Getting Away with Rape
Brittany Smith, American Renaissance, April 1, 2022
This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.
In 1987, just after graduating from high school, I was working in Maryland with a company that needed me to take a document into Washington, DC. It was a beautiful day and on Labor Day Monday, I knew the traffic would be light. I hopped into my two-year-old, freshly waxed Honda and headed out.
I was literally at the city line, waiting to turn left, when a panhandler started making his way towards me. I was an idealist and felt sorry for him, and started looking for some money to give him. The light was long, and I had time to check a couple of places. Finally, I found a dollar bill and was about to give it to him when suddenly, the driver door was flung open. The panhandler ordered me to get out of the car. I must’ve given him a bewildered look, because he grabbed my shoulder and ripped me right out of my seat. As soon as I was out of the car, another man came, got in, and drove off.
As I stood there in the street, in total shock, the panhandler held me and pressed a small pistol against my ribs. He told me that if I screamed or tried anything, he would kill me. We walked across the street and then for several blocks east of the intersection. I couldn’t run — I was beyond petrified. The man was black, gruff, and older. He told me that if I wanted to live I would keep my mouth shut. He asked if I understood. I dutifully nodded.
Eventually, we came to a house under renovation. The rear porch had a ripped screen and he was able to unlock the door. He pushed me through the doorway with such force that I nearly fell forward. I started looking around for anything I could use to defend myself. He must have seen me do this and reminded me to not try anything. Soon a younger black man arrived, and started speaking with my kidnapper. Then the new arrival walked up to me and punched me squarely in the face. After several more punches and a hit to the back of the head with a blunt object, I was feeling dizzy and could barely stand on my own. I begged them to let me leave, I told them I had money in the car, that they could even have my car, if they would just let me go. My weak pleas for mercy were met with laughter and name-calling.
The young guy knocked me down to the ground and ripped off my top, all the while telling me to stop moving. I started screaming at the top of my lungs, hoping someone would hear me. After about half a minute of shrieking, they hit me many times in the face, punched me in the chest, and kicked me several times in the ribs. The younger of the two hissed that he would kill me if I didn’t shut up. Hoping to reason with them, I once again asked if they could just please let me go. They could have my car, take my money, I would never tell anybody about this. They said nothing. I was punched repeatedly and pistol whipped.
I was getting desperate. Once again I started yelling. They threw me against a wall with such force I could feel bits of plaster in my hair and fragments cutting into my back. Then I felt warm blood dripping onto my neck. The young man pointed a gun at me and said he would kill me if I gave him any more “lip.”
The older one then put his pistol beneath my jaw and told me to be quiet, while the younger one left. Within a minute, he was back. He grabbed my throat and shoved something into my mouth. It was wet and warm and tasted foul. I realized this “gag” was a rag or a sock he had urinated on. I started retching and I could feel the vomit coming up my throat. I tried desperately to communicate what was happening. The older one caught on and told the other guy to take the gag out of my mouth. I threw up several times. As soon as I stopped heaving, the younger guy placed the soiled gag back in my mouth and found tape to put over it. I don’t think I have ever tasted something so gross in my life.
My jeans were ripped and pulled down and I was punched in the gut and kicked more in my side. I fought as hard as I could to push them off. I felt one of my shoulders pop — and, nearly immune to the pain, I realized I had broken off most of my acrylic nails. The men took turns holding down my arms and raping me. When they finally finished, they pulled me upright and told me to put my hands behind my back, which they then tied. Then they went back to taking turns raping, sodomizing, and hitting me. I prayed for it to end. I have no idea how many times I was kicked, punched, or slapped, but I’m sure it was in the hundreds. I was becoming numb and the horrible feeling of impending doom replaced desperation. I stopped struggling and went limp. I tried to disengage my mind from any pain and the reality of what was going on.
At one point, the young one said, “Oh sheeiit — I think she dea?” The old man told him to poke me to see if I responded. I ended up getting another kick in the ribs. The two then walked away, presumably to discuss what to do next. Then I heard footsteps and the older one said, “Leave it, you don’ wanna f*ck a dea ritz.” Then there were more footsteps, slowly growing fainter.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, smelling the mixture of paint, wood, plaster, and mold. Eventually, I looked around. I was in excruciating pain and bleeding. I found a paint tarp to wrap around me and stepped outside. I walked two blocks before collapsing on a bench. A Filipino couple saw me and came to my aid. I regret that I never got their names. They managed to get me to a nearby restaurant where I was able to sit and gather myself. A concerned and helpful bartender called the police. He got an extra pair of chef pants for me to wear and the restaurant manager gave me a t-shirt from the lost and found. The bartender served me water, soda, and a bowl of soup.
After nearly four hours of waiting at the restaurant, the District of Columbia police showed up to take my report, and a whole new nightmare began. Because the carjacking had occurred in DC, but the rape and assault was in Maryland, my case was a jurisdictional problem. Moreover, the cops didn’t know exactly how to classify the thing. A carjacking and a rape? A kidnapping with a sex assault and a carjacking — or something else? In the end, the two officers took my bag of bloodied clothes as evidence and thanked me for my thorough descriptions of the two suspects. They said a detective would contact me.
The next several weeks were awful. The ordeal of communicating with the investigators — and rehashing my story over and over turned out to be pointless. My face was severely swollen, my eyes were bright red, and I had a broken jaw. Two of my ribs were broken, one rib was fractured, and one of my fingers was also fractured. I had also suffered a mild concussion. Still, the physical effects paled in comparison to the trauma, despair, and complete humiliation. Emotionally, I was a mess, full of irrational fear, crippling anxiety, and horrifying dreams. I felt terrified when leaving the house, sick to my stomach at traffic intersections, and I developed an intense fear of panhandlers. In 1987, there were only a few rape advocacy groups. Organizations like RAINN did not yet exist. The police did eventually find my car. It had been towed from a liquor store in southeast DC for being double parked. Incredibly, my purse, pager, Vuarnet sunglasses, and Guess jacket were still inside, but the car was scratched and dinged up. There were marks from someone snorting lines of cocaine on the dashboard.
In the months that followed, I tried to continue with life as best I could, but fear still defined most of it. I slept with two knives, pepper spray, a golf club nearby, and a shotgun near my nightstand. I kept in touch with police, and found out that there had been other, similar attacks — all near the DC line. The detective said they had not yet found the suspects. The evidence they had would be sent to the FBI, since these crimes were now considered multi-jurisdictional. I saw a therapist, who was a good listener and helped me cope. Back then, PTSD was not something that was diagnosed often, so the method of dealing with the trauma was talk therapy. She recommended some books. On her advice, I started volunteering once a week at a homeless shelter. I had to keep the façade up.
In the months that followed, I worked, was productive, and eventually moved on, but was never quite the same. My trust in people had eroded. Was it black people in particular? I think it was more geared toward blacks, but I was suspicious of men, law enforcement, and even people in positions of authority. I had been plucked – literally — from my car, during daylight hours, in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in DC! Two years after the attack, I learned that the FBI had “misslogged” the evidence for my case, but was trying hard to find it.
I still think about my attackers — thankfully not as often as I used to. It’s likely the older one is dead by now. They both could be, given their way of life. Regardless, after my carjacking and assault, they went on with their lives, leaving me to rot in my own mental prison. By attacking me, they imprisoned my freedom and held captive any sense of security I once had. Now I look over my shoulder, keep my eyes on entryways and exits, and am hyper-vigilant. It is draining.
As brutal as my rape was, it did not turn me into a race realist overnight. That came over ten years later from seeing the decay of several different neighborhoods in and around Washington, DC, including the one in which I grew up. Driving through these areas was depressing, especially knowing how they once were. The common denominator behind the blight was blacks, no exceptions. Around the same time, the number of incompetent blacks working in my field due to “affirmative action” skyrocketed. So many of them seemed incapable of keeping a schedule, showing up on time, or following even basic rules. And no matter how easy the work or how high the pay, they always wanted it easier — and more pay.
Then came Black Lives Matter, Ferguson, Freddie Gray, wokeness, Critical Race Theory, the riots, and all the rest. The George Floyds, Daunte Wrights, Michael Browns, et. al. were running from the law. All had arrest records, and, if they had obeyed with police, their deaths could have been avoided. A white woman, even a liberal one, can tolerate only so much.
Whites need to stand up and halt the erasure of our culture and the physical attacks on our people. If we don’t, we’ll soon find ourselves paying reparations to the very blacks who burn our cities, destroy our businesses, rob, rape, assault, and kill us. Even now, many of them are, quite literally, getting away with murder.
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.