citizens, i.e., religious skeptics, sexual equalitarians, andnglobal democrats. Americans who continue to love theirncountry, respect its traditions, and study its history — whatnare they, after all, but bigots, nativists, xenophobes, andnracists? That, at any rate, is what the cultural leftists wouldnlike us to believe. A rather different approach to our historynis provided by a black Virginian, Don Anderson, whoncontributed an essay to Why the South Will Survive, editednby Clyde Wilson. Unequivocally opposed to slavery andnhighly critical of the behavior of Southern whites, he refusednto write off the experiences of the black men and womennwho lived as slaves; holding no brief for Southern slaveholders,nhe still tended the graves of his ancestors. At the samentime he has learned to play the bagpipes enjoyed by thenancestors of his slave-owning white ancestors. Most important,nhe has turned to the slaveholder Jefferson as theninspiration for his National Association for the SouthernnPoor. Like most Americans, he had reasons for condemningnsome aspects of the American historical experience, butnunlike cultural leftists he refused to fall into the habit ofnhating his country.nLoving one’s own people does not imply a diminishednregard for the rest of the human race. On the contrary,na man who does not cherish his family and fellow-citizensnand national traditions is probably incapable of lovingnanyone or anything. Here lies the basic fault of all globalnideologies — Communism, Socialism, Democratism: theynare all based on hatred of the particular, and what begins innhate can never result in love.nHow unloving and unlovable the 60’s radicals really were.nThey mistreated their girifriends, lived like pigs, and gloatednover the destruction they could do, if ever they got intonpower. More to the point, perhaps, they were deliberatelynrude to anyone who got in their way or made the mistake ofntrying to reason with them.nOnce in the late 60’s I found myself in Los Angelesnduring an airline strike. My mother had been desperatelyn10/CHRONICLESnLIBERAL ARTSnTHANKS FOR THE ADVICEnFinland’s Eroticism and Promotion ofnHealth Committee, after a year-longnstudy (!!), has concluded that Finns neednto concentrate more on the positivenaspects of sex and the sense of well-beingnit brings, rather than on the negativenstuff like lewdness and that real worm-inthe-apple,nAIDS. The committee’snmemo suggests that Finns “be given thenpossibility of having sex holidays duringnwhich they can forget pressing mattersnand concentrate on relaxing in eroticnpleasures and satisfaction.”nnnsending messages up and down the West Coast, informingnme that I only had a few days to get back to South Carolina,nbecause I had been drafted. Wearily, I stood in line at thenGreyhound terminal and succeeded in catching a bus for ElnPaso, which was at least vaguely in the right direction.nSitting next to me was a gigantic Marine, just back fromnVietnam. Without too much rage, he began describing hownthe “peace queers” had assaulted him at the airport innlanguage almost identical to Johnny Rambo’s great speech:n”Who the hell were they to protest me?” As luck wouldnhave it, we were both headed for South Carolina. It was anlong ride, catching buses that zigzagged our way across thencontinent. No matter how many times I changed buses, Incouldn’t shake him. He dogged me as persistently as thenmemory of a bad blind date.nIt was not as if we had a great deal in common. “Hownbout you and me getting some books to read at the nextnstop?” he asked. When I returned with a light noveln(deliberately chosen so as not to avoid the charge ofnpretension), he couldn’t conceal his disgust and disappointment.nWhen I asked what books he had bought, he proudlynshowed me a handful of comic books.nAmong the things of the trip that I recall — eating thenbest beef barbecue in the world and drinking Mexican beernin a little diner he knew in Dallas, the endless gruesomenstories of combat told in a matter-of-fact voice, and hisneagerness to go back and start collecting the combat paynagain — one incident stands out.nIt was the first day, and the bus stopped at a crossroadsntown and a pleasant-looking (not exactly pretty) country girlndressed in gingham got on board. My friend confessed thatnhe knew a girl just like that back in Arkansas and henintended to marry her some day. His reveries were disturbednby loud talk and coarse laughter from the back. He turnednaround and spotted two “long-hairs,” obviously half-stoned.nHe barked at them to pipe down, but they kept up theirnincreasingly offensive banter. It was unpleasant, but nonworse than what we often hear in public places. “If theyndon’t quit, I’m going to have to do something.”nI thought he was just sounding off, and when the Marinengot off to get a cold drink at the next stop, I thought nothingnof it. When I awoke from a short nap, a few miles later, Innoticed that the long-hairs were gone. I asked my friendnwhat happened. “Nothing much,” he said, “I just persuadednthem to wait for another bus.”nMy friend was probably a religious bigot and a xenophobe,nbut while I and the liberal college students werenenjoying ourselves, he was off defending the honor of ourncountry. He knew it was a war designed by the upper classesnand fought by the lower classes, but he didn’t resent it. Henknew I was a middle-class college student and probably notntoo different from the “peace queers” that had spit on him,nbut he didn’t resent that either. For several days, we werentogether virtually every minute, but he was nothing but kindnand scrupulously considerate. He was the sort of decent,ntough man our ancestors were, and he is worth more than allnthe high-minded students and intellectuals whom RichardnDaley in his infinite wisdom locked up in a Chicago jail inn1968. However many second or third thoughts they mightnhave, the unrepentant radicals don’t have to apologize tonme: they have to apologize to him. <^n