Where are your people buried? The impossibility of 'Heritage American'; such do not exist

Notes preliminary to a discussion of the Celtic heritage of the Southern nation

So where y’all coming from? Once that was the standard sorta neighborly-type inquiry that in the old days you’d lob at the Mom/Dad/2.5 kiddos in the adjacent booth at HoJo’s while waiting for the gal to bring over your plate of delicious fried clam strips. Maybe that explains the American passion for “legible clothing” that while advertising the usual brands – Hard Rock Café, Rainforest Café, some Disney horseshit – also indicate place: a landscape. Shitty ones, to be sure: New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Orlando or whatever. But place implies – or should, or maybe once did – people: the sluggish, inefficient and sloppy “becoming” of a group of individuals into . . . into themselves.

But good news: we’ve progressed. That’s-not-who-we-are, as the People Department Ladies presiding over the last squalid days of this wretched empire are always ready, willing and able to remind you. It’s highly insensitive, it’s a macroaggression, it’s nothing less than blood and soil Nazism. Imagine, if yo…