Arriving at Race Realism Without the Drama

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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.

It’s hard to believe now, but I grew up in a lovely LA suburb which was probably 98 percent white Christian, although nobody gave it a thought. There were maybe 12 “others”: Mexicans and Jews (no blacks or those included under that vague, all-encompassing term “Asian”) in my high school class, and it was ideal. We were all, truly, “the same.” This was in the 1950s and the 1960s, and these demographics were mostly the same for all the surrounding suburbs. The neighboring and formerly wonderful city of Compton started its downward trend in the 1950s, and by the mid-1960s its west side was hopelessly gone. But it did not have any effect on my family or acquaintances and, other than a new high school friend — a refugee from west Compton — blacks were not a subject of conversation or of much concern.

But this refugee had plenty to say; his experiences mirrored those horrific stories that we American Renaissance readers are well acquainted with, and he hated blacks. Although he fit in very well with us laid-back, fun-loving teens, he did have an edgy side to him. How could he not have, coming from that background? And it was he who instigated the first racial incident at our high school.

After an afternoon basketball game, four of us were walking home when a carload of west Compton fans drove by. The refugee said, “Watch, they’re going to give us the finger,” and, sure enough, they flipped us off. He immediately went berserk, as we all did, and started yelling at the car and running after it. (I don’t know how the finger would be taken now, but back then it meant a fight.) The blacks obliged us, and the car stopped and backed up to us. No doubt a fight was on. But then they all rolled up their windows and stayed inside looking at us. Without missing a beat, the refugee crushed in the passenger-side window with one blow while calling them chickens and cowards (to put it politely).

They immediately drove away, but after about a half a block, then all jumped out, popped the trunk, and took out tire irons, jacks, etc. There were enough of those weapons to arm all four of them, and they came running. We, armed with only our homework, started running the other way. About half a block into the chase, we ran into a backyard that looked like it might have something to even out the fight — a piece of wood, a rake, anything — but there was nothing. As we came out from the yard, empty handed, I can still remember thinking how good it was going to feel after we won the fight. But, then, as I looked past the attacking blacks and saw a police car, with siren blaring, miraculously pulling up, I thought how relieved I was that the incident was over.

That incident did not have any lasting effect on me, but the refugee’s hatred did leave an impression, as he was a good and trusted friend. His experiences and attitude helped me to understand and be prepared for the future of our hometown and the new black phenomena of our neighboring community, Watts, and its riots.

After high school I attended the local junior college, the legionary Compton Junior College. The city of Compton was in “transition” at the time, though not yet a s—hole, and I wasn’t the slightest concerned about taking night school classes there. I had one memorable chemistry class in which I was held in awe, wonder, and reverence by my fellow classmates, always scoring 20 to 40 points above them. I was the only white kid in the class. In all my prior years of education (in all-white schools), I had always been an average student, never considered exceptional. When did I become so smart? Or was there a different explanation?

Maybe six years after my graduation, the school system got its first blacks. I was well out of the loop by that time, but I did experience a couple of incidents. My lifelong home was on the Compton border, consequently we may have had the first home in our city to be burglarized (I doubt if our city had any burglaries before). And a friend’s cousin was jumped and had his face racked (literally) with the vicious steel-pronged combs all blacks carried. Of course, white flight quickly followed.

Eventually I got drafted and went to Vietnam where I made a few observations: First, the press at that time constantly claimed that blacks bore the brunt of the fighting and dying in Vietnam. I found this to be completely false, starting with my stateside training. During that time I remember only one black out of a total of maybe 80 guys. In Vietnam, I was in a forward position, small artillery. Our unit had maybe four blacks that “lasted.” The Army seems to have a quiet way of dealing with troublesome blacks. Once, a very strange black guy was assigned to our gun, and about two days later one of the crew said somebody had stolen $300. There was no way to prove who did it. Heaven forbid that the Army would do a search of everybody’s belongings, but a few days later the black guy was transferred out of our unit. This was not the only time something like that happened.

In my observations at the time, front-line positions always seemed to have very few blacks. But if you traveled to the big, secure supply bases (as I often did), the number of blacks was overwhelming. (From what I’ve seen of news reports of Iraq and Afghanistan, whites are still the vast majority of the front-line troops.) But, back to the Nam, every once in a while a black sergeant would accompany me on a supply run and, after we were inside the secured perimeter, we’d see blacks, often by the truckload. They were always very alert to other blacks, even from blocks away, and when they’d see my sergeant, they’d all give the black power salute.

Once, on a run, I found myself with some time to kill, so I found the GI club area. Man, I had forgotten how beautiful women can be! Not what you see out in the bush, but that’s a different story. After a while, I walked around the area, where I came to this terrible, decrepit, scary neighborhood, and I hung out just long enough to see the ugly, dirty prostitutes and their customers, all black GIs. Then it occurred to me, I had not seen any blacks in the previous bars. Of the Vietnamese, only the lowest of the low would have anything to do with the blacks. (Here in America they still have that same caution.)

After being back home for about six months, I was aghast to read in my hometown, pull-no-punches newspaper (definitely not the LA Times) that a local 17-year-old white boy had been attacked and stabbed to death at a local middle school by a group of seventh- and eighth-grade black boys. This shocked me to the core. I thought of my own middle school years, which had been wholesome and harmless, with nothing more than a few fist fights. Now a group of 12- and 13-year-old boys had stabbed somebody to death! There was something very wrong here.

A short time later, thanks to some stupid federal program which allowed totally unqualified blacks to buy homes, my parents sold the family home. I lived in the house during the escrow period, and I met my new neighbors and discovered that the old jokes about their promiscuity and smell were true. When the new owners moved in, I was there to turn over the house. They moved in their few belongings from their decrepit old truck, and, when done, there were some bricks in the truck’s bed. The two sons diligently removed them and, without a thought, threw them into the middle of our quiet, clean, residential street, and there they stayed.

Over the years I’ve had lots of interactions with blacks and, of course, I’d never engage in an overtly racial discussion with them, despite my righteous inclination to do so. I always have to remind myself that they don’t have the emotional tolerance nor the intellectual ability to really understand anything I’d say along those lines. But then, most whites don’t understand it either.

To conclude, the rest of my race realist education has come from news reports of the occasional horrific murders that make the news for a day and also today’s “Newspeak” terminology where “privilege” actually means concession and for whites to respond negatively to blacks is considered a terrible sin. I’ve come to the conclusion that a few statistics are all that are needed to justify my racial opinions, statistics one would be a fool to ignore:

• Blacks are 12% of the population but commit 60% of all crime.
• Black males are 6% of the population but commit 60% of all crime.
• Black males between the ages of 12 – 45 are 3% of the population but commit 60% of all crime.

Does anything else need to be said?

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.