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 and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We were an upper middle class family, my dad made decent money as a contractor which enabled my mom to stay home to homeschool us (me and my siblings), saving us from having to experience the nightmare that is the Albuquerque public school system.

This means that most of my interactions with other people came through extra curricular activities: baseball and fencing for instance, along with helping my dad at his job sites. It was there, painting and installing drywall with my old man, where I experienced how our Hispanic neighbors to the south live once they’ve come to America.

My dad worked mostly in the lower income area of Albuquerque, nicknamed the “war zone” by the locals for the amount of crime in the area before being officially rebranded as the “international zone.” And believe me, these neighborhoods, this “international zone,” wasn’t plagued by an overwhelming percentage of troublesome and crime-prone internationals from Sweden or Lithuania. No, it was like stepping into a Third World country whenever we went into these neighborhoods. Nobody spoke English, it was dirty, dangerous, and full of Mexicans. My dad always had a comment to make in regards to how many children these destitute people kept having. He didn’t understand it. Neither did I. If you can’t afford to feed one kid, why have five more? They clearly weren’t asking these questions. I don’t think they cared — living 5-10 in a two bedroom apartment on a couple bucks a day in the US of A is better than living in Mexico, I guess?

But I digress, New Mexico is a beautiful state and I recommend you go and experience the land of enchantment that my conquistador ancestors braved while searching for lost cities of gold. But while great, living in its biggest city, Albuquerque, made it abundantly clear to me that wherever you find Third World living conditions you also find non-whites. And it was this pattern that really opened my eyes to the dangers unchecked droves of non-white migrants pose to the civilized world. Wherever they go they bring with them the same misery that they longed to escape. Luckily for me, I didn’t have any first-hand negative experiences while living there. Even to this day, most of my encounters with non-whites are positive. But this doesn’t cloud my judgement when it comes to the bigger, existential picture.

We are the Romans, and the barbarians are knocking at the gates of the eternal city. And we’ve let more than enough of them in.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Use a pen name, stay under 1,200 words, and send it to us here.