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

My parents moved from Ohio to Kentucky in the 1950s. As was the case with most Appalachians who made the same move, they were in search of the good paying industrial jobs. Race seldom came up when I was a child. Blacks lived in their part of town (government housing complex) and we lived in ours. They went to their schools and we went to our schools. They went to their own churches and had their own social life that never overlapped with ours. I spent grade school largely unaware of blacks and saw them only at football games when we played the other, mostly integrated, junior highs. That was the long and the short of it.

The one exception was when my dad was fired from his job. He had gotten into a fight with a black coworker who had made a filthy sexual remark about my mother. My dad, a former Golden Gloves boxer, beat him unconscious while they were on the factory floor. Even though the union and company management agreed that my dad had been provoked, they were both fired for fighting at work.

Then, in tenth grade, I started attending a consolidated high school and was suddenly immersed in the culture that blacks create wherever they gather in large numbers. It was then that I saw first-hand just how dysfunctional blacks are. When compared to the white students, they were oversexed, violent, and dull-witted. In class they either slept or acted out, making it impossible for anyone else to get an education. Most of them were illiterate and innumerate. They couldn’t master the simplest subjects, never did their homework, and were constantly starting fights with each other and their white peers. Their conduct around girls (groping, jeering, leering), black and white, was also horrendous.

I quickly learned that everything I understood about how to get along with others did not apply when you were dealing with blacks. Their culture was alien to mine and there was no reasoning with them. The only thing they seemed to understand was force — and woe to the white male who was in the least bit timid.

After graduation, I joined the Army where I spent the next twenty-two years of my life. I didn’t have to deal with blacks very often. My MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) was combat arms, these MOSs were and are overwhelmingly white. Blacks, who make up a large percentage of the Army, cluster in “soft” MOSs (logistics, administration), where they can avoid the rigorous demands that combat arms makes on their soldiers. Of the few blacks serving in the combat MOSs, I occasionally met a good one, but they were generally lazy, slow, defiant, and untrustworthy. My time in the Army hardened the attitudes that I had developed in high school — despite the fact, that I was required to parrot the ridiculous, politically correct slogans such as “diversity is our greatest strength.” Still, I left the Army not giving race a great deal of thought. I knew blacks “were what they were,” but it didn’t seem too important.

After retirement, I worked in both the private and public sector. Everything I had observed in my life thus far was magnified. I worked for and with blacks who were incompetent, lazy, racist, and dishonest. They lacked basic skills to do most of the jobs they held. It went unspoken, but everyone knew that if you had a black around your workload would increase because they wouldn’t or couldn’t do their jobs and you had to pick up the slack. Still, affirmative action ensured that they were “Peter Principled” several levels above the competence level. I experienced all these things both in my work life, my children’s schools, and in common interactions with blacks.

The final straw was when I was walking out of a store during the Christmas season. I happened upon an altercation between a white woman and a black woman over a parking space. The argument was becoming heated, and the white woman was obviously terrified. Then a large black male got out of the black woman’s vehicle, walked up to the white woman, and sucker punched her. She fell to the ground and they both began to kick her. I drew my pistol and yelled for them to stop. When they didn’t, I fired a warning shot and they ran to their car and drove away. I called 911 and stayed with the injured woman until the police and paramedics arrived. On arrival, the police seized my holstered weapon, handcuffed me, and put me in the back of their cruiser. Long story short, I was cited for an illegal discharge of a firearm. The black female Assistant DA wanted to file attempted murder charges, but her boss put a stop to that nonsense and had the charges dismissed. He told me, off the record, that had the assailants been white, I would have never been charged.

The more blacks I deal with, the harder my attitudes about them become. To this day, I do everything I can do to avoid any interaction with them. Long term, the only viable solution is total separation.

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.