Not long after 9-11 in 2002 I was walking around the perimeter of Hyde Park in London, not far from Hyde park Mosque which I had passed previously and noted there were two Police Officers standing outside it guarding against revenge attacks for the Terrorist attack.
In the early 2000s I was living in Brighton and walking home in the early hours one summer night walking through the South Laines down a pedestrianised Street in the City centre.
I tried teaching American black children for three years. I am Japanese and was used to Japanese schools — the only American school I had ever been to before my teaching career was a university. For three years, I tried to make it work at my loathsome ghetto school. The last straw was when a black “fellow” teacher tried to rape me.
My oldest daughter and her five friends (every single one of them student athletes from good families) were staying at a condo in Seaside Park and went to the boardwalk for fried Oreos at 10:30 PM at night. They were maliciously and brutally attacked by a pack of vicious blacks. One of them dragged my daughter by her hair while the others punched and kicked her. Her friends, outnumbered and “out streeted” got much the same. All of them had their phones stolen. When the attackers were caught, we learned that all of them had criminal pasts and prior records.
My experiences with blacks began at an early age in Detroit’s public schools. Even in the 1960s, the city’s education system was already in decline. The ordeal that us white students had to go through was harrowing, to say the least. White students did not use the restrooms, as a “beatdown” by multiple blacks was usually the result (blacks never fought one-on-one). We always tried to be in clear view of school personnel at all times in order to avoid being attacked.
For a long time, my niece couldn’t get her act together. She didn’t do well in school and was deeply troubled by a broken marriage that ended when she was very young. But her life seemed to turn around when she joined the Navy and became a well-liked Operating Room Nurse. While in the military, she associated with a lot of blacks, and eventually got pregnant with a mulatto baby.
I had a black friend back in the early 1980s. He started a food truck business selling burgers. For a while, he did okay. Then his black friends found out about it and started arriving every day, crowding round his van, begging for free food. He couldn’t make any money after that and had to close down. Black people are often black people’s own worst enemy.
I grew up in Florida, attending schools that had students of every race, and always a large number of Puerto Ricans. This is my story of what I saw, denied, and then accepted.
I started questioning the mainstream narrative about race in 1973, while attending a San Francisco Giants game at Candlestick Park with my Little League buddies. After a few innings, we all went to the bathroom and got cornered by a group of black boys in a stairwell. They singled me out, threatened me, and then stole my belt. Why my belt? Because it was cool! Black leather with silver eyelets up and down it, very fashionable at the time. I remember the complete humiliation I felt as one of the boys pulled my shirt up, unbuckled my belt with his filthy hands and slid it out of my waistband. My buddies ran off crying as I flagged down a security guard.
I am a daughter of the South, raised in the sixties and seventies in a large, upper-middle class family of French, English, and German stock. As was common back then, my family had black maids. My siblings and I loved them deeply and developed a bond with them that lasted our whole lives. My father paid them far above the typical wage, in addition to managing their social security accounts, so they would have an income in their advanced years. They were treated well. They knew they were respected.
I have never been a victim of crime or violence at the hands of a white person. It has always been blacks.
Until about a year ago, I considered myself an “ally” to the Black Lives Matter movement. How could I not? I grew up hearing about the evils of American slavery. My final presentation at my nearly all white middle school was titled “Black People: Struggle and Freedom.” Diversity propaganda wasn’t just part of my education growing up, diversity propaganda was my entire education growing up. It wasn’t only coming from school, either. I had propaganda spewing from my liberal parents as well.
This is not my story of racial awakening. It is my wife’s. I knew the truth from a young age, as I grew up in a lower-middle class town on Long Island with a significant black population in the 1970s.
I went to a majority black school in the 1990s. It was bad back then, but it’s probably worse now since anti-whiteness has become even more socially acceptable. I was constantly teased, jumped, and bullied by blacks for being white. There was also a white teacher who got harassed and beaten, too. One day, her car was keyed and broken into while parked at the school. She went to the principal and then the school board and they said that she had to just accept it. They claimed it was the black kid’s culture and it was her fault for not understanding them. She sued and won half a million dollars. More people should do what she did. Blacks are the most racist people on the planet.
I grew up in the 1970s and 1980s in a black majority Southern town. My parents were both Appalachian “hillbillies” who had gone away to college and become liberals. They moved to a large coastal town for work. Our new home was the site of a large “historically black college,” which had been recently absorbed into the state university system. Most of the local public school system’s teachers and administrators were graduates of this college, and they were well versed in the kind of militant black rage we have come to call critical race theory and African American Studies. I don’t know if it had a name back then. We called it “the extremely angry teacher is on another rampage.”