Posted on September 19, 2020

How I Became a Race Realist

Fiona Baker, American Renaissance, September 19, 2020

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 raised by a Green Beret officer and his mother-in-law. As an “army brat” I grew-up in a multi-racial environment, and the most important social division I encountered regularly was between officers and enlisted men — not race. The “anti-racist” indoctrination I was subjected to from an early age was so profound that it was a long time before I “saw the light,” and could admit to myself that race is real and important. Below are the incidents that got me there.

The first one was in Houston, Texas, in 1980. One day my husband and I were driving home after doing some shopping when suddenly — out of nowhere — another car smashed into ours. They made impact between the driver’s side door and front panel and we spun violently into a telephone pole. At the time, I was three and a half months pregnant. When we got out of our wrecked car, we saw that the occupants of the other vehicle had as well. They were five Hispanic men, and they were all standing in front of the back license plate — making it impossible for us to read it. My husband made sure I was okay and then approached the Hispanics to get their insurance information and their plate number. They kept gesturing that they did not speak English and would not move, despite my husband’s repeated requests.

A woman from a nearby business came outside and told my husband he could come in if he wanted to call the police. She said quietly “Do not try to force your way between them to get their plate number. . . they will knife you.” My husband went with her and as soon as he stepped inside her shop, the five men jumped back into their car and sped off. The police refused to come because no one was injured. They said that in situations like the one we were in, both parties were expected to exchange insurance information, turn it in to those companies, and let them deal with it. My husband explained to them that he just saw the other car drive off, that his car was wrecked, and that his pregnant wife took a hit with the telephone pole. But, because I was not bleeding, no one would come. Within four hours, I was in the Emergency Room to undergo a dilation and curettage procedure after I miscarried. I learned that day that illegal aliens could come into my country, injure me, cause my unborn baby’s death — and get away with it. If another American, insured, had hit us, the proper procedure would have been followed. Instead, we were stuck with all the bills and all the trauma.

The second incident happened in Austin, Texas in 1988. I was a department manager for a retail store. I had several women and young men working under me: eight whites, three Hispanics, and one black woman. I was on very friendly terms with all of them, especially the women close to me in age. The black womanhad never crossed the Mississippi River. She was very interested in “the South,” and was always asking me about it. She told me she was scared to go to Southern states because of the lynchings and church burnings. I told her it wasn’t like that at all, that a few bad things had happened there, but that for the most part, the races got along. In hindsight, I should have wondered why she was always asking me questions, but I was young and I never would have predicted what was to come.

We gave employees their birthday off with pay. We tried to give it the day of their birthday, but that wasn’t a guarantee. If our department were say, having a big sale or it was inventory time, you would get a day off with pay close to — but not necessarily on your birthday. That’s what happened with my black employee. She wanted her exact birthday off, but unfortunately, it fell on a Saturday during a huge sale, and all employees would have to be there. Two days later, I was called to the office of my store manager. He said that a racism complaint had been lodged against me. The woman had told him that I wouldn’t give her the exact day of her birthday off because she was black. When the store manager told her this wasn’t the case, that the sale was at fault, not me, she told him that I had been “subtly threatening” regularly by telling her stories about the South and how blacks were treated there.

I could not believe she had said all this. I started crying. I was a single mother who worked hard at her job and strove to treat all her employees well. Thank God the store manager saw through this black woman’s ploy and stuck by me. But I was still in a state of disbelief. This whole time, I had thought she and I were pretty close: I had even had her over at my home for lunch several times over the years. After her complaint, she was transferred to another department. Every time we passed by each other, she would put on a mean scowl and look the other way. I was told to never speak to her again and to never bring this up with her. I saw then what blacks were capable of in the workplace. I never forgot that lesson.

Finally, there’s this pattern: My immediate family and I  have been the victims of crime five times in my lifetime. Each time the perpetrators were black. These have not been petty crimes either. At the age of 57, my mother was sitting on her front porch when a group of armed blacks decided to rob her home. One of them hit her in the head with his gun so hard that the wound required eight stitches. If it weren’t for blacks, my family would be wholly unfamiliar with what it’s like to be a victim of crime. Today, I call myself a “race realist” and am happy to live on the 15th floor of a high-rise — a mighty barrier for any criminal thug. I just wish everyone could be so lucky.