It was a remarkable inauguration weekend. Thursday night was the “DeploraBall,” Friday the inauguration, Friday night a private party for local dissidents, and then Saturday the Women’s March.
The DeploraBall was a great party and even better company. In college I wished for a world in which sharp, fashionable men and women of the Right could get together to dance and socialize. It seems like that world has finally arrived and I could not be more pleased.
However, that world requires immense security. The city block in front of the National Press Club, where the event took place, was shut down and swarming with protesters. There must have been 400 of them—many in black with covered faces looking ready to fight. The group I was with pretended to be passers-by, and politely asked a few of the protesters what was going on. They explained they were there to fight fascism, and pointed to where all the fascists were lined up to get inside for a fascist party. There were some scuffles between protesters and attendees, but luckily nothing serious.
We walked towards the front door, and once we were within 15 feet of the dozen or so cops protecting the entrance, we ran for the door. The cops asked to see our tickets. Once inside, we had to show our tickets again, along with ID, and then were wanded with metal detectors. Only the smallest purses were allowed in, and all food and drinks were taken away. We had to show our tickets once again to National Press Club staff, who then gave us wristbands and pointed us towards the elevators. At the elevators we had to show our wristbands again. At the 13th floor, more security asked to see our wristbands, and only then were we let into the party.
All this was necessary. Antifa planned to put stink bombs in the air vents to ruin the event. They were foiled at the last minute when James O’Keefe exposed them.
The mood inside was jubilant. Mr. Trump had defeated his neo-con and establishment opponents, avoided a brokered convention, won the nomination, faced Hillary Clinton, and won. Tomorrow he would be president and tonight we were to celebrate. Plenty of dissidents have criticized the color-blind, civic nationalist stance of the headliners of the event: Mike Cernovich, Jeff Giesea, etc. But their pro-Trump, anti-Cultural Marxism, pro-border wall stance is a thousand times better than the milquetoast, tax-cut-obsessed, warmongering Republicans who dominated the GOP before Mr. Trump arrived. As I hobnobbed with folks who had worked on the campaign, a few VDare writers, and anti-establishment figures such as Paul Ryan’s primary challenger, Paul Nehlen, I marveled at how far the dissident right has come.
A few hours later, I headed to the inauguration. Jared Taylor has an account of the event, so I won’t go into details. Once it wrapped up and I was shuffling through the crowd to find the exit, I bumped into Peter Brimelow. His wife, myself, and a few other friends of VDare ate lunch together and once again I marveled at how far we have come.
That evening I attended a private, alt-right inaugural ball. Keeping the event as private and secure as possible was a high priority, especially after seeing all the protesters at the DeploraBall and the violence that came after the inauguration—including an attack on Richard Spencer. Out of respect to the organizers’ wishes to keep the gathering all but invisible, I’ll say only this: Never before had I been to any gathering of racial dissidents where I had not already met over two thirds of the attendees. Every day there are more of us.
The next morning I attended the Women’s March. It was huge. I suspect there were even more people than the estimate of 500,000. It was also vulgar. It seemed as though every other sign said “pussy,” and plenty said worse than that. The handful of speakers were just as vulgar. Madonna dropped the f-bomb a few times in her live-televised speech, prompting apologies from the major news network. B-list actress Ashley Judd shouted, “I am not as nasty as your own daughter being your favorite sex symbol, like your wet dreams infused with your own genes.” Many lefties claim that Mr. Trump lusts after his daughter.
Interestingly, very few protesters had signs or slogans about economics, medical care, or “the 1 percent.” The theme was overwhelmingly identity politics: feminism, immigration, Black Lives Matter, and Islam. This is good, since this bizarre alliance of white feminists, immigrants, black radicals, and a handful of Muslims cannot last. Without a unifying economic platform, these different groups will start squabbling. Most importantly, so long as this coalition lasts, it pushes more and more whites to our side, since its only unifying theme is anti-whiteness.
Here are some of the signs I saw.
At one point during, I saw a lone pro-Trump float surrounded by yelling protesters. Some were throwing water bottles and garbage, and several protesters grabbed the float and started rocking it. A black woman was egging them on, and I think they were about to climb onto the float and murder the Trump supporters when about a dozen motorcycle cops arrived, drew their night sticks, and started pushing people away from the float. It took 45 tense minutes for the police to clear a path through the protesters so the float could escape. The crowd kept throwing garbage and screaming at both the Trump supporters and the police.
The weekend was a sign of what is to come. Donald Trump is president, the Republican Party has priorities more in line with ours than ever before, and hundreds of dissidents are coming out of the shadows and meeting each other. And orthodoxy is lashing out viciously as it dies.
Let’s keep up the good work.