Katrina and Its Aftermath

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

I was only 14 when Hurricane Katrina hit. I lived in East Texas far from the coast and an hour or so from Baton Rouge. After the storm passed a wave of escapees flooded our motels and church parking lots — all of them looking for handouts and free food. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the white girl’s face as she stood in line, her eyes blank, her posture succumbed to defeat, her whole life washed away. She couldn’t have been much older than I was. I had never seen such despair in a person. I served her the same as I served everyone else in that food line, but I trembled as I did so.

Then came a black man named Eldrich. His eyes wide, his smile big, his voice cooing with glee as he waited in line for free food. My father, a kindly Christian man, was taken by his demeanor immediately. Eldrich told him how his house was taken away by the sea, how his misfortune was unique among all the others, and how he wanted to work his way up again. My father was fooled by this charade but I was not.

The days passed and most of the whites returned to the disaster area as the recovery efforts increased. But Eldrich remained. My father had taken a liking to him, and he often joined my family for dinner at our home. He helped us repaint our house and started to become part of the family. Then Eldrich asked to borrow my brother’s truck to get what few belongings he had left and bring them back. With my fathers okay, he took the vehicle. Two weeks later he returned and smoothed out on the dashboard was a tin foil candy wrapper with Santa on it. It was a strange token of gratitude, a kind of reassurance that I did not buy.

All the while I was telling my parents and siblings I didn’t like him. That I didn’t trust him. I was met with the same refrains tossed about today: “You’re racist,” “You’re too judgmental,” and the like. All the while the pit in my stomach grew. My father continued to pay for Eldrich’s hotel room, gave him easy and meaningless work for high pay and frequently invited him to our dinner table.

A few weeks later, my uncle needed some plumbing done and foolishly paid Eldrich $2,500 in advance. Eldrich disappeared. My parents reported it to the police and discovered that Eldrich was wanted for manslaughter in Louisiana. While driving drunk, he had veered off the road and killed a land surveyor who had a wife and children. My whole family just moved on, refusing to learn any lesson from it. They continue in their race blind ways to this day. In fact, my father still mentors “underprivileged” black kids, taking them out to dinner, playing basketball with them, etc. Last November, one of them was booked on felony charges for threatening to blow up the school because he was bored at the Veteran’s Day event. As for that traumatized white girl? I never learned what happened to her.

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.