2001, Winslow Press, NY, 212 pages

This series of youth books from some two decades past featured various historical presidents receiving and answering fictitious letters from young people of their day. This volume was particularly well written and obviously intended to fan white guilt over the treatment of the Creek Indians, who lived in houses, in permanent towns, wore European clothes, held slaves and didn’t exist by that name a few hundred years earlier…

Below is a portion of one letter, with the emphasis mine, with those words emphasized being discussed afterwards. Understand that all of these words are factually accurate. The historical crime here, understanding that history is ancient Greek for “Inquiry” was not one of false assertion but of a conveniently halted investigation at that point just when understanding might be achieved if the author continued, but where, if one stopped there, the reader would be critically misinformed.

“…the Treaty of Indian Springs is a cheat… It was signed by William McIntosh, the main chief of the Lower Creek tribes, and seven lesser chiefs. The Creek Nation has forty-six towns. Those chiefs represented only eight and had no business speaking for the Upper Creeks at all…

“…Last week four hundred angry Upper Creeks swooped down on Chief McIntosh’s plantation. They burned it and shot him dead. Then they stabbed him.

“…our Governor Troup, who seems to me like a crazy man, continues to insist that the treaty is valid and must stand. He is a first cousin of Chief McIntosh, though not part Indian himself, and he even wants the Creeks’ land to be surveyed for sale to settlers before the September 1, 1826 deadline specified by the treaty…”

It is interesting that a sovereign Indian nation, albeit one bearing an English name, has a chief with a Norman first name and a Scottish last name. I suppose we are to assume that the Indians had so little respect for their own traditions and ancestors that they adopted purely European names.

The subterfuge of getting a chief of one area to sign over the lands of other bands and tribes was the most common way that English and Dutch land speculators used to defraud Indians of their lands. One can hardly blame the Scotch-Irish for doing the same.

However, once one finds out that this Scotch-Irish Indian chief is a plantation owner, one might expect him of being a Whiteman! Unfortunately, American history does not permit a white Indian, so this question is swept over a third time.

Finally, the letter writer declares, as proof that the deal was duplicitous, that the Governor of Georgia was the first cousin of Chief McIntosh, and then tries to cover the truth by declaring that this first cousin is not even part Indian, which, to even the smallest of American pea brains, should indicate, that as the first cousin of a full-blooded white devil, William McIntosh must be at least part Indian.

To make the absurdity even deeper, a period illustration of William McIntosh of William McIntosh, Chief of the Lower Creek Towns, painted by a very expensive portrait artist, depicts a northern European man dressed in 100% European fashion, wearing a European sword on a baldric.

But surely, any good American must consider, this was a white man masquerading as a Creek Indian. The reader then pages through the book looking for real Indians, as if an Indian Chief was not a real Indian, and finds, on pages 48 and 49, two period sketches of unidentified Creek chiefs, obviously mixed-race men, in mixed cultural attire, looking more like Hollywood pirates than any description of Amerindians made by the earliest explorers of these regions.

The author then has the boy write to the president that the Creeks lived in towns albeit in “huts” conducting themselves in settled fashion, demonstrating that they deserved to keep their lands. What the modern author projects here is two things, one that the Creeks were simple savages living in huts, which they were not, as their sophisticated log cabins, with nicely engineered windows and doors, demonstrate on page 85. However, with “hut” -based modern sympathy for simple savages, rather than best log cabin engineers in history, established with that single misleading word, the author then hints very strongly that “wild” Indians, living free by hunting and gathering and fishing and managing the world’s greatest forest, would have no such right to maintain their lands through treaties with the U.S., at once establishing primitive-based racial guilt on one hand, and on the other hand justifying the destruction of the Great lakes and Great Plains tribes just over the horizon.

Piqued, the now skeptical mind urges the slavish fingers of the faltering American reader on to page 89 and finds another Creek man, a simple warrior named Me-Wa-Wa, who appears to be a northern European man, wearing European textile attire, accented with native ornaments.

Seven chances to explore and perhaps even explain who these mysterious European Indians were are thence bypassed in this missionary work of mind control.

This reader has yet to research the Creek Indians, but when he does, it is obvious that he will uncover a confederation [which was an Indian and not a European concept, see Benjamin Franklin on the Iroquois Confederation as a model for the American Union] of mixed-race bands, with racial remnants of the Mississippian Civilization destroyed by Soto’s Entrada in the 1540s, runaway plantation slaves and freedmen of various races, displaced remnants of Eastern tribes, as well as European Land Pirates like William McIntosh, who managed to gain a leadership position among these refugee peoples and sell them out.

Of course, to the Indians, race did not matter, only culture and society and honor. So why must modern historians and writers treat Indian tribes as genetic societies when they were in fact cultural societies?

The only logical conclusion to that question, given the clear and apparent and prodigious volume of the evidence to the contrary, is that the only purpose is to foster racial guilt among Americans of European Descent. What purpose such an agenda serves I leave to the reader to determine.

Dear Mister President is the supreme work of the Civilized mind, a precisely cultivated set of lies which justifies the myriad necessary lies that the Postmodern Collective must imbibe and even worship in order to keep marching up the meat-chute of souls that is the Politically Correct Transhumanist future that the architects of the Babel of Modernity are erecting o the corpse of our human identity.

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