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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 was born in Oakland, California, in 1944 and raised in a lower middle-class area of the city. There was only one non-white family in the neighborhood, and crime was almost unheard of. For example, once a week I was required to accompany my aunt on an all-day shopping excursion to downtown Oakland. Before leaving, my aunt would open wide both the front and back doors to her home, in order to let in fresh air. Those doors were open for six to eight hours straight, and no one ever trespassed. The family car was always parked overnight with its doors unlocked and its windows rolled down. No one ever tampered.
Slowly, incrementally, the demographic and political profile of the city changed, and by the late ’60s to early ’70s, it was no longer the city I had loved. Oakland had become an unhealthy, dangerous place. My racial consciousness arose from the many experiences a white man must endure in the inner city.
It came, in part, from the owner of the neighborhood grocery store (a Chinese immigrant) being gunned down in front of his wife and three small children. And from the owner of the local liquor store (a Hungarian immigrant), shot to death while his wife pleaded for his life. And from John, the elderly owner of the local hardware store, being dragged into a rear room of his store, his lifeless form discovered several hours later, his skull having been smashed to bits with a hammer taken from his own inventory. And from my arriving home from work one afternoon to find that everything I owned had been stolen from my duplex, with the exception of the rifle I kept hidden behind the water heater.
It arose in part from the endless stream of nonsense spewing from the mouths of the “oppressed:” Power to the people. Send a pig to heaven with a .357. Black is beautiful. Try black and you’ll never go back. Keep it black ’til I get back.
It arose also from the media making heroes out of local radical groups and individuals (who were nothing more than common street thugs): the SLA, the Soledad Brothers, the Black Panthers, Huey Newton, Eldridge Cleaver, Angela Davis — the list goes on and on.
It arose from the degenerates of my own race in Berkeley, the Castro district, and Haight-Ashbury, and also from having a large caliber revolver placed to my temple while being told, “I’m gonna blow your white m***** f****** brains out, Honky!” My racial consciousness is a product of all of these things and so many more, the total weight of which I could no longer endure.
To my discredit I fled California in 1987. I’ve since lived in Las Vegas, Phoenix, San Antonio, and Tucson. With each move I’ve sought to restore the quality of life I was so privileged to enjoy as a youth. I have failed in my quest.
I want back my city! My streets! My ocean! I want back my schools, my infrastructure, my arts, and the companionship of like-minded citizens. I want the comradeship of similar people working together to achieve similar goals. And I once again want to stand atop the high ground just north of the Golden Gate and gaze toward the city in wide-eyed wonderment at the panorama my race created. And as I write this I want to drop to my knees, round my shoulders, and sob like an abandoned child for all we have lost.