I won’t be reconstructed…

Yes, I’m still pissed.  I’m going to stay pissed as long as these self-righteous twits want to be the arbiters of what can and cannot be in our history.

I don’t go out of my way (normally) to fly the Battle Flag in the face of those it might offend.  I don’t generally try to offend anyone on purpose; it’s not my way.  But when you decide that history–my history, the history of my family, of where I was born, grew up and still live–is going to be banned because it offends your delicate sensibilities…well Buttercup, you had better have some seriously thick skin, because as one of my favorite fictional characters said, “I aim to misbehave.”

I’d rather just be quietly proud of my heritage, of my ancestors who fought for their freedom from a government they thought tyrannical (Lord if they could see what it looks like now) and a of how the ones who came home simply buckled down and went back to their farms and tried to make the best they could of a bad situation.

But that isn’t going to be allowed.  Because I’m not ashamed of those men, because I won’t wear sackcloth and ashes, pay reparations to people who have never know a slave in their lives and think that the current idiocy started by a deranged young man who decided to shoot up a church is the fault of the young man and not the fault of entrenched racism and a zillion micro aggressions per day, I’m the Unreconstructed Neanderthal Bad Guy from Hell.

I guess they are partly right.  I am unreconstructed–and I do not give a damn.

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