I’ve been a bit under the weather recently, and haven’t had much energy for writing. So it was nice that a reader (who calls himself “E) sent me this post he found on a site called “grouphug”:
I became a race realist in 2008 or 2009, when I read an article by William Saletan about race, genes and IQ. The more I learned, the more depressed I got, and the more I knew that what I was reading was true.
My family is from Detroit, Michigan. My mother grew up in the inner city. To this day she has post traumatic stress disorder, she is always jumpy and frightened. It was worse when I was a little kid, and I picked up on it and adopted it to a great extent. I am always afraid, on some deep level, that orderly civilization is just a thin ice layer over a chaotic abyss, and there is nothing I can do to keep it from cracking and opening beneath me.
I am very angry at the people who let blacks take over Detroit. If they were still alive I would hurt them. They ruined my mother’s life. Her family was poor and her parents abused her. She didn’t need black power on top of that. Hell, even the other blacks didn’t need black power when you think about it. To this day, I’ll never volunteer or donate to any charity which helps black people, unless it helps them stop breeding.
I am not angry at black people, because they didn’t choose their nature. However, I can’t say I exactly love them to bits. If everyone with more than 20% black ancestry disappeared from the planet tomorrow, I would be happy. I would smile. As it is, I would just be happy if they all went back to Africa and if we stopped giving money to Africa and started flushing it down the toilet instead. The second way is more direct, and at least that way, some American sewer workers will clean up (no pun intended).
I am angry at my mother. In one way I see her as a victim, first of her life circumstances, and second of race fantastic propaganda. I only learned that Detroit was black when I was in high school, and by then the brain damage was already done. When she told me stories about sleeping in the bathtub because of gunfire, walking through the streets alone terrified, being holed up in a mafia-protected neighborhood during the riots, being dragged by four or five men towards a van, she never told me what race these people were. I grew up thinking it was white people who did this to her, because we lived in a majority white neighborhood (big surprise) and white, jewish and asian was all that I saw.
When I found out about Detroit’s racial makeup, and the violent nature of blacks, I felt like I’d been betrayed. My parents were supposed to teach me about reality and she taught me that black people are the template for human nature, and that a white person is just as likely to hurt you as a black person is. Because of this I grew up terrified and believing that if anything bad happened to me, I deserved it, because she’d tried to warn me and I hadn’t protected myself enough.
I think she believed that if she told me the truth, I would have grown up hating black people and believing that they are criminals. Well, so what?! She is a smart woman, she could have used a simple analogy like wolves versus dogs.
A few months ago my mom told me she was ashamed that she was scared of black people on the street. I was really upset. It must be Stockholm Syndrome, or maybe the propagandists in the sixties targeted women for psychological reasons. My Dad doesn’t like blacks, he views race fantastic and liberal propaganda as “do-gooder nonsense.”
In a way, I have to thank my parents, for not feeling so guilty they raised me in a “joyously diverse” environment. I am just upset that they were so brainwashed.
My friends are all liberals. I honestly don’t have much common ground with conservatives. I agree with them on many issues, but culturally we are very different. Most race realists are middle aged and many are off on their own tangents, there is no cohesive movement to, say, end immigration and race preferences BAMN, and screw all the other issues and side-issues until those are fixed.
At the present moment, I feel like the snake in the Garden of Eden. I took a bite from the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and instead of being expelled from the garden, I was turned into a snake and slung into the tree, where I saw the garden for what it was, an oasis of false calm amid encroaching chaos.
I understand why people resist race realism. It’s not exactly a pleasant thing to believe in, but once your eyes are opened, they won’t close again. And also, there is no new knowledge in the fruit from the tree of knowledge. It is knowledge hidden inside of you, suddenly illuminated, with a light “as blank and pitiless as the sun.”