Life Among Predators

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This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

I can single out a few experiences, among a lifetime of them, that taught me the sheer impossibility of blacks and whites ever living together in harmony.

One such experience happened years ago. While riding on a city bus, I overheard a conversation an older black man was having with his friend. He was explaining a childhood game that the kids in his neighborhood in Compton would play, mainly boys from about six to 12 years of age. I don’t remember what he called the game, but it involved finding their parents’ handguns and running around the neighborhood with them, occasionally firing live rounds at each other. They would not try to actually hit the other kids, but get close enough to scare them. His conclusion: Nobody ever got hurt, and we all had a great time!

I realized then and there with a stark, absolute clarity that whites and blacks would never be able to live together.

Another experience happened once while I was using a public library frequented by blacks (I know, I was stupid). I would never be able to find a computer keyboard where at least one of the little feet that let you prop it up at a slight angle wasn’t broken off. Even nearly brand-new keyboards would be broken. So, every time I went there, I’d have to type with the keyboard sitting flat on the table. Once in a while, I’d notice an isolated keyboard foot lying on the tables with one of its little pegs broken off. I didn’t connect the two events at first, but one day, I saw a black kid deliberately breaking a keyboard foot, and I realized that the black library patrons were breaking them for fun.They were bored and they enjoyed breaking things. Obviously I was already aware that blacks enjoy such destruction, but there was something about this drive to destroy even tiny, insignificant, little things like the feet on a keyboard that really brought home to me the sheer, stubborn malignancy of blacks.

I said I was stupid above, because other things that happened to me at this library included having a black woman run into my car in the parking lot while I was in the library, putting a giant dent in the side. Surprisingly, she called the police to make a report and even took pictures of the damage, which she printed out and left under my wipers. I suppose there were witnesses, so she didn’t like her chances of driving off. No one made any attempt to locate and inform me, although the library was a relatively small one-story building, and it would’ve taken about 30 seconds to go in and call for me over the intercom.

I didn’t find out about the damage until closing time. I also then found an email on my phone from a sheriff’s deputy containing a brief note about the incident and the supposed insurance policy number of the offender. When I called the insurance company, they told me the policy had been canceled months ago. I replied to the deputy’s email, stating that the policy had been canceled. He replied to the effect that as a “neutral third party” he couldn’t give me “advice.” I would think that as a police officer, he would be interested in pursuing charges against a driver who damaged someone’s vehicle without having the insurance coverage required by law, but I guess that would be too much to expect in this era of black privilege.

As it turned out, the library parking lot was regularly frequented by an African guy who specialized in burglarizing cars, which I didn’t know at the time. One day, I didn’t feel like taking my bag with me for safety when I left my car, which I’d done every single day for over a year until then. On that day, the African stole about $3,000 worth of my property. The policewoman took 45 minutes to show up, acted as if she were doing me a favor by taking the report, and obviously did nothing to pursue the case. I never heard from her again. (In her defense, I’m sure the constant stress and pressure cops face from having to babysit blacks probably doesn’t do a lot for their attitude even in the best of times.)

Another time a few months later, I accidentally left my car key fob on the computer table for no more than one minute, and the same guy got it and tried to steal my car. It would have cost slightly over $1K to have my car rekeyed. My insurance at the time wouldn’t cover it, and I was already having major money problems. The alternative was to keep on driving with the spare fob, and open myself to the possibility that a stranger might drive off with my car at any given moment.

Obviously, these were not deeply disastrous events that destroyed my life. But it is precisely these constant, unpleasant experiences that make being around blacks so disagreeable. You have to watch yourself and your belongings all the time, you have to be on your guard constantly, and still they may eventually take something of value out of your life. To live with blacks is to live among predators.

Scott Adams is right. Don’t try to get used to them; don’t try to understand them; don’t try to negotiate with them; don’t help them; don’t try to improve them; don’t spend time on or with them in any way. In a thousand small, seemingly insignificant ways, they will grind you down. Cumulatively, they almost certainly represent the greatest single source of damage, dysfunction, and conflict in American life that there is. Avoid them.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, or about your firsthand experience with race, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Please feel free to use a pen name and send it to us here.