There are thousands of discussions, essays, articles, songs, and movies about the trials of “growing up _____”, but one that I have yet to see explored is the trial of growing up white in majority black neighborhoods, and black-run institutions. This is a unique position to be in as plenty of societies are split into two racial groups with one dominant and the other subservient, but very few societies (outside of South Africa) have switched roles in the recent past without destroying or expelling the defeated.
I personally lived in this world for a long time, throughout almost my entire adolescence and well into my twenties. At first it was a requirement of living in a very bad school district, and later economic restriction coupled with drug addiction. Obviously all personal experience is anecdotal, but so are anthropological studies, and viewing this experience as such is one way I’ve chosen to salvage this otherwise wasted period of my life. Also, I am not seeking to prove any greater statistical or sociological trend with my experience, but rather I seek to record and share a traumatic story I’ve yet to see catalogued elsewhere, so that others who have experienced it, and wrestled with the difficult racial lessons it teaches, may find internal peace, a strong white identity, and a path to worthwhile resistance, unlike those taken by a few whites lost in the madness (more on that below).
I started to the high school that would initiate my racial awakening sometime in my sophomore year, after moving from a much better school district to a district within the standard metropolitan public school system. The city school district where I live is a nightmare for anyone not lucky enough to get into one of the magnet schools, the rest are essentially outpatient prisons where black students are kept long enough to keep the crime rate down during the day. Despite their half-hearted efforts, up to one third of the school was truant at any given time, and I was no exception hoping to escape the brutal surroundings and retreat to the white suburbs with my friends and old classmates. When I did have to put in my mandatory days I was one out of ten or so white students in a school of thousands.
I was shoved into the walls daily simply for trying to walk to class, if I was ever in the stairwell where teachers and security were absent I was ganged up on and often threatened with being thrown down the diagonal concrete gauntlet, I survived my first jumping having my face bloodied by fresh leather Timberland boots. Every moment became a panic stricken trial of getting from one place to the other without being seen, and eventually retreating to hidden refuges with the other white kids, or leaving campus together. I secretly studied boxing and went to the gym in an effort to defend myself, but they never attacked anyone alone, it was always in greater numbers, and no semblance of sportsmanship existed among them.
To make matters worse my father, who was a Jewish liberal, along with my then-absent mother, had worked tirelessly my whole life to ensure I absorbed their values and regarded race as an abstract that “didn’t really exist anyway” and my pleas to change the situation fell on deaf ears. The implanted wheels in my brain spun to weave explanations such as the ones picking on me were just assholes, or I somehow deserved it, but reality tore those to shreds as I knew every white kid at school (except the women, they’d been successfully ghettoized and taken as trophies who equally hated white males) was receiving the same punishment, even the ones who dressed and acted black. And the former made no sense either as there were no bullies in the traditional sense as seen on TV. Violence emerged from throngs in the hallways or small gatherings in corners like lightning strikes with no discernable origin or meaning, and receded with the same abruptness, soon fading into laughter and eerily calm behavior.
So what could it be? I asked myself tirelessly. A less brainwashed racial specimen would spend their days formulating a solution, or revenge, but a racially-guilt wracked half-jew son of a communist wondered about what he could have done better, I pondered if I deserved it for all of the past suffering of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. It didn’t take more than a few months for that decade’s worth of propaganda to fade, it’s amazing what a few kicks to the face can do to jog your genetic memory.
Eventually pure hatred filled my gut, I wasn’t reading statistics about black crime, or Mein Kampf, or buying Doc Martins, I was dreaming up scenarios of revenge, I was seeing their twisted sneers as the faces of primates, I was watching their behavior with revulsion, and hearing their laughter like the calls of beasts. I was filled with pure genetic dread and loathing. I was somewhere I was not meant to be because some hippies in the sixties thought they could override nature, that was the extent of my intellectual opinion on the matter, the rest was in my bones and in my burning adolescent blood every time I had to go to school. I kept these rough racial realizations hidden from the world of my past, my friends, my parents, but the other white kids at school all shared it in glances, looks of disgust at loud outbursts, and the occasional “niggers” spoken breathlessly between grit teeth, crowded around our table at lunch. It’s a miracle I made it out without something horrible happening before I finally dropped out after my Junior year.
For the latter years of my adolescence I tried to put those feelings behind me and return to the comfort of suburban rebellion with my friends, but certain wounds remained unclosed as I spent time in juvenile lock-up and black-run detention/rehab centers. I watched black authority figures give egregiously unfair treatment to their racial kin amongst my ranks. They turned blind eyes to my beatings, and seemed to take joy in the suffering of whites in their care. Every time I returned to my upper-middle class friends, I found them increasingly liberalized, to the point of being radical socialists and anarchists despite their affluent roots. They would go on tirades against the racist white world while I sat in knowing silence.
I did my best to smooth over the jagged edges left from my personal racial struggle in order to still fit in, and for the most part I was able to, with a few notable exceptions. I abhorred rap, and secretly hated myself when listening to it with them, and still more I hated their adoption of black dialects and behavior. This internal struggle lasted well into my twenties until several intensely violent conflicts while I was in active addiction, living in majority black neighborhoods, finally shook my subconscious racial awareness into my waking mind and recalled and amplified the only thing I had learned in high school: Race is Real, and it Matters.
I eventually got clean, and took the most important step toward white racial consciousness, I got away from majority, or even large minority, black areas. The next step was getting closer with a real life person who had long embraced white identity. For the first time in my life, I was able openly discuss my racial experiences, and better still, I was assured they were shared and real by a person I greatly respected. We exchanged information we dug up, freely developing new and exciting ideas about politics, the future, and our personal racial well-being. Having a real, living human, a friend or loved one to openly discuss these truths with does more than a million blogs, books, or websites could ever do.
Next, over the course of several years I found the voices of the “far-right” (before the Alt-Right had a name) that spoke to me and accrued a list of my own personal favorites as a library of information and inspiration. Just as important was building a collection of both overt and inherently white art, such as music, film, and literature from which I drew great pride in my heritage. From these voices, both past and present, I was given a much more coherent map of a possible future, and a definite course of action. I learned when to expend my energy, and when to save it. I was also given the courage to speak out, if only in fragments at first. I am also extremely lucky to be alive and learning just as the movement is growing, and though it may be too soon to tell, moving out into the open.
People like Dylann Roof lived in this world I grew up in, in a dark place cut off from all support and truth. He saw hard evidence of a collapsing multicultural society in front of him, and if his story was anything like mine, he became collateral damage of the fallout, suffering real physical and psychological harm. He found pieces of truth buried in the internet while everyone else around him ignored or actively suppressed it, but there was no one around to help him put these pieces together into a cohesive map of ideas, identity, and most importantly a path to action. Instead he reacted like so many others exposed to a truth the rest of the world denies, he lashed out hoping to tear open the fabric of the great lie and find some potent truth on the other side. He mistakenly sought an outright racial war, in the hopes of laying bare the hidden conflict he had uncovered, rallying the imaginary allies from the shadows he so desperately longed for. Regardless of his intentions, he found only indignation from the masses, (rightful) distancing from the allies he’d hoped for, and life in a majority black prison where he has already endured many beatings.
Without guidance Roof leaped to a conclusion NO white identitarian supports, but there are so few voices out there for the white youth due to suppression and censorship by the left, that Roof was left with only disconnected fragments to build his own twisted course of action. He was a product of the great lie and its army of censures, not the few truths he managed to unearth. So I offer up my experience in the hopes that other young whites caught up in this world Roof and I shared might find a friendly, understanding voice, and realize that white identity is about the opposite world of our enemies. It is a world of enlightenment, logic, beauty, and strength applied in the right directions, at the right moments, and hopefully, someday it can ultimately be about peace.