Discovering That My Father Was White Led Me to Race Realism

This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

I always thought I was a regular black woman. In fact, anybody looking at me would suppose that I am fully black. My mother is black. She married a black man before I was born, and I was raised to believe that he was my biological father. I still have his family name, and I don’t feel like changing it because I still love him.

I was raised lower-middle-class in France, a very color-blind country that is slowly but surely getting more aware of racial realities thanks to white leftists and black/Arab Muslim “anti-racists” fighting “decolonialism,” police brutality, and “systemic racism.” I was always among the best students from first to twelfth grade, and I never really thought about race beyond the typical anti-racism indoctrination in school.

My parents are immigrants from West Africa. They have French first names and gallicize their surnames to “be more French.” I’ve never heard them complain about racism in France, only that they had to work hard to succeed, like other immigrants. They criticized Muslims for not integrating into French society. Muslims complain about blasphemy (which is legal in France), demand to be able to wear Islamic veils or long beards everywhere they go, and try to impose no-pork meals in public schools, etc. My parents were also very critical (privately) of Arab youths because many of them commit all types of violence against everybody else (homosexuals, blacks, and especially white French people). They also lamented that Africa is still not developing despite some improvement before the pandemic. They think it’s because incompetent leaders are funded and kept in power by the West. I used to agree with them.

I didn’t think much about my own family tree. My parents’ country is poor and corrupt, and its colonial history wasn’t interesting (I won’t even talk about its almost non-existent pre-colonial history). I am not proud of this country (and most of Africa), but I don’t care because I feel more French than anything. I’ve always been proud of France and fascinated by her history, architecture, literature, everything! Of course, I don’t like the fact that she colonized Africa and restored slavery in the West Indies, but I don’t obsess over it.

I was a liberal till this year: I thought human races didn’t exist, and that any political party was better than the French National Front because of its controversial ideas. I thought that since we all bled red we were supposed to treat one another like siblings. Consequently, I disliked the “identity politics” of the Left. I never suffered from racism in France. Most of my black friends are succeeding in their lives, so I didn’t (and still don’t) understand where leftists got the idea that non-white people — they call us “racialized” — were oppressed. I noticed they used a lot of anglicisms, so I deduced that their ideology came from the US. It made no sense to me because we have a different history. These French leftists were just chewing over American history and uncritically regurgitating it onto French history.

My dad died in a car accident in January 2020, and I felt I had lost a part of myself. Mourning was hard, but — and I hate to say it — the lockdown let me grieve his death better, as I stayed at home with my mom. In May, she confided that Dad wasn’t my biological father. My real father was a white man with whom she had a short affair before meeting my “dad,” and she never told him. I couldn’t believe it because I don’t look mixed, and my dad never noticed either. She told me I could do a DNA test if I didn’t believe her.

I didn’t know how to feel. I loved my dad so much, and I was so mad at my mom for hiding it from me – and from him! But I took the test. A few weeks later, I received the results: 49 percent north-western European (from France, British Isles, and Denmark) and 51 percent Sub-Saharan African (from West and Central Africa). I didn’t feel like contacting my biological father because what would I tell him? I was still hurt by my mom’s actions. In October 2020, I moved out, but I was still contacting her daily. At some point, the daily contacts became weekly, then monthly. As I write this article, it has been two months and a half since I last called her.

My mother’s immoral actions led me to research genetics to learn how some mixed people could look the way I look despite 49 percent European ancestry. Inadvertently, I came across websites about genetics that anybody in France would call “racist.” Needless to say, I was shocked by the big differences between blacks and whites. However, this fascinated me, and I went further in my research and discovered sites like American Renaissance and began reading articles about genetics and race differences. It quickly all made sense to me: the intelligence gap between blacks and whites was considerable. The fact that the former invented nothing and are louder, more violent and aggressive, scarier, fatter, and much less attractive (that’s truer of unmixed Africans; even as a child, I noticed it) than whites confirmed my own observation that they were less “accomplished” in a way.

You can see it daily: left-leaning blacks tend to hate whites, especially white men, because of the superiority of white achievements in nearly every field. The rest try to make themselves look like whites through wigs, hair weaves, bleaching creams, nose jobs, and blue or green contact lenses (and that’s truer of darker-skinned blacks of all ethnicities). I am not saying these things to be mean or to suggest that they don’t deserve respect, but they contribute to nothing positive. Almost all black-run countries are unpleasant places to live, and the foreign aid sent to them is a total waste of money.

When blacks rioted all over the world after George Floyd’s death, I found the violence disproportionate. Now I find it despicable. He was a violent criminal; yet he was treated like a martyr. Most black westerners (whether immigrants or descendants of slaves) are social leeches at best and predatory criminals at worst. If they get themselves killed by the police, they become glorious victims. Even when they succeed in life, they still manage to blame white supremacy, for some reason.

I am a mixed woman who looks black. I don’t plan to marry anytime soon because I feel that I’d be a white man’s burden, and I’m not attracted to black men. The world doesn’t need more mixed people who’ll be confused and resentful towards a part of themselves, so maybe I’ll adopt a white child — cuter, calmer, and smarter than a black child. I’ll teach him about how great his race and civilization are; but for now, I’ll be a pro-white advocate in my own ways. I don’t know what my white father is up to or even if he’s still alive, but I want to preserve his heritage. I don’t want the land he came from to become the land my mother came from.

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.