The Raceless Adventures of Justin White

Bob Johnson, American Renaissance, May 18, 2012

RacelessAdventures
Fiction for our times.

As all educated people know in this enlightened age, “race” is a social construct that has no basis in science. We’re all much more alike than we are different. Nevertheless, the world around us is a minefield of toxic memes cluttered with the wreckage of the antiquated and dangerous racial theories of the past. This means that living race-free is still more of a challenge than you might suspect. Still, in the interest of Social Justice, it is the duty of certain members of our diverse human community to cast off the mantle of privilege that swathes them in unfair advantage while casting a pall of deprivation on all who lack it. But, as I have discovered, you must be prepared to be blocked at every step by the racists lurking among us. And their numbers are legion.

My name is Justin White and I’m almost 22 years old. I first encountered the truth about race at the age of three while watching Sesame Street. Later I was introduced to a more complete explication of White Privilege during a brief but instructive stint at community college. At that time I began to devour all the YouTube videos of Tim Wise, and soon became a minor expert on this insidious and pervasive pestilence.

My first unfortunate experience with institutional racism occurred when I applied to Harvard. I filled out my application—my GPA was a solid 3.00—and I wrote, if I may say so, an inspired essay. After a few weeks I received a response: Harvard wanted to interview me!

I’ll never forget the excitement I felt that day. I arrived at the interview optimistic almost to the point of euphoria despite a wicked sunburn. The interviewer, a perfectly enlightened-seeming woman about thirty-five years old, looked at me, looked at my application and a puzzled expression came over her face. She seemed uncomfortable but began the interview anyway. After a few casual questions she said, “It says on your application that you are African-American.”

I smiled. “That is correct.”

She nodded and pursed her lips. “And your essay is titled: ‘A Proud Son of Africa.’”

I smiled still bigger, unable to conceal my pride. “Yes, it is.”

She fidgeted. “Um, I hope you won’t be offended if I ask a few questions regarding your . . . ethnicity.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Well, you have blue eyes, blond hair, freckles, and what appears to be a terrible sunburn.”

“I know. I went to the lake yesterday.”

“May I ask what percent of your ancestry is African?”

“All of it,” I said.

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“But—and please forgive me—you look entirely white.”

An ugly suspicion crawled into my mind. “Yes, well, I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at with that. ‘Whiteness,’ as Prof. Noel Ignatiev has demonstrated, is a social construct—a fiction used by the powerful to oppress the less fortunate. I have chosen to repudiate that designation. I’ve jumped ship. I don’t want any white privilege, thank you. Just treat me like you would any other raceless human being.”

She shook her head. “But you say in your application you’re African-American.”

I nodded. “I am. I was born in American and I am entirely of African descent. As are you. As is every Homo sapiens. Our kind originated in Africa and spread throughout the whole world. We are all, ultimately, Africans.”

She squirmed. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works. You have to have recent African descent to qualify.”

I had to frown at this. “Well, if I’m not African, what am I?”

“You are white. You have blue eyes. You have no melanin in your skin. I strongly suspect your parents were similarly deficient. You, young man, are a Caucasian.”

I crossed my arms. I set my chin. I harrumphed. I could barely contain my outrage. I had not expected this sort of ignorance at Harvard. Prof. Ignatiev himself was a tutor here, for goodness sake! This woman was woefully, almost criminally, unenlightened. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, but I was not about to play along with her racist fantasies. “There’s no such thing.”

She sighed. “Be that as it may, you will have to show some evidence of African ancestry before you can apply for admittance as an African-American.”

I raised my hands. “What more evidence do you want? I’m human, am I not?”

She seemed unconvinced. “A DNA test would do the trick,” she said. “If you’re really determined to push it.”

“Madam, suppose my parents had emigrated from South Africa and that I was born here. Would I not then be an African-American?”

“No.”

I was appalled. “Why not?”

She sighed heavily and took off her glasses. “Because you must be racially African to be categorized as African-American.”

My dudgeon gained altitude. “Ms. X, are you suggesting that such a thing as “race” exists? You, an employee of Harvard University, the foremost educational institution in America if not the world, believe in ‘race’? I find that inconceivable. Have you never heard the wisdom of Tim Wise on this matter? RACE IS A MYTH! I reject it! I reject my white privilege. I foreswear it before God and Buddha and the ghost of Christopher Hitchens! Now put me down as African-American and treat me just like you would any other person of color.”

When the security guards came to escort me off the premises, I explained the misunderstanding to them, but they were as immune to reason as Ms. Racist had been. That night in my hotel room, I prayed fervently to all the great Secular Humanists of the past, hoping that whatever part of their energy still cavorted through the cosmos might inform me as to what I should do. I got no unequivocal response, but I did have a strong feeling that I should avoid gluten.

When I got home, I went to the café and told my friends the whole sad story. Naturally they were flabbergasted, except for one wag who snorted and muttered something like, “What did you expect?” I deflected that energy and vowed to press forward, for the sake of the species.

But in the days that followed, I discovered that bigotry was everywhere. The country was rotten with it. It was almost as if National Public Radio were completely out of sync with the world in which I found myself! When I tried to get a job under an affirmative action program, I was rejected and accused of fraud! I explained to everyone that I was not, could not be, White, and that this whole “race” thing was a crock, an absurd bouillabaisse of late-Nineteenth-Century charlatanry and classism and the sooner we all forgot it and started looking at each other as “persons” the better off we’d be. I produced affidavits from prominent biologists and social scientists attesting to the non-existence of race. I quoted the Wise Tim, and other experts in the field of White Privilege. All for nothing. Somehow this backward idea had lodged itself so tenaciously in the bureaucracies of our most revered institutions that it seemed nigh impossible to uproot it. The situation seemed dismal.

Then I had an inspiration. I summarized my situation in an e-mail and sent it off to Benjamin Jealous of the NAACP, Jesse Jackson, and the Reverend Al Sharpton. These were men who had dedicated their lives to Equal Opportunity and Social Justice and I felt certain they would support me. I knew it was audacious, but I could see few alternatives; if this failed, I’d have to turn to Oprah herself!

I waited. And waited. After several weeks I finally received the letter. The Big Three were outraged and disgusted that I, a young African-American, was being refused my proper rights. I was invited to a summit meeting to discuss what legal action to pursue. When the day finally arrived, I put on a suit and tie, took the bus to the X Hotel, and marched into the conference room where my benefactors were waiting, surrounded by many melanin-replete persons and a bevy of reporters. I walked up to the long table where the great men sat and said, “Here I am!” Cameras flashed all around me.

My heroes’ faces looked less enthusiastic than I’d expected.

“Excuse me, young man, but you must have the wrong room,” Jesse Jackson said.

“Reverend Jackson, I’m so glad you agreed to help me. And you too, Mr. Jealous and Reverend Sharpton. You can’t imagine the discrimination I’ve suffered. Everywhere I turn they keep telling me I’m not African-American, that I’m white, that I’m not of the right RACE! It’s been a nightmare. I can’t get into college. I can’t get a good job. The government has sued me twice! Help me, fellow sons of Africa!”

There was a profound silence. I knew my words had touched them deeply. Finally justice would prevail.

Reverend Sharpton was the first to speak. “Mister, uh—”

“White,” I said. “Justin White!”

“Right. Uh, Mr. White, I don’t know if this is a joke, but you are obviously not a black man. In fact, never was a man so aptly named as you.”

Everyone laughed. Another frenzy of flashes blinded me. To say I was stunned would be an understatement. This was really beyond the pale. I looked around for support from my other “brothers” but their faces were stern, inscrutable. In fact, they looked extremely put out. Though I knew that black men were for the most part as harmless as Will Smith, I confess that I began to feel a little nervous. Reverend Jackson looked especially menacing. He muttered something. I must be mistaken but it sounded to me then like, “I’d like to cut his b—s off.”

When I found my voice, I said, “Gentlemen, are you telling me that even you believe that ‘race’ exists? That you would let me languish, uneducated and unemployed, based on such a trivial accident of birth as the color of my skin? You who have labored your entire lives to make all persons equal? You who have yourselves ceaselessly experienced the bitter lash of prejudice?”

“You’re damn right,” said Mr. Jealous. “Kid, we help colored people. You’ve got no color! You’re the absence of it. You look like a photographic negative of Spike Lee!”

I recoiled from this blow.

“I bet you got to wear sunblock on a starry night,” Reverend Jackson said.

It was as if I’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

“Yo’ mama have to tie a red hanky ’round your neck to find you in the bathtub.” This, from Reverend Sharpton, hurt the most . . . because it was true.

There were more equally hurtful barbs, but I’d rather not relive them. I slouched out of the building and wandered, heedless of time, distance and direction. Finally I saw a park and some swings and sat in one and stared at the ground, wondering how the world could remain so ignorant of the simple facts of biology. I went over everything I had learned at the knee of Tim the Wise. There is no race. Whiteness is a choice. White people can never understand Black people. White people are often racist without even knowing it.

Then it struck me. Was I a racist? By choosing to call myself African-America had I merely substituted one harmful social construct for another? Was that why everyone had rejected me? I thought, I’ve made a terrible mistake. From now on I’m not White, I’m not Black, I’m just human. I realized too that I’d been a fool all along to deal with institutions. What I needed to do was reach out to other people. Institutions can’t think or feel. They had no soul, no morality, no humanity. Fighting them was like fighting robots. But other people couldn’t help but respond to my message of truth.

I got up out of the swing. I was energized by this new insight and eager to try it out. It was getting dark and I didn’t know where I was. I went to an intersection, but the street lights had been knocked out and I couldn’t read the name of the street. The buildings seemed a bit run down. There were bars on the windows and heavy metal doors everywhere I looked. I decided to walk down the big avenue until I could discover its name. A couple of blocks later I found a functioning streetlight. I hurried to the sign at the corner and read: Martin Luther King, Jr. I was saved! I envisioned little white children and little black children playing together in the red clay of Georgia! Surely this was a sign. Now I just had to find some people.

It didn’t take me long. A moment later a long burgundy-colored car filled with . . . well, people, pulled up next to me. The people stared at me.

I smiled. This was just the opportunity I’d been looking for, but for some reason I felt a little nervous. I waved my hand. “What’s up?”

The people in the car laughed. It was a funny sort of laugh. I wondered if they had sore throats.

“You not from around here, are you,” the driver said.

“No,” I confessed. “I’m just out to make some new friends.”

More laughter, and it was even more raucous this time. The driver scratched his shaven head. “Make friends? Here?”

I was getting fearful now, but I realized that it was just because I’d been indoctrinated by the racist media to believe that black people were dangerous. I shrugged off the irrational emotion and pressed on. “The truth is, ‘race’ is an illusion, a bogus social construct used to separate human beings from each other. We’re all a lot more alike than we are different.”

The driver shook his head. “You crazy, man.” They laughed, shouted some expletives and drove away. I felt a brief pang of disappointment, then I looked up at that street sign again and my heart filled with renewed courage. The dream was not dead yet.

I walked a little farther and I saw a tall handsome man coming toward me. He was a Homo sapiens with very dark skin and big muscles. I chastised myself for noticing these superficial traits and reminded myself that 99 percent of our DNA was identical (as is the case with camels and llamas, may they one day heal the breach between them).

“Excuse me, brother,” I said.

The man stopped and frowned at me. “I ain’t your brother. What you doing in this neighborhood, anyway?”

“I was just out trying to connect with my fellow human beings.”

“You’re fellow . . .” Suddenly a light seemed to go off in his head. “Aw, you been listening to Tim Wise, ain’t you.” Before I could answer he grabbed my arm and looked around. “Look, you in the wrong place to be peddling that [expletive]. Now you jus’ do what I say. We get you on a bus quick, you might make it home alive.”

Wise Tim

“Why? What’s going on? Are there hoodlums about?”

“Yeah, hood-lums, hood rats, you name it. Look, little cracker, jus’ stick close to me an’ if we meet anybody, don’t say a word. Got it?”

I was a bit concerned by now and thankful for this help. “Yes, br— Yes, sir.”

“Uh-oh,” my new friend said under his breath.

I saw five human beings coming toward us. They were just human beings like me, but their ancestors had probably left Africa quite some time after mine did, and they probably hadn’t bought a ticket for the voyage. They were dressed in clothes that some people might associate with “the ghetto.” When they saw my friend and me they started hooting and making a ruckus.

“What you got there, William? Iz’at your white boy?”

William laughed and gave me a look that I interpreted to mean, “Keep mum.”

“Hey, Thomas. Wazzup?” William said.

“Dat white boy up. What you doing wiff him?”

“He an old school frien’. We can’t talk though, he got to catch a bus.”

But then Thomas came very close to me, so close that the tips of our noses pressed against each other and I could easily enjoy the Courvoisier on his breath. “I don’t know you, man. What you doing here? This ain’t yo’ neighborhood.” Only he said this in a rich vernacular I can only imperfectly reproduce. To my perplexity, I sensed hostility.

“I’m j-just here t-t-trying to make n-new friends.”

Thomas’s eyes grew large. “Crackers ain’t welcome roun’ here.”

I frowned at this epithet. My dudgeon began to rise again. “Hey, man, there’s no need to call names. We’re all a lot more alike than we are different, right? After all, we’re all ‘Out of Africa’ so to speak.”

At this he pressed even harder against my nose. Now our lips were touching, which made me a little uncomfortable, though I pride myself on not being homophobic. I was by now getting the distinct impression that he hadn’t heard the good news about “race.” I felt something sharp and cold slice through my mustard-colored bowling shirt and make a shallow puncture wound in my stomach. I gasped.

“Don’ gimme dat [expletive], Whitey. You [expletives] been [expletiving] us fuh fo’ hun’red years. You got some payback comin’ yuh way now, Beeyotch [sic].” I ask once more to be forgiven if I fail to capture the vibrant musicality of Ebonics, but I think this is a good approximation of what he said.

“B-but . . . we’re all the same. I don’t believe in “race.” It’s an artificial construct. You and I are both Homo s—

He jabbed the point of his argument a little deeper into my abdomen and I gasped again and stepped back. I was ready to cry now, as much from disappointment over his unwillingness to acknowledge the universal brotherhood of personkind as from fear. Well, almost as much.

He laughed and licked a drop of blood from the tip of his shank, or whatever you call it. “We all brothers under the skin, ’ight? Then I jus’ gonna remove the offensive part of you and we be cool.” He took a step toward me.

William stepped between us then. “Come on, Thomas. That’s enough, ain’t it? He done [expletived] his pants an’ you done tasted his blood. We gonna go now. Peace.”

William grabbed me by the hand and guided me down the sidewalk, interposing his own body between me and Thomas. But Thomas pursued us.

“Nunh-uh. Naw. He mine. I gotta skin him.”

Then a young woman, one of Thomas’s colleagues, stepped forward. “Leave him alone, Thomas. He ain’t done nuffin’ to you. He jus’ a piddly-[expletive] punk cracker who ain’t hurtin’ nobody. Leave him alone and let’s go.”

Thomas hesitated. Then another of his fellows chimed in. “Yeah, let that little punk [expletive] go. We don’ need no trouble tonight. Let’s go party at Rascal’s crib. You can kill a white boy some other night.”

This seemed to tip the scales. Thomas laughed, brandished his shank, put it away and pointed a very long index finger at me. “You lucky tonight, Beeyotch [sic]. You buy yuhself a lottery ticket on the way home.”

After that everything was a blur. William put me on a bus bound for a less interesting but safer neighborhood where my superficial physical characteristics would arouse less notice. I had gone only a few blocks when three young men of apparent Latino heritage boarded the vehicle. They were laughing and speaking Spanish, though not too loudly. They sat down around me and continued their conversation as if oblivious to my presence. For a moment I had a terrible feeling of isolation, of being a foreigner in my own country. Then I thought, we’re more alike than we are different. So I had a bit of a disappointment today. So Reverend Sharpton rejected me. So someone poked the tip of a knife a quarter of an inch into my belly. So what? People are people. Maybe the problem is with me. Maybe I just need to try harder to reach out.

So I turned to the gentlemen and said, “Hola. Mi nombre es Justin.” I pronounced it “Hoosteen” to make it easier for them.

The three looked at me a little funny. It wasn’t really hostility, but more like a mixture of subdued amusement and indifference. They said nothing but I refused to be deterred. I was reaching out to my fellow Homo sapiens and nothing was going to stop me.

“¿Hablan Inglés?” Unfortunately, with this I had nearly exhausted my high school Spanish. One of the young men said something to me but I could only shake my head and say, “No entender.” There was a brief exchange in Spanish and they all laughed. I laughed too. Finally one of them pointed to my shirt. “Blood.”

I nodded. “Si. I got hurt un poco. But I’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” he said. We both nodded.

One of the other men said something, I think he said the word “cuidado.”

Si. I have to be more cuidado.” They laughed very hard at this and I laughed too. After that they went back to chatting among themselves. I sat and listened, not understanding much but feeling a little less excluded anyway. I had made a connection of sorts. It was a beginning. They didn’t look at me or talk to me anymore, but when I got off the bus one of them said, “Adios.”

I smiled. “Adios.”

It had been a long day. I walked the three blocks to my apartment. A Filipino family was cooking and filling the whole building with the delicious aroma of fried fish. It smelled like family. They must have been having a party because there were a lot of people all over the place speaking Tagalog and they were playing their loud but expressive music. No one spoke to me as I passed down the corridor to the stairs that led up to my apartment but I smiled and did my best to make them feel welcome. I sat down on my futon and turned on MSNBC. Rachel Maddow was looking especially fetching and clever. I couldn’t hear the TV very well, but I could hear the festive music clearly and even feel it coming up through the floor. So I turned down the volume, activated the closed captioning, and enjoyed the taste of a different culture. It almost made me feel like I was down there with them.

I know now that bringing all Homo sapiens together as one big family won’t be an easy job. There are a lot of bad memes out there to overcome, and maybe even a natural tendency for people to group and split based on things like culture, country of origin, language and, yes, skin color.

I’ve since learned that I was very wrong to expect The Big Three to advocate for me. Like President Obama’s, my ancestors were never slaves. My ancestors were slavers and genocidal “Indian” killers who came to America in 1901 from Sweden. So we need to let Black people have “race” a little longer, just until we’ve erased every last debilitating vestige of slavery and racism, no matter how invisible, unconscious or buried it may be; thankfully, there are people like Tim Wise who will keep rooting these vestiges out until the job is done.

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Bob Johnson
Bob Johnson is from Berkeley, California. He has worked in the publishing industry for about 10 years.
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  • http://countenance.wordpress.com/ Question Diversity
    • Anan7

      “African-Americans” have become our nation’s largest unfunded liability.

      • Church_of_Jed

        “Diversity is our national environmental catastrophe.”

        -Rev. Jed DeValleyism, “What I saw when I went downtown, and why I won’t go back, ever,” 1999

    • http://pulse.yahoo.com/_3T6HKI5GKHEAEXQC24X4ZSN75I Gilbert

      Poor little Sean King.  For such a brave and noble soul to be focussed on such an ignoble object!  He’s my eldest son’s age (unlike the Kenyan-In Chief, I actually have sons) and I could weep for him, for the pain and disillusionment he will suffer some day. 

  • Francis Galton

    LOL, That’s brilliant satire, sir!  Bravo!  It brings the “race is a social construct” myth to its logical, absurd conclusion; reductio ad absurdum at its finest!

  • Anan7

    A living White Rhodesian?  I thought they were killed off in the 70s.

  • whiteuncleruckus

    i can remember a time in my life when i was that naive about race. i tried to play football and baskeball with blacks thinking i had just a much of a chance to succeed as they did. turned out i was wrong. but i learned at a young age just how dangerous multiculturalism/diversity can be for white people.

    • mikejones91

      lllllllllllllllllll

      • ed91

         that would be ‘they’re good’

        its easier to understand if you could write the correct words.

        • mikejones91

          It’s a joke, eDward. 

  • http://www.facebook.com/JaredTaylorX Jared Taylor

    I thought this was a very clever story. There are many different ways to reach people, and I am glad that some of us are using fiction.

    • mikejones91

      Yeah this type of thing works on the same level as the “How Whites Took Over America Video”. Laughter is the best medicine. The ailment? Complete indoctrination.

      • Church_of_Jed

        Jared Taylor, please take a pause from funding IQ studies and spend the money to hire a good publicist who can get you on TV as often as “Dr.” Eric Michael Dyson is, or Lamont Hill. Your time has arrived. Race news is getting bigger, and your point of view is a legitimate “voice in the national conversation on race”.

        With the right publicist, a campaign can begin against the TV producers who don’t bring you on to give balance through the White Baby Minority 2012 perspective. Publicists can shame producers by planting stories in the blogosphere about their lack of ethics and integrity. They can be shamed into thinking automatically, “Gee, if we don’t add Jared Taylor to this segment for balance, we’ll see our names, along with our sponsors, dragged through the mud again. It’s not worth the hassle. Let’s put him on. I’d rather hear from Heidi B. than our sponsors.”

        “Seize your opportunity by creating it.”

        -Rev. Jed DeValleyism, “What Jared Taylor should do now,” 2012

        • http://www.facebook.com/JaredTaylorX Jared Taylor

          You would be surprised how difficult it is to hire a publicist if you are a “racist.” This is something we have tried in the past.

          I agree that it is vital to reach large audiences and that audiences are primed to respond well to a reasonably expressed racial message. But it is much more difficult to get on television or radio than it was 10 years ago.

          • Bob Johnson

            Which is why all of us should consider emailing links of some of Mr. Taylor’s interviews to a select group of friends and family. There is some great stuff on the Amren site and on Youtube. (But check the links before you send them because I think a few of them may be dead.) If everyone who visited this site would send out a few of those links to say 15 or 20 people and encourage them to pass them on to the same number of their friends, we could reach quite a few people.

            In The Tipping Point Malcolm Gladwell talks about certain ordinary people scatter throughout the culture who are vectors or disseminators of information, who cause ideas and trends to spread. We all need to learn how to be effective disseminators. And to be effective, I think we need to be judicious and diplomatic. It’s easy in our urgency to become shrill or pushy. I’m inclined to believe that a softer touch works better.

    • Sherman_McCoy

      Next time our preacher goes on vacation and asks me to fill in with a sermon, guess what I am going to use as the text?

  • KevinPhillipsBong

    One day soon white liberals will be hated by nonwhites most of all, because it is they who think that they can transcend race and thus escape the hate that is coming.

    • MissBonnie123

      Also, did these White liberals ever think that nonwhites might see these White liberals as traitors to their own race? If I were nonwhite, I would wonder about these Whites who purport to be pro-nonwhite and anti-white.

      I believe the main reason that people like Tim “anti-white” Wise and others like him are in the business they are is because it is lucrative. They really don’t have a moral backbone.

  • Bob Johnson

    Actually, I’m really glad you shared that. I think a lot of our young people feel that way.  Sometimes people think that we whites are such individualists that we don’t care about belonging to a group. I think it’s more complex than that. I think we’re willing to be part of lots of different kinds of groups, that our affiliations aren’t to our race first. But I think our need for identity is just as strong as that of any other race. We’re just more flexible about what that identity may be. I think one of our greatest challenges is to make white identity something attractive to our people, especially to our young people. They have to feel that it has a meaning for them, that it’s something to be proud of, and that it’s something worth preserving. And I think that demands a lot of us as individuals.

    • http://www.facebook.com/people/Mark-Hillyard/100000971153370 Mark Hillyard

      The day is coming when all Caucasians will realize they are of the Tribes of Israel.  Most Christian Churches will put this info down and toss you out of the church if you dare speak it.  I’ve been thrown out twice for saying so and pointing to the proof.  It’s all written in the Book and in secular history.  “They” just don’t want you to know that you are of the Tribes of Israel.  Billy Graham described  Jesus as being “Dark and swarthy” which is a lie as King David was desribed as being ‘fair, and ruddy’ which is a reference to his hair and skin tone.

      There is still a great amount of history waiting to be.  The Great Nation and the Great Company of Nations promised to the sons of Joseph, Ephraim and Mannassah, is hear and we are it.  It was also prophesied that foreignors would infest The Kingdom and they are known as Tares/weeds in the parables. 

      If interested, look up Truth in History, with Charles A. Jennings.  Then you will have something to hang your hat on even if you are not interested in the Spiritual side of all this, but this knowledge is spiritual and known by some of us who are attempting to get this message out.

  • ed91

     that’s an example of propaganda and how easy it overtakes those who don’t know any better……
    After a few initial contacts with blacks in the military, I knew we were two different groups of people and for me at least, never the twain shall meet.

  • Bob Johnson

    It was certainly not my intention to disparage anyone, not even Tim Wise. But I do believe that someone like Justin might very well be physically harmed if he tried to go into a predominantly black neighborhood and make friends with random strangers. I’ll resist the urge to explicate. My intention was simply to point out that race seems to exist for everyone but white people. In fact, most groups are encouraged to embrace in-group distinctions like race, ethnicity and religion. Blackness is real; whiteness is a pernicious myth.

    • http://premiseblog.wordpress.com/ Dewey

      Good sendup!  We need more of this, just wait till Borat plays the SWPL (Stuff White People Like white person)
      Wait for it….

  • http://premiseblog.wordpress.com/ Dewey

    “That night in my hotel room, I prayed fervently to all the great Secular
    Humanists of the past, hoping that whatever part of their energy still
    cavorted through the cosmos might inform me as to what I should do. I
    got no unequivocal response, but I did have a strong feeling that I
    should avoid gluten.”
     HA

    The first throes of the Anti-SWPL  humor movement!

  • http://premiseblog.wordpress.com/ Dewey

    I as well!   Blacks just think White people are really gullible, which is (has been) true. 

    They will try to “be your friend” when they don’t even know you, talking with a weird affected “White” accent.  
    I just look at them cold now, so they know I don’t buy their nonsense.    Blacks absolutely toy with gullible liberal Whites at no end.    They think White people are stupid, as in they are street stupid.  Which is true in large part.

    Pop culture just takes inherant White gullibility, and enhances it.  Pop culture, with all of the benevolent, harmless Negroes, makes Whites “Street Stupid”.

    One a related note:
    Most of them have no idea of how put-together and threatening Suburban and Country Whites are. Thus, they don’t understand how Whites, like the occasional ones they meet and live with, could run the country.    That’s why Blacks believe that Racism must be holding them down.  Because they only meet either low-class Urban Whites, or gullible Suburban/Urban liberals.

    I was once a gullible Urban liberal.  I was once “street stupid.” 
    Amren is all about making Whites “street smart.”

    The more tough Whites get, the more respect we will earn.  Let’s do it.

    • RockyBass

       The Lilly-livered, touchy feely BS has to end, blacks need to relearn whom, it was that, built the modern world. 

  • http://premiseblog.wordpress.com/ Dewey

    We need to have a Christian holocaust memorial for the millions of Christians killed by the Soviet Regime.   A certain, status-climbing group dominated the Soviet Regime initially by the way, ALONG WITH MOSTLY WHITES AS WELL ….
    http://www.ihr.org/jhr/v14/v14n1p-4_Weber.html

    The lessons of the 1930-40′s should be this: Race wars happen!

    Avoid them, by encouraging homogenous settlement!!  That is what the post WW2 ethnic resettlement plan was all about. 
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_War_II_evacuation_and_expulsion

    INSTEAD WE HAVE THE OPPOSITE.     (Forehead smack)

  • http://premiseblog.wordpress.com/ Dewey

    Ha Sounds like some far liberal loons I know…  Bring on the laughs!!

  • http://www.facebook.com/people/Mark-Hillyard/100000971153370 Mark Hillyard

    “From now on I’m not White, I’m not Black, I’m just human.”  Hah! After my innocence was shattered in the US Army and having ‘met’ some Black Panthers, it took me approx. forty years to even admit that they were human. I recognize that now but want nothing to do with them.  I was raised in an all white neighborhood and had no feelings either way in re: to Black people, until I met some of them with knives drawn.  They cut me in a fight and I haven’t forgotten and never will.  That was only one of the many encounters I had with them back in ’69-’71, and continuing, as one attemped to rape my sister.

    And, by the way, I’m betting there are some very concerned Black men, like Thomas Sowell, who are getting a bit nervous over their ‘brothers’ behavior.  Some of those Black men/women are, must be, innocent of this stupidity on the part of the likes of Al, Jesse and President Obama, et al.

  • Patrick_A_NonnyMouse

    A DELIGHT to read.   (And, some food for thought…)

    Thank you.

  • Bob Johnson

    Actually, I had an experience when I was in grade school that suggests you’re wrong. Another white boy found ourselves at the top of a slide totally surrounded by black girls our own age. I was about 7 or 8 at the time, I think. A couple of them wanted to beat us up, some of the others were ambivalent, but one girl in particular pleaded with the others to let us go. She was almost in tears.

    I think it’s important to remember that there are many decent and intelligent black people, and that does nothing to alter the fact that white people should be free to choose whether they want to associate with non-whites or not. While I think white people are generally happier and safer being with other white people, I know there are certain black people that are smarter, harder working and perhaps more decent than I am. But we have different interests and in large number we tend to create different types of civilizations, as Mr. Taylor has so often pointed out. I don’t need to hate blacks to love my race and want to see it prosper. I don’t need to hate blacks to know I don’t want to live among them. I speak Spanish and Portuguese and I’ve known Hispanics and Brazilians that I liked very much, but I don’t want to live among them either. Having traditional ideas about race does not necessitate hate at all, but at the end of the day we are us and they are them, and our interests and ways are very different. I am a member of the traditional white American nation. That is my ethnicity and my heritage, and I treasure it beyond measure. And no one is ever going to convince me that my nation never existed.

    • http://www.facebook.com/JaredTaylorX Jared Taylor

      Very well expressed.

  • Church_of_Jed

    Brilliant opening paragraph.  I could stop there and feel rewarded.

    Here is a non fiction example of his theme:

    Paul told the Ephesians that “they come before God without fear,” and these words can help anyone who is trying to pay attention to the call upon their life to build bridges. This work cannot be done without going before God. It is not easy to cross cultural and racial borders that have never been crossed before and to begin to forge new relationships across major differences. But the understanding of God’s support in this matter will be the source of the courage that is needed to take such steps. It seems rather clear that white churches will stay white and black churches will stay black until there is a recommitment to the task of adhering to God’s will for reconciliation. It will call for some sacrifices and they generally need to be made by whites who benefit the most from the privilege of the system and who need to express their willingness to take the first steps to show that they understand the new agreement and its call to reconciliation.

    http://www.huffingtonpost.com/catherine-meeks-phd/racial-reconciliation-and-the-church_b_954686.html

  • Church_of_Jed

    The only flaw of this story is that the author forgot to blame the shank episode of black on White violence  on “internalized racist oppression”.

  • MissBonnie123

    Nonwhites know that race is real, that it is NOT a social construct. Only Whites believe the foolishness that progressives/liberals spew.

    Tim Wise is a hopeless case. If we ever have a White homeland, he will NOT be allowed to enter.

  • MissBonnie123

    I too believed the liberal dogma that all races were the same and if you believed differently that you were racist. I was NOT taught this in school, however. I love to read and I formerly read books written by liberals/progessives and listened to the now defunct Air America radio. They informed me directly and indirectly that only Whites could be racist and nonwhites were hopelessly oppressed by us White people. Therefore, we White people had to constantly suffer for the past and even suffer in the present because even though we didn’t know it, we were still acting out our racist tendencies!

    Slowly this began to change because of my experiences, including long-ago past experiences that I had amazingly forgotten but should have been a red flag when it came to believing the liberals’/progressives’ lies regarding race issues.

    Most of the time the only way Whites will wake up regarding the race issue will be when they’ve been severely victimized once or moderately victimized a couple of times.

  • blackreality

     Alice..How do YOU know that the other kid had lower test scores? This is a serious question. Only a teacher or school administrator would know what score all the other students had.So how would you know what score the other students had?

  • blackreality

     Yes..When WHITES get all the Affirmative Action benefits,you are right,race does matter.

  • Orion_Blue

    This was an interesting article. It highlights the high levels of animus that really do exist and what is amazing, is that the fictional protector may not have been there in real life.

    The altercation with the ‘shank’ tells its own story of where the sentiments really lie.

    Living in London, I experience low levels of subterranean hostility almost every day. If you walk in predominantly black areas, there always seems to be a kind of territorial contest and an assertion of  domineering ‘presence’. If I aim to walk one way, they will usually try to wrong-foot you.

    One time, I was in Sainsbury’s, at the self-service checkout and loading my items into the carrier bag. A Vibrantly Enriching and Diverse late-age woman hit her umbrella handle against the sensor to trigger an item exception; all this done for my inconvenience, so that a store clerk would have to intervene to reset the checkout machine. It was done with such casual malice, that one is tempted to think that they obsess about this all the time.

  • Austin-Lehman Adventures

    Through sharing your stories and your truths you are taking steps to change these false perceptions. As always thanks for sharing your insight.