The Hypocrisy of Helping “The Poor”

By Hunter Wallace

In The New York Times, travel writer Paul Theroux talks about his new book on the Deep South and the multitude of towns he found that had been devastated by globalization:

“EVERY so often, you hear grotesquely wealthy American chief executives announce in sanctimonious tones the intention to use their accumulated hundreds of millions, or billions, “to lift people out of poverty.” Sometimes they are referring to Africans, but sometimes they are referring to Americans. And here’s the funny thing about that: In most cases, they have made their fortunes by impoverishing whole American communities, having outsourced their manufacturing to China or India, Vietnam or Mexico …”

In National Review, cuckservative Kevin Williamson responds by saying that some towns just deserve to die:

“The town where my parents grew up and where my grandparents lived no longer exists. Phillips, Texas, is a ghost town. Before that it was a company town, a more or less wholly owned subsidiary of the Phillips Petroleum Company. Phillips had already lost a great deal of its population as highway improvements sent residents off to the relative urban sophistication of Borger, and there were fewer than 2,000 people living there in 1980 when an explosion at the refinery destroyed practically all of the town’s economic infrastructure, along with a fair number of houses. …”

The New York Times has a review of the “Deep South”:

“In “Deep South,” Theroux set out to do something different. This time, he would travel within his own country, through some of the poorest sections of the rural South — the Lowcountry of South Carolina, Alabama’s Black Belt, the Mississippi Delta and the Arkansas Ozarks. Instead of climbing aboard a train or pushing off in a kayak, he would drive, and rather than pick a destination, he would meander, visiting and revisiting the same “smaller places and huddled towns” through four seasons. A road trip in America is a “picnic,” he writes. “In the travel narrative of struggle, I was not the struggler. I was the bystander or the eavesdropper, recording other people’s pain or pleasure. I knew very little discomfort, never sensed I was in any danger. No ordeals, few dramas.”