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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.

My childhood was filled with adventures in treehouses on sunny days and playing hide-and-seek with my brother in the woods and hedgerows of the English countryside. At bedtime, the exploits of Badger, Mole, Ratty, and Toad of The Wind in the Willows brought the day to an end. I had loving parents who always put my welfare and happiness first.

I didn’t meet a black person until the age of seven. On the rare occasions I did meet one, they were polite and unassuming. My upbringing did not prepare me for encounters with entitled, ill-mannered, and hostile blacks.

My hometown, on the outskirts of London, was a slice of middle-class English life. It was clean, tidy, quiet, and vaguely bucolic, before the mayhem of multicultural London arrived in later years.

The first murder in decades shocked my town. A young white man was stabbed by his neighbor, a black recidivist. The victim’s girlfriend had reported the neighbor to authorities repeatedly for harassment and playing loud reggae music. The 11-inch knife pierced the young man’s lung, heart, and spine. He died in his girlfriend’s arms with Bob Marley wailing in the background. The sentence was 22 years, reduced to 20 years on appeal. The punishment I would impose is unprintable.

Throughout my five decades, I have witnessed much black behavior — thousands of incidents, ranging from trivial inconveniences to attempted murder. Working in London retail management for 25 years earned me a PTSD diagnosis and an abiding dislike of blacks and their propensity for unpredictable, spiteful violence.

I have been spat at; sneezed into my face; sworn at; accused of racism; called a liar; had my parents insulted, manhandled, and racially abused; had my life threatened; been a victim of armed robbery; and been physically attacked by blacks.

The repertoire of behaviors I observed is worthy of an article in Anthropology Today. Spontaneous aggression, violent unpredictability, and sexualized behavior are par for the course. But you really haven’t known disgust until you’ve seen one of them emptying the contents of his nostrils and throat onto the pavement. The manner in which they do it is almost as offensive as the errant mucous.

The slightly more “respectable” blacks are little better: pampered, status-obsessed, and dim-witted. They delight in belittling or humiliating white people, especially where they have the upper hand in the interaction, such as in a customer service context. It’s physically and mentally exhausting dealing with them.

Despite this onslaught, I originally believed their behaviors were caused by racism, slavery, and poverty. Most of my customers and colleagues were white, and at the end of each day, I escaped the chaos to my super-majority-white hometown.

The scales fell from my eyes when I was promoted and began working in an “enriched” area of North London. Most of my customers and colleagues were now black. The unrelenting hostility and verbal abuse were stupefying. The main point of contention was my white skin. My blue eyes, good manners, and accent were also regularly denigrated.

One encounter will stay with me to the end of my days. A black man, just released from prison, attacked me while I was at work. In the struggle, I looked into his jaundiced eyes. I saw no symphonies, poetry, honor, or empathy. The devil was staring back at me.

The unceasing, overwhelming hatred and dysfunction of blacks shattered my liberal values and middle-class conditioning. Repatriation and separation beckon. Fences make good neighbors, but I want walls, oceans, and mountains between us.

A Stone Age people, with no civilizational achievements, are incompatible with us. They are fundamentally different, and we should stop expecting them to conform to our standards.

The Wind in the Willows, the classic children’s novel I grew up with, is a unique expression of English and of wider European culture. Every layer of my society is now occupied by hostile blacks and other non-whites who care little for the adventures of my anthropomorphic countrymen. The weasels of Wild Wood have taken over Toad Hall, and we will need a very large stick if we are to overcome them.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, or about your firsthand experience with race, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Please feel free to use a pen name and send it to us here.