My Experiences With Blacks and Hispanics

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

I grew up in California and Maryland, so I have been familiar with “diversity” since a very young age. All the racial conflict I have seen — and sometimes ended up being a part of — has made me understand that race is very, very real. Below are a few of my experiences.

As early as elementary school, I noticed how blacks intimidated many people with their explosive anger. One black kid in my elementary school hurled an apple at high speed across the cafeteria at lunch one day and hit an Asian girl in the head.

In my teens, I began to see how specifically chauvinistic blacks were. After the move to California, I rode BMX bikes with a black guy who had a white sidekick. The black guy always bragged that blacks were superior to whites. It always irritated me, but I said nothing. One night, he and his buddies told me about their plan to rob a BMX shop. I said I was out. They went through with the robbery and got caught.

Then there was the black lady at a raw food restaurant in Marina Del Rey where I worked as a cashier. She tried to return a half-eaten burrito for no substantial reason and then complained to my boss because I would not automatically give her a second one. My manager called me into her presence and she tried to intimidate me with a stare, a scowl, and a condemnatory tenor, but I only stared back. I explained my point of view very succinctly without engaging or emboldening her provocation. She was not so polite when explaining her own side. This is how it is with racial bullies: They stand on a high ground they feel history has bequeathed them with, and don’t know what to do if you stand your ground and resist the temptation to capitulate with the usual groveling and self-effacing behavior they have become so accustomed to capitalizing on.

Whenever I was in the kitchen, the Mexicans there went out of their way to step on my feet and elbow or shove me against a wall while laughing and saying things in Spanish. One of the few friendly Mexicans once told me that the others were just “testing me” — as if that justified their racial intimidation. Another guy who worked there, a mulatto I had given a ride home once, threatened to beat me up if I left without him as I was walking out the door one night. When it comes to non-whites, kindness breeds expectations. We see the same thing in the welfare state, in state and federal hiring legislation, affirmative action, and racial quotas in schools. People become accustomed to their intellectual kick stools and hand-outs.

The pattern of Hispanics “testing me” the way they did in that kitchen has followed me wherever I have lived. Once, while waiting for a train in San Francisco, a group of Hispanic men came up to me, totally unprovoked, and began heckling me. “Hey faggot!” “What’s up bitch?” “Where you going you piece of shit?” Just like in that kitchen, these men didn’t seem interested in robbing me or inflicting serious harm. It was a game to them, a way of testing my strength.

At San Francisco State University, I got my strongest sense of how ethnocentric blacks are. On the shuttle from my apartment to school, blacks in the back would utter the most vile invectives. “Fuck white people,” they’d scream, eager for everyone on the bus to tense up. Their anti-white rants would last the duration of every ride, to the irritation of everyone else aboard. Both in and out of our college classes, blacks were always complaining about how we caused their problems and seemed intent on making whites drink the poison of their sorrows.

Years ago, two black bureaucrats at the post office near the Los Angeles airport gave me tremendous trouble. This was where something broke through and I began to see — very clearly — that there was subliminal warfare between the races and that my observations were not merely a subjective distortion produced by my “evil” or “racist” imagination. A black employee looked at my passport photo and made some arbitrary and inane excuse for why it did not adhere to protocol. She showed it to her large black coworker. He nodded with blithe indifference, backing her up. Their racial solidarity was crystal clear. Later, I went to a post office on the central coast of California. Every employee was white, and the process took less than three minutes with nothing but smiles and without a single hiccup.

Despite these experiences — and a few other similar ones — I don’t feel any hostility towards any of racial groups. My animosity is reserved for those within our own racial stock who have opened our borders and thrust “multiculturalism” onto us. They are the true enemy.

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.