I Give You Fair Warning: The Rats Have Abandoned Ship
By TLB Contributing Writer: Ken LaRive
I’m setting down here some interesting statistics to prove a point. If you finish the piece you’ll see that the problems are not racial, but far left liberal agendas designed to help without common sense. The rats of New Orleans are a product of over forty years of myopic liberal ideologies.
The Rats have left New Orleans. Katrina… and it all turned out to be true.
I put New Orleans behind me in 1976, the year I graduated from Loyola University. Making the transition from San Diego City College for the lure of Loyola’s Communications department, I marked the days until I could leave. One week after graduation I was already making Acadia my home.
The truth of the matter is that for a stretch of about ten years, between 1970 and 1980, New Orleans proper went from about twenty percent black to about fifty percent, and just before Katrina the number was 67 percent. We had pure racial problems there, but the problems transcended race. Lawlessness was a creation of the liberal welfare state, compounded by a weak and corrupt legal system. This promoted what is now properly known by many New Orleanians and historians as “The Great White Exodus”. How could the population have taken such a radical turn? Why were good people of all colors leaving New Orleans in droves? Why did I count myself among those who couldn’t stomach another day there?
At that time I was trying to put myself through one of the more expensive colleges, second only to Tulane. The GI bill, my wife’s full time employment with the Levee Board, my many part time jobs, and our dreams pulled us along. At that time New Orleans East was mostly working class folks, a mixture of black, white, Hispanic, and Vietnamese, with little distinguishable crime.
Note: A speculative bet… Point five percent of the total population is causing the greatest amount of crime, beyond the color barrier. However, a great percent of the total population accepts this as a way of life, with fear and perverse twisted morals as dual reasons, thus New Orleans has been nick named: “Sin City.”
Maddy and I had only one car, and we shared it several times a day. Most days I took the bus from Crowder Boulevard to Canal Street, and then the street car up St. Charles to Loyola. I did most of my homework on the bus, and wouldn’t remember anything of the trip, so engrossed in my work. This brings up several points…
In my department we had a wide ethnic mix, wealthy mostly, with tuition paid for by rich daddies. We also had six inner-city black kids. I don’t remember there ever being a problem, and we all mostly accepted each other. One black guy and I attempted to make friends because we seemed to share an interest in photography. This young man invited me to his dorm for a sandwich of bologna and cheese. He tossed me a cold beer from his fridge and in one quick movement, opened his window while lighting a fat joint. Squinting, he took a large smoky drag and passed it to me, but was astounded when I adamantly refused them both. It was 11:00 in the morning! I had two more classes that day, ending around 14:30. From there I took the bus and did my homework. When I returned home I went directly to bed and slept to about 21:30. Maddy was quiet, home about four hours, and had supper cooked. We ate, laughed, talked of the day, and then I took the Mustang to the French Quarter where I cleaned the Royal Orleans Hotel Restaurant from 23:00 to 07:00. I went home, took a shower, and then grabbed the 08:00 Crowder bus to school. I wanted to finish in four years, longing to get into the “real world.”
That young man flunked out that semester, and I never saw him again. He wasn’t alone, as four of the original six blacks in my department took the same road, along with several other “party animals”. Why? Well, this was before Tops, where one is granted assistance for academic performance. A student has to actually perform these days! What a concept! Not back then though, liberal shortsightedness awarded people for being poor and of color, with no thought of past academia. They thought that if Government just arbitrarily gave to a person they would make good use of the opportunity. Apparently they knew nothing of human nature, as that young man had everything handed to him: books, tuition, room and board, and enough spending money where he could take ballet lessons to augment his Karate lessons, with some left over to buy drugs. Since there had been no labor or even a proper dream involved, he threw away the opportunity without a clear understanding of the gift. Color had nothing to do with it. It is human nature not to appreciate what isn’t earned.
For a few months in my sophomore year I worked for cash delivering produce in the French Quarter. I worked for two Italian brothers who ruled with an iron fist, and I earned every bit of my two dollars an hour. One particular day I was given the task of delivering to a place dead inside of the Florida Avenue Projects. These good hearted, strong willed Italian men donated food for a free socialistic school in the very epicenter of the most violent of New Orleans. I loaded a crate of bananas, purple hull peas, and a sack of potatoes in my van along with two crates of corn to bring to a restaurant on my way back.
When I pulled into the parking lot there was a group of young kids playing basketball, none being over twelve or so. They stopped the game and stood watching me with looks of hungry hate. I had seen looks like that before, by the Red Chinese in Hong Kong. There, my Navy uniform got me angry glares of condescension, here, it was my white skin. Now it may seem unsettling to find that here in America, so open, and with so much rage, but in New Orleans, to this day, it is a way of life. I didn’t give it much thought until after the fact, but locking the van and wheeling in three crates into the school took less than three minutes. When I returned there wasn’t a sound or one person to be seen in any direction. The back door had been pried open with a two by four that lay on the ground, and the two crates of corn were gone. I went to the school’s front door to call the police, but the door was now locked, and no one came when I knocked. It hit home. I was alone.
Suddenly a car turned sharply into the lot and four black punks about my age got out. All were dressed in the traditional basketball garbs, with red bandanas showing their particular gangster affiliations. The leader came directly up to me with a finger in my face saying I was the white SOB that had hit his car the week before. Looking down, I played the game of subservience that only a survivor can know. It is the overt display of fear and terror, with a foolish mumbling explanation they delighted in. I explained that I was there to help the community by giving free produce, that this was my first time coming here, and that my van had been broken into. They laughed among themselves as I spoke, and one said to the other, “Pop him man!” And another said “I’ll do it! No problem.” But the one who stood back said, and I remember it verbatim. “Leave him alone man. He’s cool.” They all laughed and walked off into the maze of red brick and shadows, as I ran to the van and started the engine. I looked up as one turned to show me his handgun tucked neatly in his waistband. I got out of there with the back door flopping off of a broken lock, and remember well my uncontrollable trembling as I got a few blocks away. It was my adrenaline rush shutting down. I was lucky; as it was evident my life meant nothing to them. I thought of that day many times, and how I scrambled to survive. My bending subservience was what they wanted. To them, my subservience was worth more than my life, and that is what saved me. Do you understand this?
Note* In no way was violence and crime isolated to the black community. All other ethnic affiliations were involved. Watch the movie “Gangs of New York” and you will see the power struggles of a large city.
Whites left New Orleans because of the crime that washed into every neighborhood. People started putting bars in their windows, alarms, and motion lights. A man was shot dead around the corner from my home in front of his wife and daughter for the money in his wallet, a woman burned to death in her protective cage, and my brother of 12 walked into the kitchen as a tall white guy was squirming through the window. Suddenly the streets were no longer safe for a woman to travel alone, day or night. Local parks in Gentilly, where kids once swung till their mother called them for supper, became shadow lands for violence and drug dealings. Car-jackings in broad daylight, drug deals going bad in public places, mall shootouts, and drive-bys was in the paper daily, averaging six deaths a day.
Hispanic, Middle Eastern, and Vietnamese warred with the robbers too, as they were in the line of fire in the sacking of convenience stores. One difference though: each of these groups were united in self created communities, whereas whites were dispersed and unorganized. The city turned in upon itself, and suspicion of differences became the norm. The youth gangs of black, brown, white, and yellow learned how to fight with knives, the precursor to guns. Schools became war zones, and teachers were beat up by hoodlums just walking in off the street. I remember so many incidences; I could make this a volume.
So New Orleans changed ratio, and suburbs like Mandeville, Slidell, and Metairie busted at the seams with scared people looking for a safe place to raise their family, and make a living. Sounds racist to tell this story, but history will reveal it to be true. Though some blacks pealed away from the heart of New Orleans looking for the same peaceful things, overwhelmingly whites left for a safe harbor from unfettered violence and crime… Numbers don’t lie.
I suppose there was an element in me that wanted to stay and fight for the lost city of my youth, but I realized that it was akin to another Vietnam, a war that couldn’t be won. Even some police were a part of it, corrupt and on the take, and the law turned a blind eye, fearful that a riot would burn down the city, and revenue from drugs and fencing would be disrupted.
It took a storm like Katrina to lay bear the true nature of New Orleans for all to see, and what it has become. Those rats who raped and mugged nurses, shot at police and rescue workers, abandoned their posts, and brazenly looted right along side of police officers, are no longer in New Orleans. They have moved out, and now living in other cities.
I give you fair warning. These rats will attempt to carve a piece of the local unlawful action for themselves, and innocence will be caught up in that machine. They will bring in a new realm of organized crime, and use any dastard method to make it happen. This is crime at its lowest level, as they have no rules, no morals or ethics but for immediate self gratification.
They stayed through the storm for the opportunity to steal, and their short-sighted-mayor and our confused and derisory Governor gave them four days to play havoc on unprotected property and the weak. It didn’t take long to organize because they have been structured for forty years! The shots fired at rescue workers was designed to gain more time, and the spoils they took from the garden district are now well hidden, buried like Lafitte’s treasure.
First, they will attempt to carve up the existing crime syndicate that is already in place. It will be a war you will not just read about, but experience in your own back yard. These New Orleans rats are vicious, and without a home have become very desperate. Fencing stolen goods will not be easy for them, and they will take what they will at gunpoint. Working for a living does not cross their mind. Don’t think for a moment it won’t happen. It will. Our local rats will not share the spoils, and we will be caught in the middle. It is my hope that when the war starts, both sides will be in view, and so apprehended by local authorities. In the long run this may be for the good of Louisiana, as the social problems that could produce a quality of people that would take advantage of a horrific natural disaster for personal gain, is now laid bear for the world to see.
From the Author, Ken La Rive – We in the Liberty movement have been fighting to take back this country for less than a decade, peacefully and with the love of God and country in our hearts. Our banner has been trampled on and displaced by a multitude of distractions, further eroding our nation and the cause for Liberty. And so, as we are pulled by forces we cannot fathom, powerful entities with unlimited resources stolen from our future, unaccountable trillions printed out of thin air and put on our backs as debt, we must formulate the most pitiful of all questions any patriot might ask in the final hour: Are we going to fight for our master’s tyranny, or are we going to demand the return of our civil liberties and Constitution? Are we going to choose The Banner of Liberty, or the shackles of voluntary servitude? Will it be a war for corporate profit, or a war to regain our ability to self govern, as the blood and toil of our forefathers presented to us, their children, as a gift? I fear that decision is emanate. I fear that any decision will be a hard one, but my greatest fear of all is that the decision has already been made for us.
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