The Story of a Hispanic Race Realist

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 and raised in the Midwest to a light-skinned Costa Rican mother and a German-American father. You would never guess I have Latin American heritage just by looking at me, and growing up, I never thought much about race. After graduating high school, I went to a prestigious West Coast university and entered a brand new world of culture, education, and enlightenment. Next came graduate school and a stint in the Army. Eventually, I ended up working for my alma mater in a generic office role — the fate of many liberal arts majors.

In my new position, many of my colleagues were black and didn’t have college degrees. Initially, I didn’t care. I got along well with blacks, and never thought about colleagues at work racially, only professionally. I was socially liberal, buying into the many criticisms of my own race, and how downtrodden yet beautifully human blacks are. The city I lived in had its fair share of crime, but I never thought about it in terms of race. In fact, I never considered race to be an issue whatsoever in my life, until after 15 years at that job. Since we worked for a public university, our salaries were transparent. Slowly, I noticed that the blacks around me were getting promotions, and pay that was beyond their skill level, while my expertise and talent went unrewarded. My department relied on me when it came to difficult projects and working with contractors. The blacks in the office had much simpler roles, but were paid as much or even more than me. Whenever I asked for a raise the department would always plead poverty.

Like many Americans, a watershed moment in my racial thinking came when I saw the country’s reaction to news about a black person being killed by a white police officer — in my case, it was Darren Wilson’s shooting of Michael Brown in 2014. Even though the incident took place far away from my state, there were still riots in my city. The train system I used to get to work everyday started seeing more instances of racially motivated violence, and the riots shut down some of its stations. It was then that I first really took notice that I was one of only very few whites that used public transportation regularly, and that I might end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I kept thinking about Reginald Denny, that innocent white trucker beaten nearly to death by blacks during the Rodney King riots. I felt scared.

While all this was going on, I tried to get a raise again. The executives at my department, all white and well-paid, sat down with me and over the course of an hour explained that budget restraints and bureaucracy made a raise out of the question, and suggested that if I was unhappy about that, I could always quit. There I was, one of their best, most diligent and sharpest employees, relied upon by other senior employees to get major projects done, and they were happy to let me go rather than give me a modest raise. I was devastated. It made me realize that, in the name of diversity, I was disposable. I was a good liberal, and had always lived next to, commuted with, and worked next to non-whites. But none of that mattered. Upper management would always go out of their way to reward and boost non-white employees because it reflected well on them to do so. I would always be last in line, no matter my qualifications or work ethic.

So I got a different job and moved to a much whiter state. It is refreshing to walk down the street or into a store, and not have to be the “outsider,” the “white man.” At work, I don’t have to worry about racism interfering with my advancement. The crime here is minimal too. As I’ve discovered thanks to the FBI’s website, the lack of crime in my newfound white is not a coincidence. I am no longer impressed by the mainstream media’s penchant for tales of “innocent” blacks being brutalized by thuggish white cops. Thanks to LiveLeak, I know that whites regularly face monumentally worse treatment at the hands of black criminals. The “melting pot” that my Costa Rican mother believed in is gone. When she was a child, people from other countries were expected to learn English and integrate into American society. That has now been replaced by the anti-assimilationist doctrine of “multiculturalism” that encourages balkanization and the erosion of any sense of community, nationhood, or unity. Simultaneously, the concept of “racism” is used to forgive any and every shortcoming of non-whites — at the expense of whites. Morgan Freeman has said that the way to reduce racial tension is to “stop talking about it.” This is a pipe dream. Jared Taylor is correct in suggesting that it is not our enlightenment that minority groups and guilt-ridden whites are after, it’s simply, and brutally, our “replacement.” And with that knowledge, I cannot and will not be naïve again.

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.