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

I am a middle-aged, white, heterosexual, Christian male residing in the southern United States. I was born in Veracruz, Mexico. The son of missionary parents, we resided there until I was around the age of four, after which we returned to the United States for approximately one year. From there we moved to Hong Kong, where we lived until 1992. Our departure wasn’t forced, but a necessary precaution, given that it would return to communist rule only a few years later. My parents’ purpose — to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ — could therefore have cost us our lives. My life experience up to the point we returned to America in 1992 was profoundly impacted by a diverse array of cultural exposure. To say I had broad horizons by the time I hit puberty would be an understatement. All the same, upon my arrival to the United States, I experienced what I used to describe as culture shock, in no short order.

My very first experience in the American public school system came as a rude awakening. At the age of 12, I was tossed into the seventh grade in a poor school district in a suburb of Houston, Texas. The schools’ racial composition was about 70 percent Hispanic, 25 percent black, and 5 percent white and other. I’ll never forget my first day there. Eager to make friends, I sat with a group of Hispanic boys at lunch and tried my best to fit in. The most popular among them quickly asked me if I’d like to be in his gang. I naturally jumped at the chance. A quaint vision of cookies and milk in a tree house full of new friends sprang into my head. It would be a real “Get Along Gang” affair. After the lunch bell rang, I headed to my next class with my new best friend at my side. He began poking his head into every other classroom along the walk, beckoning for people to join us. There must have been at least 20 people in our group by the time we reached the end of the hall.

The first three punches came without warning, right in my stomach and ribs. The wind rushed out of my lungs, and I was paralyzed with fear and confusion. I’d never been in a fight. It didn’t even register that that’s what was happening until I hit the floor and several others started kicking me. Fortunately, a teacher close to the action broke school policy, and jumped into the fray to rescue me. As he ushered me into his classroom, I could hear the alpha male screaming how I still needed thirty more seconds of physical assault to be officially “jumped in” to the “baby blues gangsters.” Later that year, a camera crew from the local news station wheeled through the cafeteria during lunch, as dozens of students from every table competed with one another, throwing their gang signs in hopes of television exposure. The news station was airing a special on the recent gang related murder of a 12-year old boy. I spent the rest of the school year in living hell, apprehensive of every word that left my mouth, and every twitch from other students. Eventually I convinced my parents that my life was in danger, and we moved to another city by the time I reached ninth grade.

The high school I attended was around 50 percent white, 40 percent black, and 10 percent Hispanic and other. I excelled in all of my studies, and took as many advanced placement courses as possible. Most of the students in difficult classes were white, and the few minorities that took such classes were well behaved, pleasant individuals. Though better than my last school, there was still more of the same. Non-white students, and especially black students seemed to have it in for me — my entire tenure there was free of any altercations with white kids. Much of high school was a game of mouse trap. I would diligently avoid my non-white bullies, and they, in turn, would try and find ways of tracking me down and harassing me. In general, I was good at this game, but not unbeatable. At the end of my senior year, one black peer found me outside of school and attacked me — getting himself arrested for assault in the process.

Now I’m forty, and not much has changed. I have been employed by a major car manufacturer for the last six years. At my job, blacks slightly outnumber whites and Hispanics. There is palpable racial tension at all times, though corporate spokespersons would deny this outright. They’d tell you our plant is an interracial paradise — a real bastion of diversity and inclusion — yet I’ve never seen an employee wearing a MAGA hat. That’s a terminable offense, but apparently all the Black Lives Matter t-shirts I see aren’t. I keep my political opinions to myself; a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way. One minute you’re working beside someone, having a friendly conversation, and next thing you know it, you’re Hitler because you can understand why George Zimmerman was acquitted. We work in a fast paced and stressful environment, to boot. Some people are just looking for a reason to burst. To further exacerbate racial and political tensions, we recently had a plant wide meeting about diversity, inclusion, intolerance, and harassment. All of the corporate and union heads at this meeting made it very clear that intolerance and harassment, both verbal and “symbolic” would not be tolerated, and were tantamount to violence. Therefore, they constituted a terminable offense. Forget the fact that the plant’s policy on actual physical assault is only dismissal for two weeks without pay. At the conclusion of the meeting, every employee received a packet to sign, detailing company policy on all forms of harassment.

Throughout my life, I’ve had a host of confrontations and altercations, the majority of which involved blacks or other non-whites. Over my nearly thirty years living in this country, these experiences have been at odds with the tales of “racism” and “oppression” I’ve heard from the school system, Hollywood, the mainstream media, my job, and society at large. Their claims about “white privilege” and the wonders of diversity stand in stark contrast with what I’ve seen throughout my life. I’ve tried to reconcile my experiences with prevailing societal orthodoxy, but to no avail.

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.