Unpleasant and Illuminating Encounters with Non-Whites

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

My sister was held up at gunpoint by a random group of young blacks while on a playground with some college friends. Her white friend was pistol-whipped in front of her. My parents and I drove to that state immediately after and visited that part of town. It was five minutes away from her school.
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Another sister fled her city and her newly-redesigned home, pregnant and married, after a group of black men broke into her neighbor’s apartment and gang-raped a woman at gunpoint, in front of her boyfriend, before robbing them. At the time I thought it was a shame to give up after the hard work of building a home; but looking back, I’m glad she left.
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In that same city, eating dinner with my family, I noticed blue police lights flickering outside in the street. We walked out and saw that my sister’s car had had its windows smashed, and police officers had three black boys in handcuffs sitting on the ground next to it. My sister felt angry and violated and was in a state of shock. This was the second time her car had had its windows smashed and been looted. My father asked if he could have a word with the blacks and tried to explain to them that he spends much of his working hours in legal outreach to the black community, trying to help them, and why did they do this?
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In college in a West Coast city, I befriended a Haitian man, around age 50, who was being kept afloat by local charities. He said he had a daughter and needed money for her diapers. In the next sentence, he also said that he needed money for her art lessons. We let him into our apartment for food and conversation and handed him a few bills. A few days later, our place was broken into and robbed of cash and musical instruments; we never saw him again.
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In another West Coast city, in a charming, white part of town, I saw a group of black teenagers run down the block, hooting and hollering. They broke a few windows, knocked over plants and trash cans, and generally tried to destroy whatever they could.
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In California, a block from my apartment in a mixed Vietnamese and black neighborhood, a black man yelled at me, “I’m gonna’ slit your throat!”
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Driving Uber in a California city, I drove a Filipino man to his job as a night-shift gas station attendant. The gas station was in a notoriously dangerous black neighborhood. My passenger said the gas station installed bullet-proof glass a few years back after the murder of one of the Chinese station attendants. He carried a handgun and said he wasn’t afraid of the black men, but that the Chinese attendants were too fearful to work night shifts. The man explained to me that, even though attendants were safely locked in a room with bulletproof glass, the black men who milled around the gas station had ways to draw the attendants outside to rob them. One trick was to break a gas pump hose and hold it up to the window so the attendant would come out. Sometimes, blacks would just rob customers pumping their gas. A fun game was to throw large objects at the bullet-proof glass window, to test its strength.
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In the second-most dangerous part of town in this California city, the sidewalks are an open-air drug market and homeless encampment unlike anything I’ve ever seen before (even in slums of third-world countries). Most of the residents are black. To walk down the sidewalk is to see drugs handled, sold, injected . . . all in broad daylight.
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In a California city where I lived, most everyone you meet has been assaulted by blacks or knows of someone who has. Living there for a year, I had the uncomfortable feeling that it was only a matter of time before I was assaulted. In the end, I was indeed assaulted by blacks, a few days before I was due to move to another part of the city. I’ve never been back.
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In this California city, I asked a security guard why he had to stand outside of a Lululemon clothing store. This was in the safest, wealthiest, whitest part of town. He told me that the store hired him full-time, in response to a series of robberies by a group of black women who would drive up, walk into the store, grab armloads of expensive clothing, and walk out. A clerk inside told me they called the black women “the rainbow girls,” after their colorful fake plastic hair they sewed into their scalps.
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Driving Uber in a California city, I gave a ride to a charming, quiet, well-mannered black girl, who sat in the front seat. A few minutes later, we picked up a black woman who was very ghetto and foul-mouthed. She was deep into a loud phone conversation when she got into the back seat. The ghetto woman in back continued her loud conversation about sucking a “catfish n—-r’s d–k”. It was apparently a conversation about fellating a black man with an ugly penis. I asked her to not speak on the phone for the sake of the other rider. The well-mannered black girl told me she didn’t mind, at which point I angrily said that I minded. The ghetto black woman didn’t stop, so I pulled the car to the side of the road, opened up the back door and asked the ghetto black woman to get out so I could “adjust the seat.” When she got out, I closed her door and jumped back into the driver’s seat. Realizing what was happening, the ghetto black woman jumped back into the back seat and started crying and yelling at me that I was being racist. The seemingly sane black girl in the front seat got into the backseat to hug the confused, crying black woman. Together, they called me racist and consoled each other for the rest of the ride, lamenting the cruel world they had to deal with.
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Driving Uber while in a California city, I picked up a charming young black father around 30 years old, from a downtown motel. He was hungover. It was noon, and he put an empty 40-oz bottle gently in a patch of grass on the sidewalk before climbing into the back seat, saying, “The city will clean it up.” Over the course of 30 minutes, we had a great time chatting about life. He told me he likes to gamble and had just won big the night before, and stayed up all night. He was on his way to pick up his kids from his baby mama and was going to surprise them with a train ride to grandmother’s house instead of the usual bus ride. We picked them up, and they were happy. I enjoyed his company and was glad to meet him but felt sorry children who think is normal.
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In this California city, I parked my car in an open spot two houses down from the place I’d just moved into. A drunken black woman, holding a half-eaten chicken wing and a glass of booze, knocked on my window before I got out, to say, “You can’t park here; this is my spot.” Incredulous and angry, I got out to confront her, at which point some black men, also drinking — my new neighbors — started to walk towards me. She threw the chicken bone and paper plate into the street and said that if I parked there, there would be trouble. I got back into my car; and for the rest of my year in that apartment, I never parked anywhere near her place.
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On this same street in California, another black neighbor murdered his black friend on the sidewalk across the street from my apartment, causing a SWAT team to descend on the street and a helicopter to hover above our building for hours, blaring down messages at the black man and at his neighbors.
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In California, I was walking with a date a few blocks from my apartment when a black man in a car pulled up next to us and said, “If I see you here again I’m gonna kill you.”
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In California, a group of black teenagers, unprovoked, threw grapefruit-sized chunks of asphalt at a friend and me while we were sitting outside of a cafe. Everyone who was outside ran into the cafe. When the police came, they told me that if I had fought them, I would have gone to jail, but my assailants would have been released as minors.
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My grad school offered scholarships, one for minorities in California. Being a white person in California made me a minority, so I raised my hand (Latinos are the majority). The school administrator and the rest of the grad students were offended at my request, and the administrator refused to pass me a scholarship pamphlet.
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In California, I saw a very fat black woman empty a mountain of trash onto the street from her minivan in broad daylight
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In California, an educated, well-dressed and reasonably intelligent black friend told me, “You brought us here; you gotta take care of us.”
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During a business class in California, my black teacher said he didn’t want to see another blond face on the cover of a magazine. I was enraged but said nothing.
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In an East Coast city in the laundromat on a Saturday morning, I saw a black mother repeatedly punch her black teenage son in the side of the head. He was sullen and resigned. The Asian female staff were terrified but did nothing. The other customers, all black, acted as if nothing was happening. When I yelled at her to stop and that I was calling the police, she yelled back, “It’s OK if it doesn’t leave a mark!” Then, she threatened to call her boyfriend, who would beat my ass.
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Living in my East Coast city, I recall seeing a black mother yell at her two- or three-year-old to “Get the f–k in the car!!!” not even lending a hand. The little girl, sucking on a pacifier, was too short to come anywhere near climbing in. I stopped and stared: the mother eventually yanked the girl up violently by her arm, placing her on the back seat before closing the door.
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Living in my East Coast city, I was walking to the subway in a semi-black part of town. A very wide, large black woman in her 40s and her boyfriend were walking towards me. I moved a little out of her way, but she didn’t return the favor; and her fat body collided with mine. She acted the victim, and loudly yelled for all to hear that this white man just hit her. Her fat black boyfriend ran up to me, got in my face, and demanded I apologize to his girlfriend, which I did.
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Living in an East Coast city, I visited a DSW shoe store in a black part of town because their website claimed that the boots I wanted were in stock. I brought in a different pair of boots I’d bought elsewhere to return. I did everything normally (trying them on, paying for the new pair, returning the old pair). As I was leaving, two men jumped out blocking my exit and whisked me into a back office. They thought I had shoplifted and were stone-faced as I explained to them, laughingly, that they were wrong. They told me their store had a massive theft problem. The customers were all black.
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Living in an East Coast city, the only people I ever see hopping the subway turnstiles are black and Hispanic people of all ages and both sexes. They often fall over or get stuck in the turnstiles, and ask others for help.
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Often, I’ll see a group of blacks and Hispanics waiting behind the large metal handicapped subway exit door for someone to open it on the way out. Then the freeloaders walk through.
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Living in an East Coast city, I rode the bus for a few months. Whenever the bus stopped, black and Latino people would enter the back door of the bus (the exit door), so they could avoid paying the fare. When I asked the black bus driver why he didn’t stop the bus and make them pay, he replied, “Not my job.”
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Living in an East Coast city, walking down the steps of a major train station one night, I found filthy, homeless black men clogging the main entrance, lounging or passing out. One of them had his penis out and was stroking it, in full view. I alerted the police nearby, and they said, “If we pick him up, he’ll end up right back here.”
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In an East Coast city on the subway, a black woman yelled at the tired, evening crowd, “All y’all white people need to get the f___ out of here…ya’ll don’t belong here and you’re raising my f—–g rent!!”
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Living in a Scandinavian country a few years back, I went looking for apartments to rent outside of the city center. One neighborhood turned out to be all black African, which was a shock. As soon as I got off the train, Scandinavian culture stopped. There was trash on the streets, lots of black men milling about doing nothing, plastic bags stuck even in tree branches, and angry glares from the black inhabitants. I never looked at the apartment.
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I was a day away from joining my girlfriend in Long Island for a few days of vacation. She had gone ahead to check out the town and Airbnb the day before, and called me crying. In the rain, with a flat bike tire, she had just been followed by a car-full of Hispanic men, who called out to her with sexually suggestive terms. When I got there (it was our first time visiting Long Island), I was disappointed: pickup trucks of migrant Hispanic workers roamed the towns. The train station was full of drugged-out, homeless black and Hispanic men in various states of intoxication and undress, sleeping on the ground and on the benches.
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At the supermarket, a young black mother around age 25 was pushing a brimming shopping cart with her three children. She seemed demure and smiled at me in line as I smiled at her baby. A few minutes later, as I was leaving, she was yelling at the Hispanic grandmother cashier, furious that she was being charged for paper bags and demanding to speak to the manager. The check-out line froze. The young male Hispanic manager, eager to get the scene over with, motioned for the cashier to give her the paper bags for free. Ten minutes later, I saw the same mom with baby and toddlers in tow, enter a shop that sells bongs and smoke supplies.