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I would like to tie this bolshevik worm to a chair and tell her the story of my family, who arrived as migrants after world war two, the men sent off as labourers regardless of their trade or professions, the women and children left behind in migrant camps in the middle of no-where in army camps until their husbands and fathers could find them a place to live in some small country town - there was no accommodation provided for dependants and no welfare.
In the town where we ended up (my mother worked as a live-in cook on a farming property) while my stepfather lived in a construction camp, the men built huts in a wooded region near the town tip without plumbing or electricity.
And no one spoke the language when we arrived, we came from all over europe, couldn’t even talk to each other, and I recall clearing thistles and picking tomatoes on my hands and knees after school, to earn a few shillings.
Did we riot? Did we steal? Did we burn down the shops in town? Did we blame anyone?
Of course we didn’t. We were, man woman and child, without exception, grateful for the basic shelter we had, the plentiful food, the FREEDOM!

We weren’t marxists, and that’s got to be the difference.

Between the age of 5 and 11, my great grandfather would rise early, milk the cows, walk 5 miles to the lead mine, put in a 10 or 12 hour day, walk home, milk the cows and call it a day. That work in the lead mine was compensated at the rate of less than 1 US dollar in today's currency. At age 11, he sprouted up and was too big to get into the mine. He was assigned sheep herding duties. The rest of the family were butchers, tailors and cobblers. Both of his parents died from tuberculosis. His father at age 1 and mother at age 9. He escaped that life in Wales and worked in Liverpool until he was old enough to sign on as ship's company to come to the United States. He arrived in 1863 and promptly joined the US Army. When the Civil War ended, he returned to Pittsburgh, PA and married his fiancee from Aberystwyth. They raised 19 children. Engineers. Farmers. Most earned 4 year degrees. Some went further. None of them had success handed to them. They worked for it. Success is not a gift. It is the reward for work well done.

Given the current demographic and political trends, we will all have stories like yours someday and sooner rather then later, I imagine. On the positive side suffering has a tendency to breed character, or used to, to those in the American Experience. We can hope that this situation is cyclical as a result.

I just wonder how much of our living standard has to erode and how great the elites cupidity grows before we, as a people, take action.