Nothing Matters More than White Survival

This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

I am a 22-year-old American man born to a Hispanic mother and a white father. Because of their busy work schedule, my maternal grandfather, a Korean War veteran, played a large role in raising me. He refused to teach me Spanish, believing that only English should be spoken in the country he was born in, taught me to love my country, and hated being called a “Mexican-American,” saying he was just American.

He was my main role model as a child, and I adopted his views. This was not received well by many Hispanics I went to school with. They accused me of “acting white” and sometimes even claimed I wasn’t really half Hispanic, regardless of my skin-tone. As I got older, that teasing often morphed into debates, with me always staking out a colorblind nationalist position. But the more I paid attention to current events, the more I came to realize I was an exceptional case. Most Hispanics had no interest in preserving any form of Western civilization. And in California, where I lived at the time, everyone avoided Hispanic neighborhoods because they were invariably dangerous, dirty, and unwelcoming. The only decent neighborhoods I saw were the white ones — and they were steadily being pushed out and replaced.

My racial awakening was further pushed along when I went on a vacation to Iceland with two friends. I loved the place. The people were kind and genuine, the streets were safe to walk at night, and many of its citizens still had pride in — and identified with — their nation. That has not been the case in America for some time. Iceland was also cleaner, and not near as commercialized as any part of the US I had ever been to.

A few months later, I got a job working at a warehouse in my hometown. There were many Hispanic employees there — of questionable legal status — and they immediately came to view me as a traitor. Though these Hispanics mostly ignored their non-Hispanic white colleagues, since I didn’t have blond hair or blue eyes, they expected me to speak Spanish, just as they did. When they discovered I only knew English, they openly mocked me for it, and apparently made me the butt of many jokes when they talked amongst themselves. I quit in disgust. But the experience made me realize just how important race is: I had felt more at home halfway across the Atlantic in Iceland, surrounded by tall, blue-eyed, blond Europeans, than I did at that warehouse not two miles from my own house.

Those whites — constantly demonized in media and the academy — were more accepting of me than the angry, spiteful, and racist Mexicans who lived in my own small city. Unfortunately, this goes a long way in explaining why whites are dying out, but Latin Americans aren’t. With my mixed ancestry, there will always be people who don’t think of me as white, but there’s no doubt that I am not nearly Mexican enough for Hispanics to ever accept me as one of them. I support a white Europe and a white America. I was raised in the USA and I am proud of it. I care deeply about the survival of the West and its people, and believe that all people who feel the same must set aside their differences about taxation, liberalism, and the like. White survival must be our highest priority.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Use a pen name, stay under 1,200 words, and send it to us here.