Sometimes George Sullivan fancied himself a love child. Maybe his parents at one time were into free love, and he was born of a loving communion of his mother with her wild world. Other times he wondered if he was a bizarre and unnatural U.S. Experiment. He had been born a cripple. His legs in the womb had twisted unnaturally inward, bringing him at birth twisted permanently in a sort of fetal full-lotus position with a double hernia. Through the magic of Philadelphia's children hospitals, his legs were broken and reset in two tiny casts connected by a metal bar. As he grew these became shoes connected by another rod brace. His father Kevin was a U.S.M.C. Vietnam Veteran and an impressive salesman. He used to carry infant George by grasping only the bar between his tiny legs... leaving George suspended inverted like a baby bat, or a salesman's briefcase. When people in the city would stop to stare he would flash them a winning smile and say proudly, “Baby for sale”... then wait for a reaction before moving along to another doctor's visit.
When their tiny apartment went up in flames after a neighbor passed out with lit cigarette in hand, Kevin searched for a new home for the family. He wanted a yard in the country... city life was too intense for his golden child and loving wife. He wanted to help create a planned community, where boys could become warriors and veterans could love what life was left. Where the women could frolic and dance. He soon found one in the armpit of Amish country. There was nothing but farmer's fields and a homemade ice cream shop called the Gurnsey Cow there 5 years ago, but a collective of vets had begun a housing project. It had a touch of white power to it like most military operations... and most of Amish Country. But all were welcome who could pay the bills and sign the papers.
The development was called March of the Woods and the town was Lionville... with the next town to the west named Eagle... followed by a slow procession of less and less houses into towns with increasingly aryan names. One day Mr. Sullivan walked into the only local realty office, “McDevildog Realty”. A short bald man with piercing blue eyes ran the place... he and Kevin hit it off immediately and one month later Kevin was moving into a new home and selling houses for the jarhead. Casa Sullivan was at the bottom of the highest valley in town, ¾ of an acre with dirt for a lawn and junkyard style garbage spread within and out. For 3 years hence it had been the home of a scarred veteran with junky children. For the first few weeks he had the place Kevin would not allow his wife and child to enter... for fear of exposure to any used needles he had not yet found and removed. A power-sprayer and 22 gallons of cheap flat paint hid the crude graffiti that peppered many walls.
Every home on the street either housed a veteran or active member of the armed services, police and fire departments. A few included all three. As the years went by this diluted a bit into a more civilian situation... but most of the children ended up in service of some sort. As the social decadence of the 1980's set in the street also saw it's fair share of ATF and FBI agents... even a member of the Secret Service. There were blacks, asians and whites on the block. Kevin generally spent time exclusively with the irish neighbors... grudgingly dealing with the italians and all united in trash talking all jews.
There was one Indian boy who lived in the highest house on the hill... he was tiny and slight of figure. George used to terrorize him, just because it was fun and simpler than actually getting to know him. The boy's name was Dubba Jeet Gowsh... at least thats how it sounded as George spat it like a curse in the face of the gentle, wide eyed child... trying to taunt him into violence. George liked to fight and was proud of it... he would daily try to instigate a battle with Dubba or any of the other neighborhood boys. His father had taught him how to make a fist and throw a punch with some plain and simple guidance, "Never throw the first punch but always throw the last."
White pride is a slogan used primarily in the United States (although its usage has spread internationally) to promote the heritage of persons of white European racial identity. Organizations advocating white pride tend to be collectively referred to as the white pride movement.
Advocates of white pride argue that white people should be recognized as a cohesive and legitimate cultural group, with the right to promote their sociopolitical interests. According to a University of Minnesota study, 77% of white Americans believe "their race has a distinct culture that should be preserved."[1] There are claims that there exists a cultural double standard in which only certain ethnicities are permitted to openly have pride in their heritage, and that white pride is not inherently racist, being roughly analogous to positions such as black pride or gay pride.[2][3]
