Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Having regained a semblance of family life, and at age fourteen having come finally into a level of physical maturity where I no longer looked to be easy prey, I would for a time not be so troubled as before, and this allowed me to return to my standard 4.0 average and make up a year’s worth of credit inside a single semester.
Mid-year I would then be forwarded to my correct grade in the high school, arriving just in time for another round of race riots. This time, though, the riots began between the Blacks and Mexicans and only shifted toward the Whites when a couple agitators with megaphones stood atop a table in the high school quad sermonizing on the “real enemy” – White people. This struck Phil and me as funny because, in his words, “Good luck finding the White people. We can all fit behind the soda machine.” Unlike the previous riot campaign against Whites, there was no longer any unified group of roughneck White boys to oppose the diversity. Most were now either incarcerated or dead. So, when the few remaining Whites saw the focus being re-directed onto them, they all walked off campus.
That the administration thought it could continue classes while a riot raged on campus was absurd anyway. All things considered, I suppose it was another real-life illustration to us Whites of the evil and stupidity of the system. Had we followed orders and stayed on campus, we would have had a replay of the previous race riot, except this time, it would have been worse, likely killing several, or maybe all of us.
From a distance, we saw the helicopters buzzing the schoolyard and the police with bulletproof shields entering the school in riot gear. Afterward we heard that the clash between students and police had been intense, but the next day’s paper would omit all pertinent details. Comically, the headline read, “There Were Black Eyes and Bruised Egos at Paramount High School Yesterday.” The column went on to describe the full-scale race riot as nothing but a small rash of inscrutable scuffles between some boisterous youngsters. Thus I became aware of even local media’s operating hand-in-glove with the system’s overarching propaganda campaign. It took the school months to repair.
But that riot paved the way for heightened security. So they closed all but one access point into school, hired a large lesbian and a musclebound Black man to scrutinize all students’ clothing for gang symbols, usher all through metal detectors, and perform occasional pat-downs. My very first time being herded through that prison-like gauntlet, I was detained and told that the little axe head pendant on my necklace was “a symbol of racial intimidation.” That resulted in a three-day suspension. Meanwhile, virtually every Black kid admitted was flying gang colors, with pants sagging and flat-brimmed hats hanging sideways off their heads. There were clearly two different standards in play; and by the application, it appeared that in the wake of the “kill-Whitey” riots, the group whom the system regarded as the biggest threat was Whitey. As inconceivable as that asinine thought process is, it was the school’s ostensible policy.
That was the last time I’d enter by the front gate. Though they had locked down all other official entrances, I found I could shimmy under a back fence along the railroad tracks. If the system was going to continue arbitrarily stacking the deck against the White kids, I would cut from the bottom of that deck with a clear conscience.
I also attempted to transfer to Warren High, the much Whiter school in Downey, but my request was denied on account of the distance from my residence. Meanwhile, many Compton residents were being bussed in to attend at Paramount. Why the distance was too great for my transfer to Downey, but not too great for bussing in the denizens of Compton, they would not say.
As my deepening skepticism of the secular system found ever greater vindication, the conviction that I had every moral justification to skirt its immoral apparata blossomed apace. So too, as my understanding deepened of the peoples in whose midst I walked, I became more able to defuse their aggressions by interacting with them in terms they understood – the studied use of fear. I had learned the language of intimidation. Albeit, one ingredient of my coping skills also came by way of the fact that I no longer looked like a child. I now stood a sinewy six feet – much taller than the average Mexican, and as tall as most of the Blacks and Samoans.
Add to this that I had what can only be described as my own public relations rep – Alex, my Mexican friend, who had the uncanny habit of inflating the story of every altercation he witnessed to legendary proportions. One such event was when Alex and I were exiting the athletic field (which was conjoined to the basketball courts): the all-Black basketball team was entering just then by the same gate we were exiting, and I saw the last of them from a distance feinting a basketball at one Mexican after another as he passed them. But when he and I intersected, he didn’t feint the ball. He threw it right into my face. Hard. And his teammates went wild with malicious glee, jumping, flailing at the air, reminding me of the tribesmen in the old movie Zulu.
But what they didn’t expect was that I expected it. At least enough that I was able to turn my head slightly so that the ball didn’t break my nose. Before the ball hit the ground I was on my assailant. With one hand I grabbed him by the throat, sinking my thumb into the soft area of his windpipe below his Adam’s apple, and with the other hand I proceeded to open-hand slap him, forehand and backhand, over and again. Since he was preoccupied with trying to remove my thumb from his windpipe I was free to continue slapping him until his knees gave out. At which point I became dimly aware of my friend Alex yelling, “Stop! You’re killing him! You’re killing him!” as he pried at my hand about the Black kid’s throat.
Now, my reaction must have shocked the guy’s teammates enough that their whooping and yowling ceased as instantly as it began, and as I released my hold on their friend I turned to them, snarling. But none threatened to engage me. They just cursed me, and boasted how they could whip me…if they really wanted. As I walked away my assailant lay slumped against a wall, still gasping for breath. That’s what really happened. I was proud enough of that victory without embellishment, but Alex had a different tale to tell. He spread the story far and wide that he saw me fight the whole basketball team, possibly killing one, and leaving the rest pleading for their lives. To hear him tell it, I was a Nordic supersoldier.
Though it played on my pride at times, I allowed Alex’s fish stories about me to stand because, more than anything I actually did or could do, they granted me a modicum of respect. Understand, the alternative to not acting the part of the dangerous Hessian was far more violent. At least in non-statist dimensions, it remains a conservative maxim: “peace through strength.” Predators prefer easy targets. Add to that the fact that the non-White communities are disproportionately full of predators, and a White must appear unusually strong in order to retain any degree of peace.
White kids with no such image were savaged just about anytime they stepped out of a classroom, and often in class as well. Mikey, a short, husky, freckled-faced coppertop I knew from elementary school sported fresh black eyes and bandages every time I saw him in high school. I prayed for him on occasion, but in tenth grade he was stabbed repeatedly in a school restroom. He survived, but never returned to school.
However, no reputation, no matter how imposing, was a panacea. Perhaps the best case in point was my history teacher; he was also the wrestling coach. The man had been a wrestling phenom in college. He won a silver medal in the Olympics for judo. He played professional football with the Eagles. But he was White. One day at wrestling practice, when a Mexican senior took to pummeling a freshman, the coach told him to ease up on the smaller kid, and the senior replied, “F*ck you, White boy! I’ll beat’cho @ss too!” To which the coach replied, “Have you ever had your butt kicked? Really kicked?” The Mexican lunged at him, at which point the coach, being an expert in both wrestling and judo, and a physical specimen normal to the NFL, taught the punk a well-deserved lesson. He didn’t break anything. He didn’t pummel him. He slammed him once and restrained him. The only real injury was to Brown Pride.
Despite his restraint though, the coach was fired and, last I heard, had criminal charges filed against him. It didn’t matter if the Mexican kid was the aggressor, nor that he used racial epithets against the coach, nor even that he assaulted a teacher. The White coach was declared the villain, and the thug the victim. Which is to say that, irrespective of justice, or any mitigating factors, minority status trumps all.
The area around the main building was considered Black territory. They called it “the Jungle.” It was similar to the Compton football team calling themselves “the Black Gorilla Tribe,” rather funny to everyone but them. Fights (sometimes massive) in the Jungle were a daily occurrence. The only route to the science classes and labs lay directly through the Jungle. I often reflected on the poetic irony of it all – the White man’s passage through hostile Jungle inhabited by howling Black throngs booming tribal drumbeats. Irony wholly invisible to them, apparently.
But Black History Month was a high holy season both for the Blacks and for the secular system. The administration plastered the halls of the main building with lists of supposed Black inventions and achievements. Now, I had by that point in my schooling been awash in Leftist propaganda for many years, so I didn’t expect to be easily surprised by any further installments of the same, but the rolls of Black achievement with which we were presented so badly defied history and basic horse sense, that upon reading those lists, I simply could not stifle my laughter. Some such claims were things like Blacks had invented the horse saddle in the 1880s, silverware in the 1890s, and solar power in the 1950s. These uproarious absurdities struck me all the funnier because all the Blacks seemed to actually believe these claims! There they stood, packing the hall, sporadically rapping and beat-boxing, in accompaniment of the reading of the content of each contrivance. At the conclusion of each claim they whooped, jumped, and pounded their chests in affirmation. They made a deafening din. Truly, there is no Afrocentric lie too big that a government school won’t teach it, nor too big that Blacks won’t believe it. Every year when the Blacks were fed these lies it only inspired greater aggression in them. Black History Month rang in what for all intents and purposes was an ongoing, low-level riot for a couple months each year.
Between the Blacks having staked claim over the bench area around the main building, and the Mexicans and Samoans likewise holding all other tables in the Quad, everyday I saw a recapitulation of what had happened to our city as a whole: as a matter of survival, the remaining Whites were quite unconsciously driven to their own lunch hour custom – congregating on the furthest outskirts of school grounds. We ate on the grass beneath the trees which shouldered the boulevard. Given our druthers we would have gone further, but it was a closed campus – lock-down from 7 A.M. to 3:30 P.M.. As much as the protocol sounded jail-like, the facility matched it. Everyone I know of who has ever laid eyes on that institution has remarked that it bears uncanny resemblance to a prison.
In stark parallel of the non-White takeover of all major American urban centers, we witnessed the minority-majority takeover of all central school infrastructure, propelling our own microcosmic White flight to the countryside. We were happy to eat off the ground if it meant we had a moment’s peace from all the incessant drumming, caterwauling, and violence that defined normalcy in that secular diversity utopia. But even that respite would be taken from us when a passing carload of diversity opened fire on our ring of trees with automatic weapons. No one was hit, but from that day the school administration forbade anyone from sitting out on that grassy dog run.
On the heels of that fresh dispossession, I counted it a kind turn of Providence that we found one of the English classrooms at the rear extremity of the school was always left open during lunch. This sanctuary was blessedly even further removed from the bedlam of cafeteria, quad, and Jungle.
Then a Black senior who was granted a full scholarship to a major university for maintaining a C average in high school was shot down by a Mexican kid at the McDonald’s across the street from the campus. Which, of course, resulted in a full walk-out of the Blacks from classes, marches in the street, and slow-rolling riot conditions for the next couple months. But again, the killing of a Black scholar by a Mexican was somehow regarded as the fault of the nearly extinct White population. Surely, the nigh 4,000 ‘people of color’ in that school would live in absolute harmony if it weren’t for the twenty White kids moving about on their periphery.
Relative to this, some six Mexican seniors sporting all the usual homemade gang tattoos and scarification in my math class began threatening me (a lone sophomore) with a knife. The teacher, a middle-aged White man, pretended to see nothing. Badly outnumbered by armed aggressors, and already threatened by my counselor with banishment to Michelson Continuation School (which I was assured was even worse than Paramount), I walked out of class straight to the counselors’ offices, and told them the situation. At which point, believe it or not, I was told by two White counselors, one smarmy Bill Nye-lookalike and a mullet-headed lesbian, that I needed to control myself and not make trouble! They actually threatened to have me expelled for reporting that a Mexican gang kept threatening to kill me!
But no sooner had I resolved to fight those thugs to the death than my home situation, which had allowed my return to school, came to a crashing end anyway. You see, my uncle come legal benefactor had, in his desperation to get his family out of the minority slum, used his position as warehouse manager with Rugby pharmaceuticals to provide outside parties with key ingredients needed in the production of methamphetamines. Even if his motives were a bit more noble, and his method safer from detection by authorities, you would think my mother’s outcome would have deterred him from anything having to do with meth. But recklessness is a common byproduct of desperation.
But it wasn’t the law that caught up with my uncle. It was the Mexican Mafia.
All I know is that three serious-looking vatos walked into our house one Saturday morning as if they owned the place. I met them about four paces in the door as the lead – thankfully the smallest, and the only one of the three who was armed – began drawing a .25 caliber pistol from his waistband. I grabbed his arm at the wrist and we struggled momentarily as the other two, anticipating shots no doubt, backed up a bit. Suddenly, my uncle, who was 6’2” and 250 lb, pried the gun away from the leader and backed them all out the door. Finally leaving, they told my uncle that if he didn’t do as they ordered, they might be sent back with more guns.
There was a driving rain that night. My uncle said he was going for a walk. But before walking out he slipped on a pair of brass knuckles, stuffed a taser in his pocket, and tucked a MAC-10 in his coat. He had something planned. When he came back his coat was torn and in spite of the rain, there was still diluted blood all over the hand which had earlier sported the brass knuckles. He had met up with the Mexican who attempted to draw down on us that morning: he tasered and beat him, but he didn’t use the gun. How he thought beating the one would put an end to it all, I cannot guess. Later, in the A.M. hours, my uncle got a call tipping him off to the fact that the Mexican Mafia had put a hit on both our heads. I guess my momentary interference that day was enough to warrant a two-for-one special.
My uncle began packing up his family before dawn. They were cutting their losses and heading north for his mother’s farm in the central valley to hole up amid the security of his brothers. But sorrowfully, I declined to accompany them. As much as I loved my family, I once more had to distance myself because it was clear that in the wake of my grandfather’s economic ruination by the Jewish lawyers, my father’s disappearance (and likely murder), the state larceny of my family home, and the state-facilitated foreign invasion of my city, my family’s desperate turn to the meth trade marked a downward spiral which only mirrored the social catastrophe which they intended to escape. At my age I had no means of halting or even mitigating that process of degeneration. To keep place amongst them it seemed that I must consign myself to the precipitous demoralization of my own conscience. Either that, or strike out on my own once more. I felt I was walking in the steps of Abram as he was called from the midst the Chaldees.
To that end, none can accuse me of revering kin over Christ. For His Scripture promised that only in losing my life I would find it. So I exiled myself from family for a second time on the promise that Christ would redeem my line and, through me, bring forth a faithful branch of the same.
Read Part 7
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