Chloé Vernon, American Renaissance, March 20, 2021
This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.
I guess I was born with racial awareness. I can’t recall ever not noticing differences in appearances and behaviors between races, even in elementary school, but my awareness always was always just that — awareness. When I was a little older and race became more of a “thing” between kids, I never felt so much as a twinge of white guilt. It never made sense to me why I should.
I was raised in a suburb of a large southeastern city. It was majority white, and the blacks and Hispanics I went to school with weren’t any poorer than their white peers. Still, by the time I reached high school, I couldn’t help but notice that in spite of our similar backgrounds, many black students behaved very differently from the rest of us. They stuck together, period. For the most part, they weren’t openly hostile to whites, but they clearly preferred their own company. Their self-appointed section of the cafeteria was always noisy with whoops and shouts and raucous laughter. In the rare event that there was a conflict between a black and white student, the blacks always took the side of their own no matter what had led up to the incident. Still, I didn’t hold any particular animosity towards them — though I did my best to avoid them.
When I was 16, I worked at a fast food restaurant. One of my co-workers was a heavyset white girl in her early 20s who only dated black guys. These “boyfriends” often came into the restaurant and just loitered, asking this girl for free food. Even though I was obviously underage, they also hit on me a lot. To her credit, my co-worker would always step in and tell them to knock it off, saying that I was just a kid and that I wasn’t “down.” They typically backed off after that, but not politely, and they’d go back to flirting with me the next week. But as I got older, there stopped being anyone to step in on my behalf, and I discovered that turning down a black guy must be handled far more delicately than a white one.
I still live in the same area I grew up in, and have spent my adult life in “white flight.” I have moved several times, each move a bit further out towards the countryside, but “diversity” just keeps catching up. My last move, several years ago, was to the northern part of my county, an area known for its whiteness, safety, and great schools. Unfortunately the amount of non-whites has since skyrocketed. Some of them are professionals, and tolerable enough to live around, but with their numbers ever-growing, so is crime and a general decline of the area. Their kids embrace their blackness and treat white kids with open scorn. Even in my upscale subdivision, we rarely try to go to the pool anymore because there are often groups of black youths cavorting around, being loud and vulgar. They invite their friends and bring speakers to the pool to blast “music” that nobody else wants to hear. Despite several complaints, the homeowner association is hesitant to take any action. Most of the residents intuitively know that this is for fear of the dreaded “racist” label. Many of the older whites there are leaving in search of a place far enough away that their flight will be sufficient to get them through their last 20-30 years of life.
To make matters worse, our county is now participating in “school choice” at the high school level, so kids are being bussed in from very rough neighborhoods in other cities. Part of the reason we moved here — knowing the homes cost more and the property taxes are higher — was so our kids could get a great education. They are now a minority at their school, and if they take a regular class instead of Honors or Advanced Placement, the classroom is too disrupted by shenanigans for them to focus. We won’t be dealing with it for much longer. My family, like so many others, will be leaving soon. I’m so angry and resentful that this is what my town has become. I feel forced out of the place I have always considered home. It won’t be safe here much longer. The results of our local elections, even more than the national one, were the nail in the coffin for what was once a secure and lovely place to live.
But for me, the elections weren’t the most sobering aspect of 2020. As soon as I heard the news about George Floyd, I thought “Great . . . here we go. They’re going to riot for a few days.” What happened was far beyond what I’d expected. My family sat watching the TV in horror as cities burned, stores were looted, historic statues were destroyed, and people were attacked — all while police mostly stood down. I saw what happened to Mark and Patricia McCloskey in St. Louis, and Kyle Rittenhouse in Kenosha, and one by one, the last scales fell from my eyes. This was no protest for equality, or a simple message of black lives mattering (though they seem to matter less to their own people than to anyone else), or a “summer of love.” It was (and is) a revolution meant to overthrow everything our country once was, all our history, and the accomplishments of our white ancestors. It was rioting with hatred for our very foundations at its core.
I felt a true, deep, burning rage for everyone involved in what was happening. I realized that they hate us — both blacks and their ethno-masochistic handlers — and that they mean to do away with us. What will happen in the United States without a significant white population? What will happen to the world without us? Only deluded whites believe in a melting pot of utopian existence and equality for all. Non-whites don’t want to peacefully coexist with us; they want to rule over us, and soon there will be nowhere left to run as our people have ceded our homelands out of misguided compassion, apathy, or both.
The events of last year gave me the final push into being firmly and unabashedly pro-white. We must survive, and fence-sitting won’t do it anymore. The opposition’s masks are off, and they are no longer hiding their contempt and loathing. There is no one else to advocate for our survival. We fight for ourselves, or we face the music.
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.