Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know anything about her. She is a sign language interpreter. That’s all I know. She sits onstage during tonight’s keynote address for the Savannah Book Festival. She is translating speech into ASL. She interprets for upwards of an hour.
Her name is Joeann. She works at the Hampton Inn in Jackson. She tends the dining room, making the breakfasts, and cleaning off tables. She is easy to talk to.
Savannah. The sun is not up. The city is dark and foggy. I am the first one awake in my hotel. I am always the first one awake. I don’t know why. As a kid, I could sleep until Carson came on. Now I get up before the rooster clears his throat.
Today, Sean of the South lampoons comments found on the internet regarding some of the most impactful works of art, literature and other cultural entertainment
Somewhere in Louisiana. The Best Western. It’s late. The temperatures are freezing. I cannot feel my extremities. I am pretty sure the rock rolling around inside my shoe is my toe.
The poster is faded and aged, containing many three-by-five photos, housed in clear plastic sleeves, all in rows, on display for the world to see. The poster calls itself the “Wall of Honor,” even though you’d have to go out of your way to actually notice the poster. Let alone honor it.
The sun is shining in Austin, Texas. The hotel dining room is full of young people for breakfast. They are all tourists. I can tell this because they are wearing T-shirts that say things like: “Austin is Special.”
February is Black History Month, which liberals bend toward messages of unceasing oppression while shunning the many black historical figures who improved the nation and proved the American dream works for everyone.
Her husband left her with two kids and a Honda. She didn’t even have a place to stay. She moved in with her sister. She worked thankless jobs. And she hardly ever smiled. Not only because she was unhappy, but mostly because she was missing teeth.
Today is National Puzzle Day. So, I bought a jigsaw puzzle at the grocery store. The box features an ornate cathedral with red roses and blossoming foliage. The cathedral is in Germany. The puzzle cost $9 bucks. I almost choked on my gum.
The young man was quiet. He was a lowly fry-cook, salting endless baskets of French fries. Flipping acres of patties. Dropping pre-fried, shrink-wrapped, chemical-preservative-injected chicken breasts into nuclear silos of boiling synthetic lard.
A house divided cannot stand. Right now, the National Rifle Association is living that proverb in real time, and it’s painful to watch—because for generations the NRA wasn’t just an organization. It was the standard-bearer. The steward. The institution that most Americans, whether they owned a firearm or not, understood as the big dog in the fight over the Second Amendment.
The transmission of her car has given out. Every day, she hitches a ride to work because she is broke.
She works hard. Too hard. And when she’s not cooking in the kitchen of the medical rehab, delivering trays to patients, she’s a full-time single mother.
America doesn’t usually lose its freedoms in one dramatic, movie-worthy moment. We lose them the way you lose your hearing at rifle range: one “WHAT?” at a time, until your wife is yelling from the kitchen and you’re just smiling like a happy idiot because you can’t hear the damage anymore.
In the summer of 2099, researchers developed a new groundbreaking drug. When ingested this new medication impaired one’s ability to judge others.
They tell you baiting bans are about “science.” They say it’s about “wildlife health.” They deliver it in that soothing government voice that always means, “We’re here to help… ourselves.”
I was at a barbecue. There were lots of people around, eating, and at some point one of my cousin’s kids rode their Schwinns into the yard. One boy leapt off his bike and sidled up to me. “It’s so quiet out here,” the boy remarked in stupefied wonder.
The email came in this morning. “Sean,” the message began. “You are a social media attention whore….” Great way to start the day.
It’s raining hard. Thundering loudly. Like the world is falling apart. And yet there is a mockingbird outside my window. The bird is unfazed by the downpour.
There’s a certain kind of battlefield respect that doesn’t need a movie trailer, a podcast, or a camouflage beard oil sponsor. It’s quiet. It’s ancient. It’s earned. And it belongs to the rifle marksman—the one who can hit what needs to be hit, when it needs to be hit, without turning the entire valley into a fireworks show.