On long hikes throughbrush and field. He taught me to think like whatever creature we were hunting,to 'see' through eyes not even human. I saw him shoot a hawk out of the sky, ina boastful moment, with a .22 pistol. I saw him weep at his deed, his heart ingenuine pain, with the magnificent creature's wings spread out across hisknees, as he knelt to do his penance. "Oh, geezus crist ...", hesaid, his voice aquiver, "I never thought I could really hit it. Don't youEVER forget you saw me do this, Ramone ... You HEAR? ... I killed this bird forno reason. It was better than me. It only killed to eat".

No, good citizen Yuri. I am NOT 'Amerikan'?

You?