Memories of a Girl from Texas

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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 born into a community of Germans, Poles, and Czechs/Hungarians, in Texas. I’ve always lived in Texas, in different cities, but I primarily grew up in a more southern region with a considerable mestizo population, which was significant but by no means a majority. Like most places at that time, the population self-segregated.

In the seventh grade, I was bused across town, to the mestizo school. When my name appeared on the bus list, I recall a bit of an uproar between my parents and grandparents. They kept me out of the ruckus for the most part, but I was certain my grandparents thought I should be sent to private school (my grandmother confirmed this years later). I had attended a private school for a few years previously, but I had new public school friends, some of whom were also on the dreaded list, so off to the mestizo school I went.

Before I tell my tale of woe, I would like to point out that this mestizo school was relatively new; the campus was large and well equipped, with a comfortable library, science lab, and a band/orchestra hall. It was actually nicer than my “home” school, which was also well equipped, but decades older.

After about the first few weeks of school, the white girls began to suffer from “grabs” to their breasts and backsides, by mestizo boys flying down the hallway during classroom changes. You could hardly identify the suspects. “He had black hair, and wore jeans and a white t-shirt.” You primarily noticed them only from behind as they darted past. There was nothing we could do about it; we all just dealt with it. The teachers and coaches rarely monitored the hallways. I did attempt a defense on a few occasions when I happened to see them coming. They would not strike me, but I would be shoved. They grew weary of the grabbing about midway through the school year but resumed the practice near its final few weeks.

“Jesse Cruz” was my particular nemesis. At seventh-grade levels, we were not yet separated by abilities, so the smart kids and not-so-smart kids were lumped together in classes. Jesse and I were in a few classes together, and we shared an assigned group lunch table. He harassed me non-stop. I soon learned every vile curse word for human genitalia and sex. I had never heard such language prior to dining with Jesse Cruz. One particular day, after the teacher had left our classroom, Jesse grabbed my student desk, lifted, and shook it until I tumbled out, along with my books and papers. There was only one other white kid in the classroom, a boy named Robert, with whom I had attended elementary school but didn’t personally know other than as an acquaintance. I will never forget how he cast his eyes downward upon catching my gaze; there was nothing he could do, and we both knew it. The door “look-out” sounded the alarm of the teacher’s return; I picked myself up, righted my desk, and sat there, trying not to cry. I wouldn’t have dared tattle, for fear of retribution, however a tiny mestizo girl named Veronica marched to the teacher’s desk, hands on her hips, and pointed at Jesse, tattling away. Jesse and I were sent to the principal’s office. I don’t know if he was actually punished, but he never touched me again, although the verbal harassment never stopped.

There was another incident that later occurred during a walk to a classroom in an outdoor portable building. I was grabbed and dragged around by a twin duo, the Hinojosa twins, who were nearly six feet tall and clearly too old for junior high school. I was rescued by a teacher and sent off again to the principal’s office to testify. I never saw those boys again. I’ll note that on both occasions, the principal offered to call my parents, but I declined. I’ll explain why later.

Academically, the majority of mestizo students were far behind the white kids. They could not identify the subject or predicate of a sentence, nor could they add or subtract fractions, handle more complex division, and so on. I basically spent an entire year doing work already mastered years before. While the white kids were teased periodically for being pale, tall and/or skinny, we were also teased for being too smart. “Sta guera [this white girl] thinks she knows everytheeng, man!”

My reticence to call my parents was due to an off-hand comment made by my father when I reported the grabbing in the hallways. He was not an unconcerned or uninvolved parent, but he had no clue about the random conduct of these mestizo boys, in general, as neither he nor my mother had spent significant time among their culture. It was a misunderstanding, but I did not realize this until years later. Until then, I resented my parents for allowing me to be sent there, and for many years, I confided nothing to either parent. The effects of this forced assimilation is much more consequential than occasional skirmishes in the hallways or academic devolvement. To this very day, I have not informed my parents of the assaults; of course, as assaults go, they were relatively mild, and I was uninjured. It’s horrible to say, but the hallway grabbings sort of prepared me for the escalation. I mostly took it in stride.

The following year, back at “white school,” who do you think arrived by bus? Yes, Jesse Cruz. Interestingly enough, he, who by now was being sent to remedial classes, never said a word to me, nor did he touch or approach me during the entire school year. He did glare at me in the hallways on a few occasions. Another interesting thing occurred at white school. Not once did I see a white boy abuse a mestizo girl anywhere: no tossing from desks, no cursing, and no harassment. I also wondered why Jesse Cruz was minding his Ps & Qs at white school. Had he  changed?

No, he had not. Eventually, I coined the phrase, the “Jesse Cruz effect.” When non-whites are a majority, or even a large enough minority to gang up and wreak havoc, they will behave as they do in Mexico, in Africa, or in their majority neighborhoods and communities. When the USA is no longer a white majority country, which is any day now, Jesse Cruz and his ilk will be roaming the formerly white hallways. Be ready.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, or about your firsthand experience with race, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Please feel free to use a pen name and send it to us here.