Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Returning once more to L.A. County, I rented a small guest house from my Filipino friend’s family. This coincided with Jaime’s navy furlough. Jaime was a few years older than I, and though he was born in Manila, the navy granted him citizenship in exchange for service. Mind you, this deal occurred in ‘93 or ’94, but the media would say nothing of such covert amnesties until 2014. Even then, it was portrayed as only a future possibility, not the long-established policy that it truly was.
Since I was out of work anyway and Jaime was shortly due back at Whidbey Island Naval Base in northern Washington, I accompanied him on a scenic drive from Southern California to Bellingham, WA. We took turns driving through the nights but, burning the wick at both ends, we stopped at every sight along the way. Yosemite Valley, the Sequoia forests, Big Sur, the Oregon coast, we did it all.
One thing Jaime noticed along the way was all the little bookstores. In every White town, no matter how miniscule the population, there were bookstores on every main street. This stood out remarkably to us both because even though there had been bookstores all over L.A. County when I was very young, by the time I was in my late teen years there were only a couple Borders/Barnes & Noble chain stores left in malls, and no used bookstores at all. It was only when contrasted to those little White towns that the loss of our bookstores in L.A. became intelligible to me. The fall of our bookstores was a direct corollary to the displacement of a literate people with illiterate peoples. As much as Jaime agreed with me on the matter, his being part of that demographic overthrow inclined him to resent my cognizance of it. We argued heatedly over the matter along the way with him ever agreeing, and yet objecting to my mention or care of the matter.
Reaching Bellingham, WA, we stayed the night in a house held in common by a group of college students, one of which turned out to be Jaime’s fiancee: a White girl living in the Whitest Whitopia I’d ever seen. All in the house counted themselves Christians, so Jaime and I had cots made up downstairs, but in the wee of the night I repeatedly woke to see Jaime’s cot empty. He was sneaking into her room under the cover of darkness. I could only reflect once again on the fact that I found myself unintentionally winking at the overthrow of my own heritage!
I flew back to SoCal and took up day labor with the estate auction in Paramount, just until I could find regular work. I had to arrive every day before dawn to load and unload furniture and such. There was no lunch break, nor breaks of any sort. Quitting time was dusk. That meant I had to eat breakfast at 4 A.M., do manual labor all day, and eat dinner at about 9:30 P.M. Which left only maybe six hours downtime between each grueling shift. I worked alongside nothing but Black felons and illegal aliens. It was miserable.
Fortunately, Phil had been in hotel/motel management for some time then. He got me a management position with Motel 6 in Long Beach. I went on to manage many other motel properties across L.A. and Orange County over the next few years. It’s a line of work which has often been described as unarmed police work with no backup. In the business I saw armed robbery, drive-by shootings, assaults, murder, suicide, gang warfare, racial warfare, rapes, and just about everything in between.
I once witnessed a notorious Gypsy band which travelled under the name Miller embroiled in tribal warfare against a Mexican gang. As it was explained to me, when a deal between them went sideways, the Gypsies had taken possession of the Mexicans’ collateral – a young Mexican girl. The Gypsies were keeping her as a domestic sex slave. But the Mexicans wanted her back. The result was that around 11 P.M., the central courtyard of the Buena Park Motel 6 erupted in a brawl between some fifty or so Gypsies and nearly as many Mexicans. Now, that’s cultural enrichment.
When my office was suddenly flooded with calls on the matter from concerned guests I told my staff to call the police, and I ran out with a fire extinguisher in hand (which I had used before to break up fights), but as I began entering the courtyard, I saw a police cruiser sitting in the parking lot with two Black officers in it. I began yelling for their help and gesturing for them to follow me. But there they sat, just staring back at me. Finally, I approached their vehicle, but at about twenty paces they told me to drop the fire extinguisher unless I wanted to get my “motherf*ckin’ head blowed off.” Still preoccupied with protecting my guests and facilities, I complied and informed them of the riot raging on the interior of the motel. Glassy-eyed and unblinking, both officers glared back at me. Then, after a moment, one sighed and said, “Call somebody else. We on break.”
Disgusted, I snatched up my dropped canister, and said, “You boys enjoy that break. I’m gonna go ‘protect and serve.’” As I began sprinting back across the lot the squad car actually pulled away and sped off. They knew other cops were on the way and didn’t care to explain why they refused to help.
Once in view of the actual fighting, I yelled but couldn’t even hear myself over the roar. Windows and lights were being busted out all over, trash cans were being thrown, there was blood everywhere, and since both sides were roughly the same shade of brown I couldn’t even conclusively tell one group apart from the other.
Cops eventually arrived on scene. White ones this time. And they finally got it all under control.
Really, had I never worked in the hotel business, I likely never would have crossed paths with the Roma because there just aren’t that many of them in the area; but their transient lifestyle makes them regulars in the travel lodge world. Until then, all my experience of Gypsies was confined perhaps to the woman who warned Lon Chaney to beware the full moon, and Cher’s anti-discrimination song, “Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.” If that’s all I ever learned of them, I would have gone on thinking they were just cultural Bedouins. Weren’t the Vikings also renowned for their wanderlust, after all? Why should the Gypsies’ rootlessness signify anything more?
Well, I can testify that in my thousands of interactions with them, though they were rarely violent (at least by comparison to Blacks and Mestizos), there was no single moment when they weren’t running a scam. If the Roma checked in they would come to the front desk a dozen times a day seeking reimbursement because the vending machines ate their money. They would invariably complain that something in the room (water on the bathroom floor, a slick tub, or even a slick toilet seat) caused them to fall and injure themselves, and that it warranted a reimbursement of cash and a free week’s lodging. One scam they attempted over and again was to allege that one of their children found a hypodermic needle under a bed and stuck themselves with it. Again, they thought such an occurrence should result in monetary gain for them. Of course, when I promised to give them a free night’s stay on the condition that they take said child to the ER to be looked over, they always relented. Of course, they never paid for more than one adult, though they would invariably cram anywhere from ten to thirty adults in a room along with perhaps twice that number of children.
It isn’t broadcast to the public, but the corporate motel chains (in SoCal at least) have tailored protocols expressly for dealing with the Roma.
Surely there must be an honest Roma Gypsy somewhere, but neither I nor anyone I knew in the hospitality industry ever met one. That put Cher’s propaganda song in a new perspective. As a rule, Gypsies really are tramps and thieves.
My experience with employees during that time was interesting too. It was a real hodgepodge. One after another, we had to fire Black desk staff, if not on account of their constant aggression toward guests and coworkers, then on account of their frequent abandonment of post: young Black men seemed incapable of turning down the invitation to a room by any drunk woman who stumbled into the lobby. Each one, once fired for such behavior, turned about to accused every White in the vicinity of “racism.”
There was a notable exception to my experiences with Black employees; his name was William. He was the most mild-mannered Black guy I ever met. He insisted on living apart from other Blacks because, as he said, they were “savages.” But his sister and sole remaining relative still lived in Baldwin Village, an especially vicious L.A. neighborhood nicknamed ‘The Jungle.’ Generally, police won’t even venture in there.
But as she was last of his kin, William felt compelled to visit her there on occasion. I could well empathize with his sentiments there, but every time he returned from such visits he confided in me that he was afraid he wouldn’t make it out next time. Every expedition into that area he was threatened by residents who often brandished guns.
Sure enough, William didn’t show up to work one night. We found out that after leaving his sister’s house he was followed. Apparently, there was brief film footage of his pounding on a locked gas station door, begging to be let in. He could be heard screaming, “Please let me in! Someone’s trying to kill me!” The next morning he was found hanging half out of his car with a single bullet wound to the head.
I wanted to attend his funeral, but was already short-staffed and had no one to cover William’s duties, nor my own. However, a manager from a sister motel was able to attend the services. She told me there was no family present. William’s sister didn’t even show up.
I’ve since come to hear other civilized exceptions such as William speak on this subject just as he did: they refer to this phenomenon amongst Blacks as “crabs in a bucket.” The good amongst them are hated and preyed upon by the majority. In essence, they cannibalize their natural aristocrats to the exaltation of their baseline, which are monsters.
On a related note, William also confided in me that if he, as a Black, could hardly critique the Black community, White people aren’t allowed to even be suspected of reservations about Blacks. He assured me that Blacks are largely agreed that White people all deserve whatever Blacks can do to them. It was his opinion that White people should do everything in their power to avoid contact with most Blacks because the alternative was rape and/or murder. As untimely and senseless as William’s death was, it drove his point home with a force which no liberal could gainsay.
When it came to the Mestizos in my employ, they made up the housekeeping staff. All of which were illegal aliens, of course, brought in by district managers.
Yes, I’d already had plenty of foregoing experience with Mexican girls in school; in my experience they were definitely hyper-libidinous in comparison with White girls, but I had also been assured by Republican politicos lauding “Hispanic family values” that the Mestizo influx was family-centric. They held firmly to the Christian view of family. That’s what they said on talk radio at least.
My experience with all the Mexican women in my employ was something else entirely. Yes, they were all married from a young age. But none of them – and I mean none – honored that covenant. This disregard for the marriage covenant was not restricted to any age range. Over the nine years of my working in the industry I would be propositioned by middle-aged women no less than by eighteen-year-olds. If I declined saying, “I’m flattered, but I’m a Christian,” they would reply smoothly, “Ees okay. I Christiano too. Chu still be my boyfriend tonight.” Even once I was married, and could flash a ring to prove it, the typical response from Mestizo women was, “So? I married too. Ees okay. Chu steel be my boyfriend, okay?”
Albeit, work in that particular industry, by way of its high exposure to the public (particularly those running or hiding from something), meant that the average bloke would be propositioned by women of every background. Which is to say that I would also be invited up to the rooms of many White women.
The difference was that when I declined the advances of White women, saying that I was a Christian or that I was married, they always demurred, apologizing profusely. Whether married, divorced, or never wed, and even if abject trollops, the White women in question still retained some vestige of shame, and some sense of the holy. Non-white women, by contrast, could never conceive of how or why my being a Christian or being married should interfere with their sex tourism.
As grim a vantage as that work may have lent to the underbelly of society as a whole, it crystalized many distinctions also. I found that White people, for instance, who troll those black waters are generally bent on self-punishment more than anything. Their descent is more often than not some form of apostate penance. Mestizos and Blacks, however, while engaging in the same behavior, see every binge and excess as a deserved reward. What is self-abuse to the wayward White is seen as wholesome recreation to the other groups. These polarized motivations of different ethnic groups were driven home to me by body count. Though Whites were a minority of my customers over the years, they made up the totality of the suicides. Overdose, death by alcohol, cutting of wrists, a pistol in the mouth, and even a draught of antifreeze – these were all the exclusive domain of my White patrons.
Every act of murder, assault, and general brutality, on the other hand, was the domain of my non-White patrons. If Whites were intent on suffering, the non-Whites were intent on inflicting it.
Read Part 9
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