I was raised properly and traditionally, in a rural, blue-collar, Midwestern setting. Although it was rocky at times, I was lucky enough that my parents stuck it out and are still married to this day. Because so many of our brothers and sisters weren’t blessed in this way, I feel an added responsibility, that I was given an advantage, so I must utilize it to the benefit of all (of our in-group that is).
I grew up in the Catholic Church (unmolested for any who were wondering). I used to go to the Wednesday night CCD classes with all of the kids in my grade. I specifically remember the first time I heard of the concept of “original sin” and, even as a pre-pubescent boy, I was quite skeptical of it. I honestly didn’t care for it. It didn’t seem right to me that you were guilty from birth, before you’d ever even had the opportunity to make a conscious decision. It was almost a form of “sin debt.” Hmmm…
My Dad was (and still is) a race-realist. He came off the farm, and isn’t one to mince words. A very passionate man, in a fit of anger (usually in the garage working on a car or tractor), he could string together a slew of curse words and racial slurs in a way that was hilarious, terrifying and poetic all at once. Although the brunt of his ingenuity lies in the mechanical realm, there’s no question I got most of my word-smithery from him. And he always said, “you have to be meaner than the job.” He was right.
He used to tell us stories of his time in basic training when he was put in charge of a ten-man squad, including himself. Eight of the ten men in his squad were black, and were likely there because they were given the choice between incarceration or military service, and they chose the latter. My Dad was on the receiving end of the benefits of this ingenious policy. These eight blacks took every opportunity to let Dad know that they hated him and did everything they could to make his life a living hell up to and including violence, of course. He managed to make it through that experience mostly unscathed, but hardened by the realities of race.
This hardness was further forged by his experiences living in a major Midwestern city while he went to technical school in the early to mid 70s. He was robbed multiple times, naturally. He also worked nights at a filling station, working the cash register and also driving a wrecker. As you can imagine, he saw just about everything the Africanized parts of town had to offer. He also lived in a pretty rough area, the kind where people greet a knock on their door with the barrel of a loaded gun.
For any idiots who want to blame our current situation on the Baby Boomers (my Dad falls squarely in that category), as the anecdotes above exemplify, they had “diversity” viciously thrust upon them in their youth, much like ourselves. Our current dilemma isn’t the fault of any one generation, but a product of the natural ebbs and flows of civilizations and empires and our enemy’s ability to exploit the down cycles. They’re clever, but only in deceit and destruction. We are the creators. The constructionists. There will be an up-swing, and it’s coming sooner than you think.
Back to the story: I grew up hearing the stories of my Dad’s experiences with out-groups and it certainly instilled a cold realism in me. However, I also came of age in the late 80s and early 90s, watching the Cosby Show, Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and idolizing NBA basketball players. I know this pained my Dad, and rightfully so, but he did a good job of instilling familial and racial pride in my siblings and me regardless.
I went off to a four-year liberal university and was further indoctrinated. I could see the far-leftist agenda everywhere, what I would later come to understand as Cultural Marxism. It was most present in a class I took called “Race and Ethnicity in the Media.”
It was exactly what it sounds like. With an uppity female professor who became livid if you didn’t address her as “Doctor” So and So, I was often at odds with the subject matter and complained about it regularly to my friends. I was introduced to a concept called “White Blindness” which, from my recollection, the professor claimed to have coined, although I’ve never been able to find any documentation of it in retrospect.
“White Blindness” is essentially a variation of “White Privilege” in which White people are unable to see things from the minority perspective. Technically this is true, but it’s also true that minorities are unable to understand the world from the perspective of White people. If they did, they would understand that our prosperity largely comes, not from some magical “White Privilege”, but from our genetic inclination to work hard, cooperate, and maintain and build upon what our ancestors have constructed. And yes, these strengths make us highly adept at conquering out-groups. That’s just human nature.
I couldn’t wait to get out of college. Although it would make sense in a sane society for someone of my ilk to have an ongoing relationship with academia, in our current paradigm, it was clear that my unapologetic, straight, White, maleness and all that comes with it (logic, order, work ethic), was not welcome there.
As much as I love my family, my friends and the place I’m from, and as much as I want (and still want) to be rooted there, I began to wander.
I didn’t know exactly what I was seeking, but I knew things weren’t right. Absolutely everything seemed to be going in the wrong direction. My instincts told me we were headed for a cataclysm, but so few seemed worried about it. Most people I came across wanted everyone else to believe that they were as happy and light-hearted as the multi-racial cast in a Coca-Cola commercial, but underneath this thin veneer, a longing for some greater purpose often expressed itself in desperate and sometimes dark ways.
There was hedonism, there was betrayal, and there was floundering, all engulfed in an abyss of aimlessness, but never for a lack of trying. Everyone seemed tired, overwhelmed and drained, as if a giant vampire with mountainous fangs had quietly crept in during the night, invited by soft underbelly of decadence.
I tried forming multiple groups, usually around a partial ideology or particular interest, but they were all blurry, with unsustainable purpose. As an individual wandering, I eventually collapsed in on myself, exhausted from the journey. I had been away from home for too long and was becoming someone I didn’t recognize. I didn’t like me. I had to get back home. I had to get back to my roots. I needed my feet in the mud and to remember how important it is to make things of stone.
During a period of regeneration, I heard of the Trayvon Martin case, but was largely checked out of broader cultural and political issues. I checked back in right around the time of the Michael Brown debacle. I had my news savvy pal explain the situation to me because I couldn’t understand why blacks were acting like it was the 1960s all over again. I thought we were beyond that.
In my travels, I had seen the advantages that blacks were given in nearly every situation, whether the work place, in academia, in a social setting, you name it. Affirmative Action had been exponentially extrapolated into every sector of society and yet, it still wasn’t enough.
Obama, in his second turn, exacerbated the situation by validating these perceived grievances with highly subjective and pandering policies.
In the run-up to Donald Trump’s election, it became ever clearer that he was not being fiercely opposed simply because of his proposed policies or rhetoric, but more so because of what he represented: The White Man Taking a Stand.
In the ensuing chaos from Trump’s election, I became aware of the Alt-Right and the Dissident Right more broadly. I became fully immersed in the ideas of Race Realism and the JQ. Everything clicked into place and my perspective finally had a sharp focus. I could see myself and the larger body that I was a natural part of. I also now had a broader vision of the waves smashing me off the rocks.
It’s as if I was born again, into my skin. It was indeed a religious experience. To finally see yourself as part of the whole and to understand that you do fit in somewhere… you do belong… and you do have a purpose. I no longer needed numbing agents, self-prescribed or otherwise. I had come full circle. The existential rift was no more.