Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Still clinging to an ambition of doing something along the lines of detective work, I took some courses in skip-tracing, executive protection, and extradition. At nights I had the undivided attention of some world-class jujitsu fighters and MMA trainers who gathered after hours at a little dojo in Buena Park. But at some point my wife’s instincts kicked in and she foresaw the sort of life which executive protection would entail. Whatever one might call it, it didn’t facilitate family life. Agreeing with her prescience, I dropped that ambition as well.
So I returned to my first love, illustration. I took a position as Art Director and lead Concept Artist for a small startup video game company, and though that company folded three years later, I somehow wound up guest-speaking at colleges and hosting a training program for aspiring illustrators.
Through those same channels I also got into poster and concept work with Warner Brothers. At this point I thought I had arrived at something I understood and loved; but as it turned out, I was born just a little too late for that option. Within a month of my starting work with them, word was handed down that all the movie production companies were signing exclusive contracts on artwork with companies in India and South Korea. Of course, I fought it: I challenged all their artists overseas to what was in effect an illustrator’s duel; I assured Warner Brothers that my work was both superior in quality and faster to produce than anything the Indians or Koreans could do. After putting it to the test, my contacts at Warner Brothers agreed – my work was better and faster. But it didn’t matter. I was told it wouldn’t even matter if I could work for free, because the executives had already concluded that establishing relationships with the foreign companies was their chief priority, matters of quality notwithstanding. So much for the theory that the free market rewards talent. No, as it turns out, free markets are feeding grounds for sharks known as international corporations. Independent talent is just chum in the water.
Then out of the blue, I was offered the most lucrative job I’ve had to date: project manager with a commercial electrical firm. That job provided the monetary means to move the wife and me to an exclusive double-gated community in Signal Hill, and have our first three children. I also managed to squirrel away a fair bit of money too.
I had long understood covenantalism and race realism to be coextensive, because the controversy around each in the modern mind was the supposed injustice of God predestining people to unequal states of existence. The Scripture most certainly taught that different peoples were unequal in this world and the next. But sometime around 2002, my old friend Phil presented me with a serious extension of the same matter: he had hitched himself to a Mexican woman and already produced two mixed children; now he presented me a text from R.J. Rushdoony which described interracial marriage as contrary to the burden of the law. He wanted to know what I thought of it, because he had come to agree with Rushdoony on the issue. Looking at all the textual support and conversing online with other Christians who thought in these covenantal terms (Kinists), I found myself in agreement with Phil. He went on to vent to me on the profuse difficulties of his mixed marriage: he bemoaned the fact that his children looked nothing like him or his parents. So scant was any resemblance that he in fact seriously doubted that they could even be his. He was in grief over his wife’s parents taking center stage and his children growing up in a total immersion of Mexican culture. Aside from when he, the only White person in their daily lives, came home from work, Spanish was the language of the household. Even the cuisine of the home was entirely Mexican. He had the distinct impression that his wife, her parents, aunts, and uncles, along with his children, were the family, and he, the gringo, was merely the financial plan to sustain them as they displaced his people. He actually called himself a “race traitor.”
I told him that I shared in his guilt because I’d stood as a groomsman in his wedding. The reception might as well have been a meeting of La Raza. Without regard to the groom, the music was all mariachi, banda, and rap. Phil well remembered how, in the midst of the Mexican crowd, his new wife’s two European girlfriends (one English, one German) from her studies abroad made a beeline through the Brown crowd to the only other White faces, because even if we were all of differing White nationalities, we were all naturally more comfortable amongst other Whites. This was so not only for the European visitors, but for us American Whites who had grown up alongside the Mexican people. He described that whole event as a slap in the face.
After the fact, upon reaching consensus that his was an unequal yoking, he groped for remedy. Inexplicably, though, he surmised that the only way to mend the damage he’d done was to ensure that his mixed offspring marry high-caste Whites. He wanted his kids to marry mine so that his grandchildren could be redeemed to his own people. But this was where we parted ways, because, as I told him, if I agreed with the idea that his was an unequal yoking, I was duty-bound to steer my children away from such a course, not toward it. My agreement with him, then, on the meaning of unequal yoking meant that my children were off-limits to his.
This was where he turned an about-face. If I would not redeem his illegitimate brood, he had no choice but to either accept the consequences of his actions as irremediable, or reject the entirety of his previous conclusions and polarize to the antithesis. It wasn’t any candid reevaluation of the facts, nor any reconsideration of a theological perspective; it was his own emotional inability to accept the consequences of his sin which drove him to do what he did next.
He took the matter before our mutual friends who had likewise entered into miscegenated unions. He told them that I was entertaining heresy by my position on race – the position which we had held in common until that moment. In his yearlong campaign to rally those friends against me, he perspicuously omitted any mention of his having held the same opinions, or of his having brought the grievous question of race-mixing and the historical Christian perspective of the matter before me in the first place. Since he was of markedly superior intellect to the others, he was well able to whip them into a frenzy over the fact that I came to regard them all, by way of their mixed unions, to be living alternative lifestyles.
What followed were many long and, to my mind, thoroughly enjoyable conversations on the subject. Albeit, since Phil had omitted any mention to our mutual friends of his own previous entertainment of Kinism, or the embarrassing reason for his change of heart, I determined at the time not to out him on the matter. Yes, had I revealed to the others that Phil himself had held the same view as I only until I refused to allow my children to be yoked with his, it would have shattered their coalition. But that information would have proved so injurious to Phil – he would have likely had his mixed offspring torn from him by their Mexican mother – that I hadn’t the heart to cite it. It was likely sin on my part to allow Phil to conceal information so pertinent to the discussion, but I determined then as a kindness (misguided though it likely was) to allow him the latitude to reveal those things at his discretion, or conceal them, such as the case may be.
Meanwhile, they were collaborating to bring official charges against me in church court. The whole time I had naively thought we were enjoying discussion of biblical law, Christian history, and the nature of the covenant, they were only bilking me for information to be cited in an excommunication trial.
On account of his own sensitive situation, Phil managed to maintain an invisible status during my trial. Sean was the one to level the actual complaint, and his was the only name relayed to me in the proceedings, but I was assured that he represented an anonymous group. Of course, these accusations of heresy brought by anonymous persons were completely out of order, and, given their never having been able to make a private case against me, deference to church court was contrary to biblical procedure as well – yet so confident had I become in my position that I did not object to those miscarriages. No, I looked forward to the opportunity to present my case to the elder board, and had no intention of avoiding it. Especially since the core accusations made against me were so outrageously false. I stood accused of arguing for the idea that only White people have souls, only Whites will be in heaven, and for the extermination of all other races. Laughably false charges, all.
But since I had personally brought my elder, David, into the discussion of these topics well prior to any charges being brought against me, he knew the accusations to be false, and to his credit, he spoke in my defense, but was treated hostilely by the other elders for it. Even the pastor came under fire for making the benign statement that he could distinguish different races over the phone by voice alone – thus directly undermining majority consensus that race was “only skin deep.”
All of which is to say that the elder board was set at odds with itself on all matters regarding race and nationhood and, after evaluation of a written statement of my beliefs and thorough cross examination, all perceived that not only were the charges leveled against me false, but any aggressive censure brought against me would imply need of the same for my elder, and the senior pastor. Thus they found me innocent in respect to both doctrine and practice.
Of course, I could have brought countersuit against my accusers, anonymous and known, for bearing obvious false witness, and, for that matter, against the elders themselves for spurning biblical and Presbyterian procedure. But since I was still hoping against hope to persuade my critics, I decided to forgo those rights.
In retrospect, this abdication of my own rights was also foolish. All aims at ingratiating myself to those bent on doing me harm only incited further attack: Sean, rather than being moved to contrition, was so incensed by the outcome of my trial that he redoubled his efforts, insisting that I must have lied to the elder board, concealing my real views from them. He went on to tell them that if they weren’t wise enough to “read between the lines” then they shouldn’t be elders, and the church should be dissolved. Unbelievable as it was, he had resolved that in order to protect the church from me, he would destroy it.
Here was a prime example of the do-gooders Poppa warned me about all those years before.
On the homefront, in spite of double-gating, security patrol, and neighborhood watch, our exclusive condominium complex still experienced numerous break-ins and even a murder while we lived there. It was, in spite of my money, simply an unlivable situation for my children to grow up in. We tried moving a couple times elsewhere in the vicinity, hoping to find that golden enclave where our children could play in their own yard safely, but it just didn’t exist. Whether nestled in amongst the old Dutch families on the wealthy side of Bellflower, or in the midst of all the White yuppies and hipsters clustered in the multimillion dollar homes of Belmont Shore and Naples, one still saw the occasional roving bands of Blacks or Mestizos slinking along the streets with predatory eyes for any White who appeared weak.
Though it remains dangerous, as an adult White male I could now travel about in the ghettos with a much greater degree of safety than when I was child, but I cannot forget what it was to be weak in the midst of non-Whites. Non-whites in majority see White children as prey. The same goes for the elderly: once we return to childlike weakness – and we all do eventually – non-Whites stalk our aged. That is not an anecdotally prejudiced or needlessly bombastic statement. It is fact.
So my wife and I packed up all our hopes and dreams and bid farewell to our native land. If we could ascertain some means to fight for it, or restore it to what it was, we would have stayed. But how does one stay clean settled in a hog wallow? How does one raise a White Christian family to perpetuate the image mandate given of God amongst other peoples who consider your continued existence the epitome of all evil?
We set our sights on the wilds of the Idaho Panhandle. North Idaho. Norida. A place teeming with moose, grizzlies, and timber wolves, and safety we hadn’t known in Southern California since before our lands were flooded by other peoples. This is a place where our children can yet experience something like America as it was. A place where violent crime is virtually nonexistent (aside from the rare occasion when a non-White comes trolling through from Spokane). Here people still leave houses and cars unlocked, even when they leave for a week or two. Neighbors here share with each other like family – a level of social capital I cannot remember having experienced since my earliest memories. Barter, exchange, and payment in kind define the local economy as resisting the centralized monetary monopoly. The popular insistence on local produce and handcraft likewise signifies an instinctual rejection of the big box corporations in favor of local ownership of the economic infrastructure. People you haven’t met before smile and wave when they see you coming. If you break down at roadside, you’ll never want for help. We buy locally grown vegetables at roadside stands manned by no one, and on the honor system, place our money in a little unattended tin can to be picked up by the farmer at day’s end. On the Fourth of July there is a public reading of the Declaration of Independence. At the annual rodeo the festivities open with an invocation of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. At Christmas time the tree-lighting ceremony downtown is rung in with a public singing of Christmas carols and hymns. As one elderly gentleman from Los Angeles summed it up, “Coming to North Idaho is like stepping back in time to the 1950s or before.”
If so, refugees like me, after growing up in the borderlands of the burgeoning new age, cannot help but see ourselves as time travelers of a sort: I am a man of the past who traveled into the future, and have through no small difficulty returned to warn those who are only now approaching the event horizon. I beg you, if you have grown up in one of the little reservoirs of homogeneous and traditional Christian American stock yet sprinkled across this continent, do not believe the lies told you by Hollywood and the Red rewrite of Americanism. Your little Mayberry does not “need more diversity.” Trust those of us who have lived it, and barely survived. Your grandfather was right. What the diversity-mongers offer is not racial peace, but eternal violence on you, your women, your children, and your elders. Once you open the floodgate, you consign your beloved homeland to endless terrorism; this they will call “progress,” and all vestiges of your culture, values, or people will be called “hatred.” Once your quaint little village becomes more diverse, it will of necessity become unlivable for you and yours. If you have resources then you, too, will flee to another such Mayberry as you remember from your childhood with the burden of a time traveler.
If your church is teaching that miscegenation is the gospel, or an essential entailment thereof, you must understand: what they are ushering in is the complete erasure of not just historic Christendom, but the abolition of the doctrines of salvation. For the sake of brevity, I have not endeavored to make an apologetic for my case on this matter. That has been done elsewhere. If I prove any particular point with this testimonial it may only be the falsity of the perennial accusation on the lips of liberals – that conservative thinking comes only from a lack of exposure to diversity, or ignorance of reality. I cannot count the number of times Liberal Whites, who have never lived in the midst of their idealized diversity, have dismissed my conservatism because they think I grew up as they did, in a Whitopia. They insist that I have only come to think as I do because I’ve never met Blacks, Browns, or what have you. Quite the opposite, though, I have not only lived in the heart of their Xanadu, but have even been fast friends with its denizens. Whatever else may be said of my convictions, they were not formed in ignorance. Diversity, as it is typically invoked, is not a strength; it is a hindrance and a hurdle which the entire unified system of government-corporate-media labors continually to overcome, and still fails miserably everywhere it is visited upon us.
Albeit, as pedagogical as my path has been, I can in nowise recommend it. Equality is a Procrustean bed: to make one size fit all some are stretched, and others are decapitated. Which is to say that I was stretched and barely survived, but many were decapitated and can no longer testify.
I’ve omitted much in these confessions – many friends shot, stabbed, beaten, locked away, etc., and many battles of my own. I have even omitted mention of the famed L.A. riots. I have lost virtually everyone from my early life. A large number are now dead. I’ve also omitted much about my family and the many words handed down to me by my grandfather from my great-grandfather, things which were in my childhood cryptic and mysterious proverbs, but revealed in time to be real wisdom. I’ve also omitted any catalogue of the books, ministers, and conservative thinkers who have most impacted me in terms of thorough covenantal thinking. But suffice it to say that this is the first time I’ve ever endeavored to tell my story, and it is gone on long enough for its purposes, I think.
As for now, my wife and I are happily married with a large clan of covenant children. We homeschool them and attend a little but growing home church of like-minded Christian septs in the mountains of North Idaho. Though my children are blessedly sheltered from the horrors of my youth, they are being raised with a deep love of faith and folk. In them God has preserved a remnant. As the multicult Liberal fantasies collapse, the children of the faithful lines of our tribes shall rise without shame to rebuild what was lost to us and our fathers. If the lawful magistrate is no more, and the institutional church is shattered, the family under God remains and interposes for the other two offices. From that central bulwark of power, subservient to God’s Law-Word, the other institutions shall be revived. As in the early church, we shall once more establish our own courts and see the man of God drive out the priests of Baal. They who honor their fathers and their mothers shall inherit the land to a thousand generations and move not the boundary stones. That is my story.
Amen and amen.
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