Memoir Of A White Slave - Years In A Berber Tent Made Her The Perfect American Wife

Mary Putnam was raised in privilege, descendant of the earliest settlers of the New World, builders of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, devout Puritans who went on to found the New Haven plantations and important religious settlements in New Jersey.

Isaiah Putnam had been a member of the Davenport expedition, organized in response to what had become according to him 'a flaccid, errant and false expression of Protestant faith'.

One of Yale's colleges is named 'Davenport' after the New England cleric who in addition to settling the lands along Long Island Sound, constructing an important harbor, and making profitable and equally beneficial compacts with the Wampanoags, founded one of the British colony's first institutions of higher learning.

 

Isaiah Putnam was instrumental in all of these initiatives, and passed on this historic legacy to his many children and grandchildren.  Mary Putnam was the last in this storied American line, and proud of it.  She was devotedly patriotic to her heritage, America, and the white European race to which the new republic owed a significant debt. 

Mary was educated well - Miss Porter's and Smith College - and was about to marry a descendant of another important New England family, the Cabots, when she decided that she needed 'space to roam' and settled on a trip through North Africa. 

She had always been fascinated by the nomadic Berber tribes of the region - the essence and epitome of medieval chivalry, a stolid warrior mentality, and a survivalist instinct which enabled them to live for generations far from civilization. 

Warned of Berber/Moorish barbarity - the French were never multiculturally oriented and had always divided the world into civilized and uncivilized, and the Berbers were definitely in the crudest, most elemental category - she was told to stay close to home, but she disregarded this advice, and set off into the Mauritanian desert with little more than an adventurous spirit, considerable naïveté, and a virtuous sense of something better than the confining, limited life she was leading. 

She travelled truck routes at first, no more than appearing and disappearing tracks in the Saharan sands, accompanying half-breeds hauling canned fish, detergent, and beer to remote village shops on the route to Algeria.  She had no plan, no program, no itinerary, so intent was she to let life be and let the desert unfold. 

It was at one of the truck route's most isolated stops that she met a group of Berber nomads whose resources had run low and who, despite their suspicion of foreign influence, had been forced to stop and barter for grain. 

The leader of the troupe, Aderfi Amirzagh was what Mary had always imagined as a Berber prince - tall, elegant, with a marvelously beautiful Semitic face, Islamic beard, and dressed in flowing white robes. 'Come with us', he said, beckoning to the young white woman.  'We will show you the desert'. 

How could this chivalric, proud, beautiful man pose any threat, any danger? And without a second thought, she agreed and rode off with Aderfi and his nomadic brothers.

It wasn't long, of course, until she was invited into Aderfi's tent for tea and conversation, both of which led to proposals and sexual intimacy.

Mary did not refuse or reject these overtures.  This would be her moment in the Arabian Nights, chosen from a harem of dark-eyed beauties to be the consort of the prince. 

She was not disappointed.  Anointed with fragrant oils and in the demi-darkness of wicked lamps, she was taken by her prince in a way she had never been taken before.  It was remarkable, unexpected, a delight she had never expected but always hoped for. 

The caravan went on through the desert along the old trade routes from the Malian salt mines to the Phoenician coast, a long, slow journey by night and early morning and evening, meals of ground millet, camel fat, and roasted goat. 

There was a traditional brotherly camaraderie among those in the troupe, an extension of the generosity and sharing respected in the larger Berber community; and it wasn't long before she had lovers other than her prince who visited her in her tent at night. She submitted willingly, not because of any interest, but out of a sense of belonging.  In Berber society women were owned by men, obliged to do their bidding, cook meals, bear and care for children and be otherwise unseen, and she felt to be one of them. 

As antithetical as this was to the liberal, Christian, European traditions in which she had been brought up, she had incorporated so much of the progressive philosophy that stressed cultural relativity and value that she accepted her new sexual role as valid and unchallenged. 

Looked at from afar, far more independently and dispassionately and through an objective lens, Mary had become a white slave, tethered and bound, a commodity to be shared, traded, and bought and sold. 

Aderfi's troupe encountered another from the oasis of Ouazatte, the affiliated  tribe of al-Aksam and negotiated a trade - the white woman for five camels, a goat, and privileged access to the well at Aman. 

Mary had never expected such a journey, such an immersion in a foreign culture, let alone a slave-owning, misogynistic one such as that of her guardians; but in her innocence and naivete she was complaisant and willing. 

After many such barters, trades, and sales, her troupe ran into the French Foreign Legion, whose lieutenant freed her from captivity, lined up the Tuareg insurgents who had been her captors, and summarily executed them, leaving their corpses to dry and be picked over by carrion birds. 

Returned to America, she felt at a loss.  How could she possibly return to a life in the suburbs, married to and cared for by an accountant, a junior partner, or an investor?  She looked at the subdivision of Fairlawn, New Jersey where Bryce Caitlin, Executive Vice President of Farnworth, Prentice, & Billings intended to move after they were married and was dumbfounded at the nightmarish awfulness of the place. 

Yet she agreed to marry, such was her now well-understood lot in life.  The Berbers had taught her obedience, dutiful obligation, and acceptance; and the lesson remained.  It mattered not whom she married, as long as she was taken care of -  a woman's life, thanks to her weakness, her fertility and her unique reproductive ability, was unidimensional.  All the rest - law partner, anesthesiologist, professor, vice-president - was irrelevant, a confabulated fiction, a progressive fantasy. 

There was only one part of the bargain that could not be abrogated - being taken by a male positivist, a man confident of his authority, command, and sexual potency.  Whether a Tuareg, Bedouin, Arab desert trader, or Wall Street investor, the contract was the same. 

Bryce Caitlin failed on all accounts.  He was the epitome of The New Age man, a considerate, demurring, kind and considerate soul, and so it was that Mary, inheritor of white privilege, Anglo-Saxon honor, and Christian womanhood went back to the desert. 

Bryce and his like were not men but imitations, caricatures, cartoon images.  Male complaisance, feminism, latter day autonomy and feminist chutzpah were chimeras, faux news, irrelevancies. 

Nothing was heard from Mary Putnam after she disappeared into the Sahara, although rumors flew.

No one ever grasped the real reason for her disappearance into desert obscurity.  Few men or women would ever understand how a well-brought up woman of prominence would ever choose a lif among savages, but Mary understood and would never go back.

Donald Trump's Magical Mystery Tour - Hoopla And Confetti, Tears And Flapdoodle

The American Left has never understood Donald Trump and probably never will. From the moment he arrived on the political stage until now, they have been befuddled, gobsmacked, dismayed, and horrified. How could this vaudevillian, this Borscht Belt tummler, this imposter, this fool, this grandmaster of deceit ever have been elected?

 

Twice, they say, they had nominated a true savior - women of weight and substance, import, intelligence and good will - and twice they had been roundly defeated by this circus clown, a man with no depth, a bourgeois nappy, a...

There could be no words to describe the feeling of bilious, vile hatred for the man.  Not only were the hopes of America sent packing, but the interim years of the Biden Administration - four years of fundamental, revolutionary changes for the good - had had no impact.  The idiot was returned to office and was now ruling with a vengeance. 

After so many years of lawfare, screeching howls of misogyny, racism, homophobia and innate bigotry - none of which stuck and only served to add coal to the fire of an already vindictive president - the man was not only still in office but running roughshod over them. 

Wails of misery, torment, and agony were heard up and down Pennsylvania Avenue as liberals forced themselves to walk past the White House, to watch the parade of beautiful blonde young things coming and going, not a black face among them; to hear the blaring horns of triumph playing in the Rose Garden, to see the silhouettes of this unholy cabal of white supremacists strutting from East Wing to West Wing. 

 

'What hath God wrought?', said Bob Muzelle, reverting to his Biblical training never forgotten after years of secularism.  He caught himself too late.  His oath had been uttered and heard by his confreres. However, the man in the Oval Office was indeed an apostasy, a visitation, an unholiness, something deserving of righteous Old Testament wrath. 

When pressed for reasons for this bilious hatred, Bob could only sputter. 'He...this man...this...', he managed without finishing his thought.  It was not only that the question itself was maddening, suggesting there still needed to be justification for liberal criticism, but that the animus within had grown to such proportions that it was unutterable. 

The President had secured the borders, cleared the decks of useless, wasteful government bureaucrats, clotured all debate on the insanity of gender choice, bombed the Iranian nuclear facility to smithereens, rid the Caribbean of a Communist dictator, assisted Israel in its existential time of need, and freed private enterprise from imprisoning taxation, laws, and regulations.   America was regaining status in the world, leading a conservative revolution in Europe, and expressing Machiavellian will and resolve. 

And yet and still, the Left could only shout, 'Racist!' louder and louder with more passion and insistence as though the turning up the volume and shaking like trees in a storm could make a difference.  The Left had nothing in the armory.  Its gunracks, shelves, repositories, hangars, and missile silos were empty.  Gone were the halcyon progressive days of Lafollette, Brandeis, and Gompers, men of principle and intellectual fiber. All that was left of the movement were hollow bellows. 

Meanwhile conservatives were jumping with joy. Finally and at long last, their voices were being heard and finally a real American president, a man like them, was in office.  Trump was indeed middle-brow, a bourgeois man of yachts, mansions, glitz, glamour, and arm candy. The new White House ballroom, the revamped Kennedy Center, the parties, the formal events, the whole atmosphere was all what Americans wanted, what they liked, and what they aspired to. 

 

Yes, his policies mattered and the dismantling of the presumptuous social agenda of the Left was long overdue, but it was his persona which mattered most.  He was a man after their own hearts. 

'But how could they?', asked Bob, still immured within his own progressive redoubt.  So convinced was he of the absolute righteousness of the supremacy of the black man, the essentiality of the gender spectrum, the profound philosophical wisdom of socialism, and the dangers of the warming climate, that anything else was errant, foolhardy, absurd nonsense. 

Conservatives couldn't wait for the latest off-the-cuff remarks from the President, his Borscht Belt, Grossinger's one-liners, his outrageous impressions, his zero tolerance for stupidity, his braggadocio, hilarity, and effusiveness. 

They also loved his machismo - no idle threats, no posturing, no vain saber-rattling.  He just went in and bombed the shit out of Iran's nuclear bunkers, sent a commando unit to capture and remove Maduro and sent warships to the four corners of the globe.  

They admired their man's 'So, sue me' response to the threats of his opponents.  He had earned his chops on the mean real estate streets of New York and nothing intimidated him.  He was willing to go for the jugular at the slightest intimation, play the hardest hardball imaginable, and never lose a wink of sleep because of it. 

 

Donald Trump should be a mystery to no one, and his magical mystery tour - a roundhouse assault on bad government, intellectual chicanery, and liberal idiocy complete with bassoons, banners, festoons, and marching bands - should be no surprise. The fact that America has never had a president like this is no excuse for ignorance.

'What next?', said Bob. 'What possibly could come next?', but that agonizing thought was the halcyon cry of Trump supporters who couldn't wait to see what new, marvelously ingenious initiative would come out of the White House. 

Of course for Bob and his colleagues, it really didn't matter what came next, for they were already instinctively prepared to oppose it, to damn it, and to dismiss it. The solidarity of absolute belief is a thing of wonder.  No reason, no logic, no reflection, no historical context, no philosophical thought can penetrate the perimeter.  Everything is settled science for the progressive.  It is an a priori world of first principles.

For the conservative, life is as it comes. A priori has no meaning or relevance whatsoever.  Life is a perennial wheel of fortune whose only axis is human nature - and that hasn't changed since man came down from the trees.  In the conservative zeitgeist there are no surprises, only delight in seeing what life has next in store. 

'Oh, my God', Bob moaned, again belying his secularism, but the oath was out of his mouth before he knew it.  Things couldn't possibly get any worse, but they did. Every day was a new assault on universal values, goodness, and right behavior. 

Ironically at that very moment a parade crossed in front of his perch in Lafayette Square in front of the White House - phalanx after phalanx of blonde, blue-eyed young women, twirling batons, marching proudly to drums and cymbals, heads held high, breasts thrust forward, all smiling. The rear guard carried American flags, oversized pictures of Trump and placards saying, 'MORE TO COME!'

It was the magical mystery tour parading right before his eyes. The gall of the man! The very idea...but again Bob's voice trailed off in the March wind.  He didn't get it and never would. 

The Queen Of The Jalisco Cartel - How An Ambitious Dancer Made Her Way On The Stage And In Bed

Maria Luisa Fox was a dancer from Guadalajara - a line dancer and then a runway queen, and finally the lead dancer of the Rockettes at Rockefeller Center in New York.  She was a prima donna, a woman who knew her own talents, intelligence, and allure, and thought the world was open to her. 

Of course, New York is not Guadalajara, a town of serapes, tacos, and Montezuma's revenge, controlled now by the cartels who have the government, the Federales and local police in their pocket.  Yet it is still a nice place, more American now than Mexican, what with so many retirees from El Norte settled there; but a place to come back to, to relax on the front porch, listen to rancheros, and watch Mama make enchiladas. 

New York is a jungle, especially for an ambitious woman like Maria Luisa - a comer, a desirable commodity for sale like everything and everyone is in New York - and no matter how she tried, the right doors to Broadway remained closed.  No matter to how many producers and directors to whom she sent her portfolio, she got no callbacks. 

Maria Luisa's family was non-political, more of a que sera sera, cultura de la hamaca family.  The cartels meant business and were everywhere.  Not exactly like Stasi and Sevak, the notorious Secret Police of East Germany and Iran, but an endemic presence. 

Maria Luisa had always been a favorite of Don Miguel Miranda, a high ranking member of the Jalisco cartel but a gentleman, courteous and accommodating in his interest of the young dancer. 'Anything you want, Maria Luisa, you know you can count on me'. 

His favors were generous but modest - flowers, jewelry, an Easter bonnet, dinner at the Marriott for her entire family - but she knew that he was serious in his offers.  What would she have to give in return? Better not to think about payment due, although there was not a drop of intimidation or veiled warning in his promises. 

And so it was that she accepted his offer to travel with him to Acapulco for the weekend.  Separate rooms, of course, but all expenses paid; and if she were so inclined, they might become more intimate. 

The weekend was an idyll, the best accommodations, food, and drink.  She was treated like a princess, and she had to admit that she was moved by his generosity and attention.  

It was shortly after that trip to Acapulco that she returned to Guadalajara and asked to meet him in private.  She was finding it difficult to get the break on Broadway she knew she deserved, and perhaps he had friends in New York who might be of help. 

'Of course, mi amor', he said, and within a few weeks she was informed by the administrative assistant of owner of the Belasco Theatre that he would be pleased to make her acquaintance.  Saul Feinberg, the producer of a musical now in pre-production would also be there. 

Maria Luisa never asked Miguel what he had done to arrange this meeting, and knew that it was better to keep silent and be grateful.  Whatever offer he had made was the right one, and she got the part which she wanted and was most suited for.  

Sleeping one's way to the top is nothing new either on Broadway or in Hollywood.  Any ambitious starlet or theatrical rising star understands the sexual dimensions of success; and in her case Maria Luisa not only got the part but was treated as a queen when she returned to Mexico. For her there was no question about the arrangement, and she repaid Miguel with sincere affection. 

She became well-known in Mexican cartel circles - not quite a gun moll, but the consort of one of the most important figures in the drug underground. The couple was an event, seen at the best watering holes in the capital, on the beaches of Baja and Cancun, and everywhere where it paid to be seen. 

The life was seductive, one of pure pleasure, respect, and admiration; and she found herself spending more time in Mexico than New York.  After the run of the Broadway show in which she had an important role, she deferred other offers, and wondered whether life with Don Miguel was ultimately what she wanted - glamour, fame, wealth, and pleasure without the work. 

There is no doubt that life on Southern plantations in the antebellum South was elegant, grand, and beautiful, very Cavalier and sophisticated. The two worlds - slavery and the cultured world of mansions, lawns, live oaks, and formal balls - could indeed co-exist and while there were grounds to criticize the former, there were still good reasons to champion the other. 

The same was true of life within the Jalisco cartel.  Yes it was a gangland menace, a drug-running threat to governance and civil order; but it was also the home of some of the most swell-to-do men and women in Mexico.  It might not exactly be high European-style society, but it was certainly bourgeoise at its most opulent - a bit overdone and Baroque in places, but all in all as glamorous as anything anywhere. 

'Dance for me', Don Miguel said to her one evening on the lawn of his palatial home overlooking the ocean, and dance she did with plies, twirls, staccato folk steps, and graceful swanlike bows.  Don Miguel was entranced.  How lucky he was to have found her. 

The day she met the President of the Republic in the palace's private chambers was a day to remember. Maria Luisa knew that the cartels had influence at the highest levels, but she never knew how much.  She and Miguel were treated like royalty, honored foreign dignitaries, respected guests.  Little of any import transpired, but the President's warm welcome alone showed the level of respect accorded to Don Miguel. 

She had become so used to the cartel life that she paid little attention to the news of internecine violence, collaboration with MS-13, Mara Salvatrucha, and the vendetta killings in three states. 'It's just business', said Mafia dons after waves of vengeful killings, and so it was with the cartels. Everyone has to make a living, and the demand for drugs in El Norte justified the supply and the necessary means to assure it. 

The Broadway producers who were her sponsors had of course learned of her other life and were hesitant to place her in another show.  If the press got onto this trail, God only knows where it would lead.  So again Don Miguel asked for and arranged another visit to Broadway, Maria Luisa was chosen for an important part yet again, and doubts were quelled. 

It all fell apart, however, when El Mencho the drug kingpin of all Mexico was killed by a combined force of federales and US agents.  Mexico was in flames and the cartels were at each other's throats after blood.  One of Miguel's closest associates was murdered in front of one of Mexico City's most exclusive clubs, and he told Maria Luisa that he would have to disappear for a while. 

After a number of weeks went by, rumor had it that he too had been murdered, and that the idyll was over. She was indicted by a New York federal court, deported back to Mexico, and returned to Guadalajara to live with her mother. 

She was smart enough to know that living such life would have its pitfalls, its up and downs, and perhaps even its minor disasters; but for a woman like her - ambitious not only in terms of career and social position, but for living itself - it was all worth it. 

Cartels are not all that bad, all things considered.