From my first day of junior high, trouble was imminent. Though frivolity and humor abounded, it never rose above vulgarity. A general hostility pervaded all – especially toward the White remnant. It was the first roll call for PE class and who should I see but my old friend Jose? I waved and called to him, but he only sneered back in reply. The moment the coach disappeared into his office for I know not what, I was struck in the back of the head and pitched forward onto the ground only to be piled on by four Mexican kids. Amid the flying fists and feet I saw only one face. Jose. My friend.
Moved by the betrayal beyond the normal bounds of my strength, I regained my legs, and my arms became pistons firing with more conviction than possessed by all my attackers. Sensing that I was only gaining steam, the four turned and ran. But even if I’d beaten the odds, it did not impress the crowd which had encircled us; others began stepping forward to challenge me as I was spat on and cursed from all directions.
That’s when the coach reappeared and saved me from what was otherwise about to turn into a gruesome beating. The school nurse came to his office to look me over. Aside from a bloody nose and a few scrapes and bruises, I was okay. And I got off easy with detention.
But a couple weeks later in the same class, I caught glimpse of another group of Mexicans attacking another lone White kid. What’s worse, I recognized the White kid from elementary school: Sean had some degree of mental retardation; even if eleven years old, mentally he was perhaps only four. Even at a distance I could see that between their punches, and with tears running down his face, Sean was smiling at his attackers, desperate to make friends with them.
They never saw me coming. With all the gathered momentum of the twenty-yard sprint across the blacktop, I delivered a leaping kick to the lower back of one. I must have caught him midstep because it upended him hard, his head hitting the blacktop with a sickening thump. Though Jose wasn’t involved this time, in my mind this was a continuation of the same fight, and perhaps Sean, so meek and helpless, was the perfect object of my empathy. Because in truth, I felt every bit as helpless as he looked. I didn’t feel strong. I felt desperate. Desperate to get them off him.
Again, this set ran, just as the previous group had. But this time, the coach who caught glimpse of the event was not one of the male instructors; it was an old lesbian woman with a voice like sifting gravel. What she saw was me standing over Sean, fists raised, as he lay sprawled on the ground.
She grabbed me by the collar and marched me up the stairs to her office, calling me any number of disparaging things as we went. Entering the office, I was trying to explain what had happened, but the sight before me struck me momentarily speechless: she had walked me right up to the two-way glass which overlooked the interior of the girls’ locker room, wherein I could plainly see many girls in various stages of undress.
At which she rasped, “And a pervert too! I might have known!” and forcefully she ushered me into a chair facing the opposite direction. Twice mortified by false accusations, I opened my mouth to defend myself but realized by her demeanor she wasn’t going to listen. Just then, the Black maintenance man brought in Sean and the old lesbian woman asked him, “Okay, is this the guy who beat you up?” Guileless, and smiling through tears, Sean answered, “No. He’s my friend.” To which I added, “See? I was defending him.” And with no further investigation she concluded, “No, he’s just afraid of you!” The school called my mother in for a consultation and suspended me three days.
The following month, the cousin of one of the Mexican kids from the previous fight caught me walking home. We fought for a long time until he finally walked away, exhausted. A good thing, I thought, because I was exhausted too. Gathering my bearings, I realized that while I was preoccupied, someone had stolen my backpack (which I’d dropped at the beginning of the fight) and all my books. But I knew someone in that gang of onlookers had it, so I demanded it back. This of course resulted in a few of the nearby Blacks taking offense. Now they stepped forward to fight me. Already spent, I just turned and walked away, pushing my way through the crowd, receiving and doing my best to ignore random blows, threats, and provocations, as I cut through the throng.
I’d walked nearly a city block and met up with a couple friends along the way; I thought it was over. I was wrong. I was suddenly spun around by an adult Samoan man, and before I knew what was happening, he landed a blow so hard that it upended me over a fire hydrant. I landed face-first in the gutter, blood gushing from my shattered nose and welling up in my eyes from crushed sinuses. That’s what happens when a 6’4” 300-pound Samoan adult punches a 5’3” 130-pound pre-pubescent White child in the face, in case you ever wondered.
My vision blurred, and my body trembling, I tried to hoist myself out of that gutter, but before I could get my feet under me I was surrounded and being kicked by the agitated Blacks from whom I had walked away moments earlier. Thankfully, they weren’t nearly so powerful as the Samoan giant who’d put me there.
As bad as that beating may have been, do you know what the worst part was? It happened at the main intersection of the city, at the corner of Paramount Blvd. and Rosecrans Ave. As far as passing motorists could tell, I might be stomped to death, yet none tried to help me, and no one called the police. No, waiting for the signal to turn green, motorists actually cheered on my attackers, “Dass it! Git dat Whaht boy!” and “F@ck dat Wheto up, Ese!”
Never let anyone tell you that minority violence is the doing “only of a few bad apples.” No. Not only are what White people like to call “the few bad apples” not rejected by the rest, they are revered by them. In the Black and Brown communities the worst of them are their heroes. White liberals who cannot come to grips with that reality suffer from a quality of naivete which is unfathomable to those like myself, who have miraculously survived putting the liberal dream to the test.
Eventually, a large Black mother showed up and herded all the Black kids who had danced all over me into her car and sped away without a hint of concern for my battered carcass. I was left to amble home, clothes torn and blood-drenched. At every crosswalk along the route home I heard the jeers of the non-White motorists, mocking my pitiable condition.
I spent that night in the hospital undergoing X-rays, MRIs, blood infusion, and other treatments. I prayed feverishly that God would grant me the strength to survive the trials to which I was appointed, wisdom and understanding of these matters, and the faith to trust and obey Christ throughout it all.
Surely, I thought to myself, finally someone would take notice that a White straight-A student and spelling bee champion being beaten by a non-White mob (including adults) in broad daylight meant something significant. After all, they made movies and after-school specials, even built curriculum, around Black children who had suffered less. But all the counselor from the hospital wanted to talk about was about my supposed responsibility to “adjust” to a diverse environment. With no small sarcasm I told her something to the effect that if I was adjusted anymore I’d be dead. At which she looked decidedly nonplussed.
My mother was furious that, in her words, I was just “picking fights” and that I had “let someone” break my nose and internal chambers of my skull, give me a concussion, and generally tenderize my whole body. She thought it all simply must be my fault. Somehow. Because the alternative meant her parents had been right all along. She could not yet even contemplate that, because she had established her identity as the antithesis of her parents.
This coincided with what I remember as the season of the crazy girls.
Leslie, a very pretty neighbor girl two years my senior (who at thirteen could pass for eighteen), of the most straight-laced White Christian family, began making advances on me. Mind you, before that I had stolen pecks on the cheek from little girls on the playground, and had a couple crushes, but I had no real conception of much beyond that. One day, out of the blue, Leslie pulled me aside and kissed me in a very sexual fashion. I was in shock. Then she simply walked away. Confused yet intrigued, I began wrestling with temptations in a new dimension.
Albeit pretty as she was, and as good as her family seemed, my grandmother’s intuition was keen. Having caught sight of Leslie’s body language toward me one day, Mema demanded I stay away from that girl. It’s a good thing I heeded Mema’s wisdom (even if grudgingly), because in the weeks that followed Leslie would accuse four different neighborhood boys of rape, one after another. Her accusations against the first boy were accepted without scrutiny. Why would she lie about something like that? The accusations against the second boy were also received with little doubt. But by the third people began to wonder. At the fourth folks seriously doubted her. But there was one more person to be accused: her father. Remarkably, this split popular opinion. While everyone had begun doubting her ongoing accusations against random boys, the charge against her father seemed to somehow exonerate her in the minds of women. Aside from my grandmother, the neighborhood women accepted the allegation against the girl’s father as an unimpeachable fact, and one which somehow excused any preceding false allegations she may have leveled against others. Mema said all the bra-burners would accept Leslie’s fish stories now because they want to believe White Christian fathers are the villains above all others, and the cause of any mistakes girls might make. That’s the trump card with them.
I didn’t keep up on what happened with the accused boys, but Leslie’s father got a juried trial, which Mema said was “full of bra-burners.” He went to prison. But if the strange reaction of local women to Leslie’s case began to awaken me to the dynamics of feminism, I was shortly to get another heaping dose of the same lesson.
It was a Saturday morning. I was sleeping in after a late night of board games with my family. I was awoken by roving hands on me. Coming to my senses, I was confronted with a local Mexican girl. I recognized this girl. She was only ten years old but fully developed for a couple years already. And here she was groping me in my sleep and trying to kiss me. Startled, I pushed her out of the bed and she hit the floor with a thud. “What, are chu’ escared of me ‘cos I Messican?” she asked.
As I ushered her out of my house she threatened to tell her uncles that I had raped her! Great, I had dodged a bullet with Leslie only to get hit with one by this Mexican girl. She had snuck into my house! Climbed into my bed! And groped me in my sleep! But I was going to pay for it.
I was honestly too embarrassed by the whole incident to tell my Poppa about it, as I should have. Thankfully, nothing came of her threats, but it was a crash course introduction to the fact that feminism was a twin threat to the anti-White sentiment swallowing up my city.
The White population now had whittled down mostly to the blue-collar roughneck crowd. Sure, some of them smoked pot, but most were referred to as stoners not on account of drugs, but dress – long hair, flannel, and jeans, specifically. After the beating I’d taken in the street, growing out my platinum blond hair (so stark in contrast to the uniform black hair of the non-White majority) was my way of showing that I wasn’t hiding. I refused to fear them. And having read with great interest of my Scots-Irish roots, I was drawn to the tartan colors for the same reason. It just so happens that this made me look a good deal like the other White kids called stoners, Hessians, peckerwoods, woods, or “los wetos.” As an aside, I had always liked rock n’ roll and country music too, so to all appearances, I was just another ‘wood.’ Bike jumps, rock n’roll, and country music made up our subculture. The embrace of that fellowship would shortly prove providential.
Despite these goings on, my academic performance had not slipped. I continued with my 4.0 average and was awarded the student of the month citation every month (excepting when altercations made me ineligible).
The youngest of them, I spent the following summer learning to keep up with the older redneck kids. At twelve years old I prided myself on being able to do whatever the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds could. I took a lot of challenges which I should have rather declined. If you were going to be outside at all, Mexicans and Blacks were a mortal threat at all times. But pain is a divinely appointed tutor.
Beginning seventh grade the ratio of Whites had noticeably diminished from the previous year, a trend which did not bode well for the safety of those who remained.
Then it happened. She transferred in from Arkansas in my seventh grade year – a beautiful girl with long blonde hair named Hanna. She’d only been there a week when the Mexican girls decided to jump her (aided by their boyfriends, we are talking about a group of more than fifty). I didn’t witness the assault firsthand but I saw the aftermath. Aside from contusions and abrasions head to foot, they tore out all of her hair and knocked out I know not how many teeth.
The beating apparently went on the entire distance from the school to her front door, and over an estimated 45 minutes. She could not remember at what point her blouse and bra had been torn off. Her parents were beside themselves. The thought that such a thing could happen to their daughter in broad daylight over such a duration without abatement, aid, or intervention from onlookers – it was beyond belief.
They filled out a police report of course, but the police told Hanna’s father that the descriptions provided (painted-up cholas and shaven-headed cholos) wasn’t helpful. And due to the politically incorrect nature of the incident (follow-up would constitute racial profiling of the Hispanic community), they really wouldn’t be able to pursue it.
Hanna’s family quickly and quietly moved away. Though I never saw her again, I still think of her on occasion, and of the grave injustice done her. I echo the prophet Isaiah:
Therefore I said, “Look away from me,
I will weep bitterly;
Do not labor to console me
Because of the destruction of the daughter of my people.”
But in their revelry at having so publicly demoralized a White beauty with absolute impunity, Mexicans and Blacks at the middle and high schools began threatening to do the same to any White child caught out alone. They made good on that promise a couple times before the older White boys (16-23 years old) determined to make a stand: they came to the middle school after class to walk the younger kids home.
That harmless, even benevolent, action is what touched off a full-scale race war in the streets of Paramount. Twenty Whites were swarmed by what I approximate to have been at least thirteen hundred Mestizo juveniles and adults. As the battle gathered momentum, the intersection of Paramount Blvd. and Rosecrans Ave. became impassable to all through traffic. It remained so for the next two hours during which time more and more adult gangbangers arrived with jailhouse tattoos on necks and faces. Though the majority of the swarm were skittish and unwilling to engage directly with the Whites, the hardened gangbangers weren’t afraid of the roughneck White boys at all. Bike chains with locks were the preferred weapon but some boards, some bats, and a pair of brass knuckles were also brandished. The swelling numbers of their jailhouse bulls infused the mob with courage and they gleefully stomped any White who momentarily buckled to the ground under the blows of their champions.
As the mayhem escalated, a clearly visible police line formed at every access to the intersection. But there they halted and simply watched. The mob was wholly undeterred by the police presence. All authority was abdicated to that howling sea of foreign invaders who so despised the people of their host nation that they had determined with one accord to either drive the tiny remnant out or kill them.
I could extol the courage and fortitude of that tenacious little band of American rootstock, but it would be vainglorious in the broader scope of these events. Yes, that ragtag remnant of a White community coalesced one last time to give a good account of itself, so that none could say that they hadn’t at least tried to protect Hanna and others like her. But we still lost. It is not a hero’s tale. It’s a tragedy. Every drop of blood spilt and every bone broken was an indictment of their fathers’ collective apathy. Worse than their extensive physical injuries was the cognizance of their abandonment by the community, the country, the law, and most of all, the preceding generation.