Grand Duchess’ last Twitter profile pic.
1,390 words
Earlier this week, I woke to devastating news: A longtime friend of mine, Robin, whom I had met while I was an undergrad — at the same time that I first began writing things that would eventually find their way to Counter-Currents — had passed away. My old friend’s son contacted me by phone and informed me that she had left us a few days before, and that he had wanted to let me know since she’d mentioned our friendship to him previously.
He also told me that I had been one of her best friends online — we never met in person — and thanked me for being one. He said that my mentioning of her stories in my “Confessions of a Mall Rat” article and thanking her in its notes was very special to her, and that having someone like me who shared her views was a great comfort to her over the years. He then once again thanked me for my friendship with her.
Later, in the evening, I learned that there would be a memorial service the following afternoon. I booked the next flight to where it was going to be held, some 600 miles away, taking off some eight hours after I found out about it. Arriving having had no sleep and being quite distraught, I took an Uber from the airport to a mall Robin had visited from time to time, one we had spoken about in our many conversations, when we had talked of malls as a microcosm for the larger society and often a symbol of decay. Without dwelling on its details, it was a fabulous mall, with more security than I have ever seen anywhere in my life. It was the quintessential American experience: beautiful boutiques enveloped by armed guards to ensure that both shoppers and stores are not looted by the city’s omnipresent diversity.
I found a hotel not far from the funeral home, checked in, showered, changed, and then proceeded to where I would say my last goodbye to a dear friend. It was a picturesque building in a more rural suburb, surrounded by lush greenery. I paused before walking in. The moment felt surreal. Greeted by the funeral directors, I was ushered in to Robin’s service. A lovely photo of her was on display on a table outside the room, along with her memorial program. Inside I found dozens of photos, beautiful flower arrangements, and many books she had loved.
From the photos I quickly discerned which man in the room was her son, the one who had given me the somber news the previous day. As I approached, we both knew who the other was. I tried to tell him how much his mother had meant to our community as a whole and to me personally, but I struggled to get the words out without choking up. Her son thanked me for coming and expressed that it told volumes about our friendship over the years that I would “drop everything and fly out with almost no notice.” We hugged and I told him that his mother had been loved by many thousands of people in our cultural and political milieu. He did not know much about that side of his mother from what I could tell, but wasn’t repelled by it, either. After all, he had invited me, despite knowing of my writings and what they had meant to Robin.
I stayed for a while, looking at each photo and book with care. I found it hard to believe that one of the closest friends I’ve met throughout my time writing, as well as in my life, was gone. She had always been one of my biggest supporters; possibly one of the few people who has read every word I have published.
As I prepared to leave, I thanked her son again for letting me know of her passing and inviting me to the service. He thanked me for coming and again mentioned how important it was to his mother that she had had somebody to relate to and talk with, and that it had been “a great comfort to her over the years” having me as a friend.
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Robin did not get to be very old; she was only 55, taken far too young. She truly meant the world to me, and it was evident from the memorial service that she had lived life in a way in which she was always true to herself and her views. I fear she is among a dying breed.
Time rolls on in the most brutal ways. Another friend of mine is gone — another sterling member of our beloved people. Our friendship was resolute, and I only wish I had known her even more in life. I am beyond thankful that I could say goodbye one last time to my dear friend.
Years ago, I wrote of a horrific crime in my small town that eventually led me down a road that turned me into a grim man with a hardened heart — hard enough to confront any challenge to my views, which are often viewed as quite harsh. The answer to “why I write” back then was that there are people who have no voice but who desperately need somebody to give them one. There are people who will not have their stories told otherwise, and there are those who need to know there are others out there who think and feel as they do. My hope then was that through writing, I might be able to change things.
Despondent and inconsolable, I’ve found a new meaning and more profound answer to the question of “why I write.” I set out hoping I might change the world into something better, reflecting the desires of my people. Some years later, as a far grimmer man, I question if changing the world is possible. The best we can do might be to endure and struggle in the ruins. And if that’s the case, there is still a reason to write.
As I grew grimmer and more distant, I became disillusioned in my work, often flirting with a dangerous nihilism and despair about everything. Seeing the messages from Robin’s son changed all of that, however. Over the years, what I’ve written meant more to Robin — really to anybody — than I ever thought possible. She gave me a new outlook and comfort — a new outlook that had been missing for years.
And a comfort I have been trying to find. I have reread many of our old conversations. She always told me that the stories I was writing mattered, and she was often moved to tears seeing them put in a way that resonated so deeply with her.
These issues are not merely academic, theoretical, or philosophical. They are intimately real and directly attached to people in my life who I care about and love. I might be able to make these people a bit happier and provide a bit of comfort, even if only for fleeting moments, by letting them know that there is somebody else out there who cares.
Robin once said to me, “You know, sometimes it may seem like we’re small in numbers . . . that we’re on an island alone. Perhaps this is a sign . . . that we’re not alone. That there are many more people who ache the way we ache and who grieve for the same things we grieve for.”
One of the sweetest and most effortlessly elegant people I’ve ever known, Robin was always somebody I spoke to about ideas, and she was a source of endless encouragement to me over our time as friends. I learned much from her in life and now in death. I am truly heartbroken, and I left the city with a sense of sorrow and emptiness. As always, I will force a smile and continue on, as Robin would most certainly have wanted. In the end, it is these fleeting moments that define our entire lives.
Goodbye, my dear friend. You are gone and missed terribly, but you will never be forgotten.[1]
* * *
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Note
[1] Robin was a fixture in our community for many years. She had one of the largest Twitter followings of anybody in our milieu that I knew — over 50,000. Most knew her as “Grand Duchess.” Rest in peace.
16 comments
My deepest condolences Richard. God bless Robin and her family.
Do you have a link to the horrific crime in your small town?
To answer your question, I believe this is the article and crime he was talking about.
https://counter-currents.com/2018/12/why-i-write-17/
Powerful stuff. Thank you for sharing. I’m certain most of us here have similar stories to relate.
I found out about this tragic event via twitter. A very beautiful article written for a sad occasion. My sincere condolences, Mr. Houck.
You’ve written a beautiful tribute to Robin and friendship itself, Rich. Thank you.
My condolences for your loss, which is a loss for our community.
May we all attempt to live our life in such a way that friends and acquaintances will write such words about us when we pass. I’ve lost several former friends over politics, and have few remaining, It’s the curse of ‘standing for your beliefs’. I hope that through Counter Currents, we can all support each other a little better. And I’ll get a little busier trying to make that happen, thanks to this post.
I am deeply sorry for your loss and the loss endured by her family.
We’ve lost too many people from our sphere this past year.
Outstanding piece, Rich. You deeply honor her memory. Robin couldn’t ask for a better tribute and friend.
RIP Robin.
What an absolutely lovely eulogy fren
I used to read Robin’s tweets because they resonated with me. We mourn a woman who devoted herself to igniting in her people the necessity of existential passion. She is now on the Other Side, returned to the Eternal Light.
I am also very fortunate to know Richard via online, although not met yet in person. His articles touch me deeply, and I find they whisper in my Being the values and traditions which my family instilled in me. He makes me remember what is most dear to me by taking my hand and walking me back in time so I remember my loved ones who have gone before me.
The girl in that photo is seriously beautiful
I feel your pain. I too have lost a lifelong friend in the past month. We had also never met in person, but we were each intimately familiar with the other. We initially met by random chance as part of a larger group. She was a small, mousy, vivacious and passionate Aussie girl, I myself a tall, cynical, melancholic Euro, and we both shared a similar wit in our banter. We often found ourselves in agreement over a wide range of subjects, and we soon grew closer, leaving the rest of that bitter and dysfunctional clan we inhabited behind.
Our friendship was initially fully bereft of political talk, myself steering clear of it. Because I knew what she was, as she was open about it. She was a self-described dyke and a man-hater, one with a very pronounced darker side. She had experienced horrific sexual abuse as a small child at the hands of her father and as such she seemed doomed from the start. This context made her position entirely understandable to me, a misandry stemming from trauma no stranger than a prisoner’s hatred for his captor’s whip. This trauma crept through her being like cancerous lymph nodes. The vivacious personality I had come to know came with a pronounced downside of gut-wrenching lows, a cycle she was stuck in and never got free of, and had killed her career as an aspiring lawyer. Eventually I remained as one of her only friends, as others simply did not have the mettle or patience to deal with it.
Eventually, during the 2015 US election debates, the topic of race and politics did come up, and she was very wise to it all, wiser than I was at the time. She declared herself a proud TERF and was intimately familiar with the gender identity movement, and called it an “industry” before I’d even heard of Scott Howard’s The Transgender Industrial Complex. She was a woman who appreciated women, in their truest form, and saw the trannies as a bunch of dishonest and mentally ill interlopers, men encroaching on the female space, transgenderism itself a kind of perverse fetishistic appropriation of femininity by men. She was not wrong. Her comments on the Jewish nature of the transgender lobby and her constant, hilariously acerbic mockery of Aussie blacks or “abbos” as they’re known, were other fun topics we often engaged in. Despite her status as a practicing lesbian, her misandry and her obvious bipolar personality disorder, I found this atypical woman to be precisely in my lane, as a pro-white, pro-nation, anti-Jewish, anti-multiracial and anti-trans character, whose razor sharp wit, fun style of prose and impish sense of humor would have made for an interesting writer on the dissident side.
Despite all the fun and intimate moments we’d had, I watched her slowly deteriorate over the years, as she aged into her thirties. She was devoted to me and I to her, but the specter of mental illness became all-pervasive, no matter the amount of treatments she’d undergone. After a month-long absence, the longest we had not spoken in our 15 years as friends, she sent me a lengthy farewell message, thanking me profusely for the time I spent with her and the friendship that we’d built, declaring me the only man she’d ever loved. Then, she embarked on her thirteenth and final suicide attempt. My fears were confirmed by a former partner of hers.
Part of me wasn’t even upset. Part of me was just glad that this tortured, broken, and trapped person had finally achieved some measure of peace. I come back to our old conversations on Skype and Discord for a laugh and a tear from time to time, but they’re no replacement for the friend that I’ve lost.
RIP Angie, till we meet again.
My deepest and sincerest condolences, Mr. Houck. Thank you for this moving eulogy. Memory eternal.
Is it common today for people to develop deep friendships with people they’ve never met in person? I’ve never experienced anything like it. Although I suppose it might not be too different from several friendships I have that, although originating in the physical world (college, conferences, vacations, etc), have mainly been sustained via phone chats and email, as these friends live distant from me.
Sorry for your loss, Mr. Houck.
What is needed is a FB for rightists, an umbrella organization which can facilitate likeminded people getting acquainted in the physical world. A decade and a half ago I tried to get something like that underway, but financing fell through. I still think, though, that the potential is immense. There are a lot of us out there (I discovered one of us, among others in different times and places, in my uber-“Blue” city when we both had huge smiles on our faces in a supermarket produce section the night Trump won), but we need safe and unweird ways to meet and greet.
Thank you for a moving tribute to your dear friend. Rich, your work has already impacted many of us you may never know.
When the demands of life take us away from our community – for days, or sometimes weeks, even with rough headwinds, when we have a minute, where do most of us find ourselves? In this unique and amazing gift – our online community.
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