Working in Customer Service Opened My Eyes to the Reality of Race

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

At the age of eight, my family finally fled Zimbabwe. By then, my brother had survived an attempted abduction and our family had gone through one burglarization and two robberies at gunpoint. Even so, this wasn’t enough to open my eyes to the reality of race.

We moved to the UK where the propaganda was strong and the non-whites were few, relative to America, anyway. There were Indians, Pakistanis, and a smattering of blacks but for the most part the large white majority made it easy for the establishment to weave a tale of racial harmony.

We moved again, this time to Australia. The majority/minority demographics were much the same except with a much higher proportion of Asians. The propaganda was still pervasive but less thorough. “Oh how cruel the Europeans were to the native aboriginals,” I thought as I learned about the injustices and discrimination they endured. No wonder they’re huffing petrol at the train station and can’t function in society. It seemed a very reasonable conclusion, as long as you didn’t think about it too hard, and why would I? I wasn’t an evil racist.

But that was before I really had to interact with non-whites. I got a job working at Subway and went from the socially coddling existence of a high school student to meeting every Tom, Dick, and Harry who came my way. In short, I was bombarded with data. I started to notice things. Indians would try to bargain; ask for deals we didn’t have, ask for extra items, etc. Their one saving grace was their tendency towards congeniality. Asians were often terse, but by and large they were fine customers. Then came the blacks. They were often rude, had trouble understanding a straightforward food menu, they wanted and sometimes demanded free items and their propensity for theft stuck out like a sore thumb. Only then did I start to notice the missing pieces of the puzzle I once thought to already be whole. Why was my home country and just about every other African nation a decaying ruin? Why were the previously economic backwaters of Asia now flourishing? Why were the aboriginals huffing petrol outside the train station?

As race realists know, to ask these questions is to answer them.

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.