To be white in America is to inherit a name shaped by migration, faith, and forgotten histories. It is a lineage carried across oceans, passed through lullabies, and rooted in both cathedrals and cornfields.

This identity lingers in quiet rural churches, where the voices of ancestors seem to echo in the trees.

For many, “white” becomes a stand-in when older names fade — when “American” feels like a hollow label on a billboard. It is not about shame or dominance. It is about memory, continuity, and being quietly aware of where you come from.

Multiculturalism, as it manifests now, behaves like a solvent. It dissolves the distinct, merges the sacred into sameness, smiles as it rubs out the texture of rooted lives. Within this flood, those who carry European memory find themselves drifting, searching for a foothold. The word “White” is that foothold. It holds meaning through resistance, through memory, through the fierce dignity of cultural continuity. Identity, in this sense, becomes a form of love — love for origins, love for inherited stories, love for those yet to come.

Supremacism speaks in........

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