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Goodbye Mister White Guy

[1]2,207 words

There is a general feeling of malaise among native European communities. I was unaware of this as a child, or perhaps it just didn’t exist yet, as I was also unaware of it as a young adult. But now I am sensitive to it, and certainly sensitive to reflecting on my past experiences with fresh eyes, and this will be such a reflection.

Many Europeans already have a feeling of being lost, but do not know why, despite all the statistics which show that something is wrong: rates of divorce, single motherhood, child abuse, rape, murder, general crime, suicide, sexual and gender confusion, and of course identity confusion.

When I was young, I certainly wasn’t told who I was in a deep, meaningful way – what I am, where I come from, and so on. My name was a clue, as you can follow its origins, but that wasn’t explained to me; I had to research it myself when I was old enough to care. My parents are typical gen-Xers, who said nothing about the chain which led to me, nor explained what I was being given or what I should pass on to my children. I have a Deistic mother who rejected Catholicism and a Protestant father who refuses to go to church, only reading the Bible on his own, with no traditional guidance. The same goes for my upbringing concerning race, genes, and nationality. It simply wasn’t spoken about.

I was raised by a single mother, and a strong father who moved on to marry a much more stable woman who I proudly call my second mother. But this story isn’t about me, but rather about a man from my hometown in England.

Out of respect for his family and for him, I shall call this man John. John was from my area, and he was older than me. I have an older sister, and he was closer to her age. It is through her that I knew him, although I only met him a few times. She had known him for years, and even dated him for a short while. Eventually, they broke up, and he moved on, leaving for another country and only returning occasionally to visit his family. My sister ran into him on one of these trips, and he explained that he was ashamed of his past actions and didn’t want to bother her. He just wanted to see his family and leave. After what he had done to her, he felt it was best not to dwell on the past and for both of them to just move on. She was hurt by this, but understood. A few years later, she found out he had committed suicide. She was shocked by this, but I didn’t find it so hard to understand, given that me and my sister don’t use the same pair of glasses to view the world.

I believe the differences in our perspective are due to gender, but also illustrate something about the modern world: she is more emotional, and she understands the world in terms of how people feel. She also wants to have children, either herself or through adoption. My own worldview is based more on history and logic. I see people and patterns, I see groups and the particulars of the people within them. I want children, but they must be mine. By this I mean my wife must be of the same tribe; I want children who look like me, and I want them to share my identity and race through a wife who is also of my race and identity – in other words, I want to add another citizen to my nation. My children will not be citizens of the world, but citizens of their home and people.

In modern times, women are less inclined to care about their children looking like them or whether they will fit into the native population. What matters most to them is that their children are happy, regardless of factors pertaining to location, father, race, nation, or single motherhood. But because of a lack of understanding of the importance of identity, my sister cannot and will not understand John’s suicide. But to explain what I mean, I have to tell John’s story.

John grew up in a majority white, lower-to-middle-working-class area, among tough men who are honest and hardworking and strong women who have many children and treat their local friends with a heart of gold. His upbringing was no doubt rough, as is everyone’s in that area. His entire family were fighters of one sort or another. His brothers were all boxers, and his father was their teacher. His family had a strong and proud English identity: they flew flags outside their home and wore English football t-shirts constantly, clearly seeing football as a form for expressing nationalism in a world that dislikes such displays. This identity was often articulated by what we commonly call today “racism” or thuggishness, in the same way that someone like Tommy Robinson embraces it. In the metropolitan world, this is no longer acceptable.

John often wrote NF (for the National Front) on toilet doors, spoke about his support for the BNP (British National Party), and engaged in risky behavior, such as going to football matches just for the fights. He once spoke about how he would go to the nearby city to drink in a pub. This city is a forty-minute walk from our town. He would walk back early in the morning, stinking drunk, and if he passed anyone on the street, he would start a fight with them just for the kick of it.

This sort of behavior is more self-destructive than competitive. There is nothing wrong with a strong identity and taking pride in your heritage, but he acted like someone who was secretly insecure and lost. He expressed anger at how our area was – and still is – being screwed by immigration, at how unemployment was rising even as we took in Indian, Chinese, Pakistani, and Polish workers who worked for lower salaries, sidelining the natives. He thought the white, working-class natives of England had been abandoned. I dismissed him as a simple, insecure racist. Nevertheless, it is true that our region has been abandoned by the middle and political classes. They refuse to do what the public overwhelmingly want – namely, control immigration and greatly reduce the number of people coming in, so that the natives can have room to breathe and come to terms with the changes that are outpacing us. Our region has seen some of the largest numbers of immigrants in Britain since the 1960s. Wolverhampton, where Enoch Powell made his rise, and Birmingham, where he gave his famous “Rivers of Blood” speech, are not far. These areas are being gang-mauled by pedophile-Pakistani Islamic rape gangs, Somali knife crime, and self-destructive white behavior. John recognized this, and he became more and more self-destructive as his eyes were further opened to all this from experience. It was not something abstract: his home, right in front of his face, was changing and degenerating. I think he became disillusioned, and hope left him more and more each day as he had to watch it continue to happen.

There is a phenomenon in England in which we call people “Asian” in order to extend group blame to an entire racial category, just so we don’t have to talk about Islam. Then, anyone who brings up Islam can be called a racist, because the Islamic community is referred to as Asian instead of as Pakistani or Somalian (the latter of which is one of the worst types of Islamic communities to have in your area). Things like this drove him crazy. He believed he was watching England stop being English.

This became more personal for our family when my sister began dating John. He was unaware that we have a younger sister who is of mixed race. When my mother and father split up, my mom moved on and had a child with a black man. On my mother’s fireplace in my family home, there was a picture of my younger sister’s father. When he saw it, he asked rather bluntly, “Why is there a nigger on your fireplace?” When my older sister explained, he was horrified. He himself had a black friend who everyone called Nigger, and he jokingly referred to himself by this name, too. But it was clear that although John considered him to be something of a friend, he would never let him get any closer. Again, I dismissed him as a simple racist, and thus ignored all his points.

He found out that before my sister had dated him, she had dated a black Muslim. While Islam bothered him, it was more his race that angered him. John explained that he loved her, but didn’t know how to deal with that information. It continued to be a cause for argument, angering and upsetting both of them. He couldn’t understand how she could have done that – to herself, to him, to her nation, her people, and her future children. He couldn’t understand why she had wanted it and didn’t see a problem with it, and why she was willing to make the same mistake our mother had. As a result, they had an on-and-off relationship over several years. He often broke down, and explained that if only she hadn’t done that, he would be able to be with her without any problem.

What he didn’t want was to love and have a family with someone who wasn’t ethnocentric. He was also frustrated by the fact that he wanted all of these things from a woman who was clearly blind to racial loyalty and familial feelings.

While he watched his hometown being destroyed by multiculturalism and his own people being pushed aside, he also watched the local women fetishize black men, speaking of their desire for a “brown baby” just for the novelty, while the local men praised Islam for being masculine, or else spent all of their time destroying themselves with drugs and meaningless sex, lacking any sort of direction and end-goals.

He fell out of contact with my sister, moving to another country to pick up a trade, and got on with his life. He also discovered meditation and began exercising in less explosive ways. As many find out, running and bike-riding are a wonder for the wandering mind, and for him it began a path of reflection with which he had been previously unfamiliar. He began to hate himself, and hated his hate. He hated that he had hurt others, and hated his family’s views. This led him to try to change his ways and himself. It is indeed noble to burn away your weaknesses and overcome your previous thuggishishness. But what was left, once he hated himself? One could argue many things: a new hope for the future, or even a new life, perhaps? For him, however, it took away the one thing that kept him grounded: his identity in terms of race, gender, and nationality.

This new John sought to destroy himself through meditation, thinking his identity was an illusion, like a Buddhist. Little did he know that race is the foundation of identity, and that denying it would lead him to eradicate himself, just as many other young white men are doing right now. You cannot take an axe to the root without destroying the fruit that it bears. We as whites are opting out of existence, of life, as the world crushes us and makes us deny the fundamental facts of our own existence and being.

Do not misunderstand me: John was not a virtuous man, nor would he have made a good member of our movement as he was, but he could have been, and the most depressing fact is that he could have been helped, but wasn’t. He was young, angry, and lost, pouring his racial and national pride into football: the last bastion of overt nationalism left in England. But this last bastion is not the hill to hang yourself on; rather, it is a pool of wasted energy which could better serve our nation if it were expressed openly, in relation to racial identity, instead of through sports euphemisms. This is what a young, poor, white male has been reduced to. If men set standards and women enforce them, then we native English men must pick our wives wisely. Not only could John have been saved, but he could have saved a woman from the specters of miscegenation and single motherhood which haunt European women today. He could have become a hero and saved a woman with a bad history; that is the only way we are going to save ourselves and rise up against our weaknesses – and those who abuse our weaknesses.

We must be those who march on for England while the rest of the world pushes back against us. What they want, and must not get, is a great big goodbye from Mister White Guy. The only possible last bastion for white people is ourselves, and so long as we exist and affirm this truth, there is always hope.