Furthest Right

Brown Noise

Living in an urban environment freshly inundated by the latest ethnic enclave of immigrants (often exported from other states) is most easily described as a barrage of noise. Giving speakers to the diversity was a great mistake.

We are all familiar with the horror of noise in modernity: constant cars and internal combustion engines, wailing sirens, lawn mowers roaring, air conditioners adding their compressed noise, blaring televisions, and periodic gunfire in the streets.

Nothing quite compares to manning a coffee shop bright and early when the infamous slap of cowbells and mariachi brass sounds from beyond the door drowns out a customer who is trying to order his breakfast over the deafening drive of the speaker jammed in his back pocket which he refuses to turn off.

Nor is there anything like waking up to a new alarm clock on your off-day in the streets of Cuba as the old hombre downstairs plays his beats from a banged up boom box as the Cuban drums and maracas rattle down the avenue.

An even better experience is riding the train away from the city’s chaos only to enjoy a complementary ambience of that old familiar Hispanic jingle on the tinny speaker of a workman’s pay-per-call flip phone.

And perhaps your picnic in the park would be nicer without the public illegal barbecues and Puerto Ricans camped out with their stereos and scantily dressed women, or if it was not interrupted by the ground-shaking and window-rattling of that Dominican, Puerto Rican, and Mexican music which can only come from a car fitted with a stadium sized speaker and its windows purposely rolled down.

Or maybe just maybe your day at the beach would be better without the umbrella next to you blasting reggaeton, the ironic twist being that every beach goer that day is some kind of Hispanic and of course each has their own portable speaker within five feet of the next, so that the whole beach sounds more like static than waves.

And when there is no stereo, phone, or speaker to play, nothing beats the constant chatter of Hispanic party goers who always have their fiestas late into the night and whose Spanish language is perfectly suited to be the loudest, with its open vowels and rolled r’s, as if one wants to speak the language well one must fully enunciate every syllable.

There is nothing quite like the indignant pride of Hispanics who insist that the anthem of their culture play 24/7 in public. Because, after all, it is only the White and north Asian cultures which value silence whatsoever, or which have a mental concept of public space worth protecting, or to whom nature is something worth contemplating alone in the beauty of its original silence.

Deracinated people in a foreign land have two choices. They can be conquered, or attempt to conquer, even if that involves broadcasting signals of their ethnicity constantly, deliberately antagonizing others as part of the covert mundane racial warfare that is part and parcel of diversity.

Yes, this is Brown Noise Part 2: the eternal fiesta and incessant maraca-like chatter which is ever expanding to a neighborhood near you.

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