Surely this is considered racist, NO? Or is this just a statement of fact? Is this the truthful biography of someone who was able to extricate her head from her rectum? Is this just an honest recounting of the truth in the face of the make believe world those who paint that make believe world don’t live in?
I was conceived out of wedlock by two California liberals high on marijuana. They had both grown up during the Civil Rights movement, and were proud of their status as enlightened egalitarians. We lived in a 90 percent white town, but my upbringing was nothing but leftist indoctrination and derision of “racist” Republicans and Southerners.
When I was a teenager, the only black guy in school had a crush on me. I didn’t think in racial terms back then, but was uninterested all the same. When a friend told me he had bought me a piece of jewelry for Christmas, I told her he should take it back. I told my mother about the incident, but didn’t mention the boy’s race. Later on, she found out about that particular detail, and nearly fell over herself gushing about how proud of me she was for not having found that aspect of the situation worth mentioning. She had raised a true egalitarian daughter, and she could not have been more pleased.
My mother substance abuse issues that eventually led to my parent’s divorce. Afterwards, she swore off men forever and took to decorating her house with every piece of African “art” she could find. The walls of our living room were soon filled with ghoulish tribal masks, while her bedroom sported framed posters of dancing African women with oversized backsides. As a child, I bought her African wood carvings and statues for Christmas and Mother’s Day. Mind you, I never saw my mother so much as speak to a black person (there were hardly any in our town), so this aesthetic obsession was entirely abstract, gleaned from television, movies, and a learned sense of self-loathing for being white. Today, I believe that her deep-seated white guilt contributed to her addiction problems.
Until reaching middle age, I was exactly what I had been raised to be: a typical ethnomasochist. I hated “white America,” dated outside of my race, took African dance lessons, voted for Barack Obama, and regularly decried racial injustice on Facebook. My awakening was very much an accident. My husband (white, thank God) owned and rented a little house in what used to be a ghetto but was now a barrio because of mass immigration into Los Angeles. He and I lived in another, white part of town, but we had plans to leave the city for greener pastures, so we decided to move into this house to fix it up and sell it. I was hesitant to leave our beautiful white area to live among the vibrant people I publicly praised on social media, but we really wanted to maximize our profit, so I agreed to move.
The next two years were a Hell punctuated by gunshots that my husband kept trying to tell me were only fireworks. It is hard to know where to even begin in describing it. We were immediately struck by how dirty it was. My husband and I walked the neighborhood every evening for months picking up all the trash lining the streets. Right when we’d get a block looking decent, the trash would start to reaccumulate. We’d pick in up again — hoping to shame our “neighbors” into better behavior — but that never happened. Eventually, we gave up and only kept our little part of the street clean. Even when we stuck to our property, tidying up and landscaping, drug dealers would drive by and gawk at me, leaving no doubt as to what they wanted. During those two years, every package I had delivered to our house magically disappeared — no exceptions. Eventually, I gave up and started having things sent to my in-laws, a 30-minute drive away.
Our immediate next door neighbors were Hispanic, and there were seven of them (including two out-of-wedlock children) living in a 700 square-foot, 2-bedroom, 1-bathroom house. To make more room, they put up a party tent in the backyard and turned it into grandma’s bedroom, though it looked more like a junkyard than anything else. They always left their windows, and we heard a constant stream of profane screaming matches, sometimes in English and sometimes in Spanish.
The worst thing about life in the barrio is the partying. Blacks hold base-thumping, rap-blaring, drug-fueled ragers. Hispanics squeeze 100 people onto one tiny property along with a mariachi band and a bouncy-house. Both types of party last all night long. My husband and I both worked hard at our jobs, and needed a good night’s rest, but were besieged by this endless racket. Making matters worse was that in order to make a noise complaint to the police, you have to have a precise address. So night after night, my husband would head out into the dark to find the party. He was always unarmed, too — since conceal and carry permits are not issued to regular citizens in Los Angeles County. I would stay home by the phone, praying for his safety. His perseverance ultimately paid off, and the parties started dropping in frequency and volume. It was a chivalrous act of bravery on his part to tread through the urban jungle and stalk the parties like that, totally defenseless but driven by righteous anger. He was doing the best he could to take care of us under very difficult circumstances, and to this day I admire him for that.
By the time we left this multicultural wasteland, California had started letting “non-violent” thugs out of prison early, so things were only getting worse. Incredibly, our house earned us a nice sum of money when a young professional couple bought it. They were both white, and I felt guilty selling it to them — but they were egalitarian liberals just like I had been. My hope is that they also become race realists and get the hell out. As for my husband and I, we now live in the Deep South.
As all of this was happening, Donald Trump was running for President. His campaign and all the comments he made about immigration were a source of hope for me. Even three years earlier this would have been unthinkable, but in 2016, I registered as a Republican and voted for him. Like with so many in our movement, 2017 was rough. The infamous border wall was clearly not a priority of the Trump Presidency. There was the disaster in Charlottesville, the subsequent deplatformings, etc. Meanwhile, Fox News and Breitbart were telling me how happy I should be because black unemployment was at a record low.
My newfound home did not prove to be a paradise, either. The number of blacks here is high, and getting higher as the reversal of the “great migration” keeps unfolding. There are also a shocking number of illegal aliens here. When my husband and I visited a local state park and we heard more Spanish than English. It makes me angry and depressed to write this, but sometimes it seems like this small Southern town is headed for the same fate as Los Angeles.
There is still hope though. In 2018, I attended my first American Renaissance conference. It was wonderful to be surrounded by people who knew what I knew, and who had their own horror stories about surviving multiculturalism. Not one person held my anti-white past against me. Everyone embraced me as one of them. It was truly one of the happiest weekends of my life. The YouTube personality “No White Guilt” uses the term “Going Free” to describe the process of “un-indoctrinating” ourselves from anti-whitism, and I absolutely do feel free. I am a more productive, confident, and complete person than ever before. My husband is still largely a civic nationalist, but recently when I was talking to him about the importance of “white positivity,” he said, “Your happiness is really attractive.” He’s not the only one who feels that way. Everywhere I go these days, people tell me how beautiful I look. I’m an attractive woman and I dress becomingly, but I’m in my early 40s and I’m not that beautiful. I think they see my love for our people, our culture, and the wonderful civilization our ancestors built radiating off of me. They sense my self-assuredness and pride. They see in me something they want for themselves but cannot articulate.
Unfortunately, I am not yet in a position where I can be openly pro-white, so most of the time I keep quiet and just pray for our people. I do look for opportunities to make small, white-positive comments to the people in my life, though — and when I have done so, people have been receptive. I also have an anonymous white-positive pen pal that I found through Way of the World’s NatConnect service, and she has been a wonderful source of encouragement for me. Our correspondence also goes a long way in making me feel less isolated. Despite the many obstacles we face, I believe the tide is turning in our favor. After all, if someone with my background can develop a sense of white racial consciousness late in life, the tide has to be turning.
Courtesy of American Renaissance