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Minneapolis’ Guilty Whites Think BLM Lawn Signs Will Save Them When the Mob Comes

by Katie Hopkins

They couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s a strange time to be staying in Downtown Minneapolis.

This apartment block on 5th and 7th is all but empty. There are long corridors of fresh paint and new-smelling carpets and a reception area with fancy furniture and free coffee all set to welcome people, except the people never came.

If I lacked purpose, I could go for days without seeing a soul, and even chance meetings near elevators or stairwells make people scurry away like frightened rats.

No one comes here anymore.

As I walked back from NoGo Minneapolis yesterday, a man rose from his little group of thieves to follow me as I passed, putting a scarf across his face as he approached to take whatever I had. He was different from other men in other cities who have done the same, and knew in a heartbeat my reactions mattered in this moment, if I was to walk away unharmed. This man had nothing to lose.

The streets are eerily empty too. Its like the day after some kind of apocalypse where shocked survivors venture out to find water, only to quickly scurry away, hugging the outline of buildings in the shadows with their faces down to the curb.

Minneapolis is lost.

Lost people want to believe in something, anything. They need to in order to endure another day.

Some think they can find it in the bottom of a bottle — their sadness never quenched. Many here put their faith in drugs; the stained pants and vomit splashes on the t-shirt of the man who passes me when I go to find food makes me less sure I want any after all.

These lost souls explain George Floyd too. Not just his death from fentanyl and drug abuse, but the cult-like worship of his name after he died. The half-dead lifted him up to give themselves something to believe in. Abandoned by all others, they raised up George Floyd and prayed to him instead. At least he was somehow one of them, failing right alongside them in this festering sewer of a place.

I walked to 38th and Chicago to spend time at the streets his disciples have turned into the “State of George Floyd.” Barricaded for two blocks in either direction, filled with the stuff of protest and vigil, these streets have become a kind of church to these people — albeit in the open air and carpeted with asphalt and stickiness. The pews are made from old sofas, peppered with holes from a thousand cigarettes, marooned in a place where gas used to pump and incomes were made.

George Floyd’s face is painted large across the altar, strewn with flowers and notes from strangers telling him how sad they are that he is gone. They never knew him, probably would not have cared much for him if they did. But they pray to the idea of him and these days in this hellish place, an idea is enough.

 

full sorry at https://www.frontpagemag.com/fpm/2020/09/minneapolis-guilty-whites-think-blm-lawn-signs-katie-hopkins/

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