by Kevin Alfred Strom and Jeff Hilton
YOU’RE ABOUT TO hear an extraordinary story. A story of a man who paid with his life for a foolish, stupid belief that has no basis in reality. No, I’m not talking about believing in “democracy in Iraq,” or in the “Chosen people” delusion. Those are dangerous beliefs to be sure, but the false belief I’m talking about — the one this man lost his life over — is one that pervades Western society from top to bottom.
Just hearing the narrative of the last few minutes of the life of Edwin Peters may be enough to break the spell of this belief for many people. To tell this story today, I welcome to the American Dissident Voices microphones Dr. Jeff Hilton.
Dr. Hilton was the man who brought us the compelling story of the Third Wave earlier this year. He is a Marine Corps veteran who holds a Ph.D. in Educational Humanities, and has been for many years a teacher in the public schools.
He came from a politically and racially liberal background, and he brings to his talk and to his insights some of the good qualities of that background: open-mindedness, playfully creative intuition, the ability to put himself in the other man’s position, and true compassion. But Jeff Hilton is a man for whom the stock cardboard-cutout answers of establishment liberalism were not enough. Through his personal quest for knowledge, through his life experiences, and through having a man like William Pierce for a friend and mentor, he came to see the world from the more rational, more scientific, and dare I say the more beautiful and spiritual point of view which is the biological world view of National Vanguard.
Today, let’s let him tell us about the profound lesson he learned during his first year of teaching in the public schools. I give you Dr. Jeff Hilton:
‘I was about 24 years old when I received my teaching certificate. Fresh out of college, my first assignment was the gigantic — how shall I describe it? — grey limestone edifice known as Central High School in Columbus, Ohio. We lovingly refer to Central High School as The Rock — and it is kind of like Alcatraz. It’s right on Route 40, which is the old wilderness road that goes through Cumberland Gap and on to Colorado and beyond.
‘Right down the street from us was the old massive brick building of the Ohio State Mental Hospital. Some people get those confused — Central High and the mental hospital. My first year there, I got them confused, believe me.
‘In the third week of December, just before Christmas break that year, I got a most sobering introduction to public education. For those of you that are non-teachers, right before Christmas break is the most dangerous time of the year because the little dears have now been in school for about four months — an incredibly long amount of time. They haven’t been out on the streets much, and they miss all the “jive” — and so it’s cruel and unusual punishment to keep them in school so long, I suppose.
‘It was then that I received one of the most vivid and lasting lessons about public education that I have ever experienced. I got a glimpse into the innermost “liberal” recesses of a teacher’s mind. I wasn’t a liberal by that time, but I was surrounded by them as a teacher. Let me tell you about the day that I actually saw the depth of their doublethink.
‘My room was on the second floor, overlooking the teachers’ parking lot. It was an early afternoon in December. The steam heat was stifling on the upper floors — you know how those old buildings are; you can’t turn the things off in the summertime, and in the wintertime they just go full blast. So I had my window slightly open.
‘I was jabbering on about something when I heard a clear “pop-pop” like the sound of a small-caliber pistol being discharged. As I looked out the window for the source of the sound, I distinctly saw a Negro male shooting into the windshield of a car. From my vantage point I saw it clearly. I couldn’t have been more than 20 or 30 feet away.
‘I then saw a White man, who I recognized as the Auto Shop teacher, run out to confront the Negro. To my horror, after about 15 seconds or so of conversation (I couldn’t, of course, hear what they were saying), I saw the Negro point the gun at the teacher, aim, hesitate, bring the gun back to his body, eject the shell from this cheap revolver, aim again — take deadly aim — and fire. The teacher let out a cry and I did hear that.
‘The teacher went down. And of course the assailant fled.
‘I called the hall monitor to take my class and went down to the teacher’s aid. He was sitting up and holding his lower chest when I got to him. What was amazing was that it couldn’t have been more than a minute or so from the time I heard the shot to the time I arrived at his side, but already there was a throng of Negroes surrounding the teacher — with their ghetto blasters going… It seems the sight of White blood just makes them go nuts. And that’s exactly what they were doing. He was completely surrounded by these Negroes.
‘The teacher, whose name was Edwin Peters, was a kind, grandfatherly Industrial Arts teacher in his fifties. He really didn’t have to be a teacher, but he loved the kids and was dedicated and that kind of thing.
‘He was having trouble breathing from what those of you who’ve been in the service will know as a sucking chest wound. What happens is that the shell enters the diaphragm and you have problems breathing. You have to take care of it right away or the person’s going to suffocate. You have to stuff something in the wound — and that’s what I did.
‘He rested more easily after that and some of his color came back. He was sheet-white when I first came down. But it seemed to me that he was even more embarrassed than he was hurt. He was embarrassed by his surroundings, by this Black throng; embarrassed by his life’s blood spilling out in the parking lot.
‘He then started to talk — and this was the most amazing part of the whole incident for me. He spoke not so much to me as just generally, in a general sense. He was in shock, sure enough, but it wasn’t a shock that was totally debilitating. I got the distinct feeling — and even today I feel this way — that he was trying to convince himself of something. It was as if the event that had just happened to him was something totally outside the realm of his comprehension. And embarrassment and confusion just welled up in him.
‘He started talking, and of course this is going to be paraphrased but I think it’s pretty true to what he said. He looked around, and he looked at me, and then he said “Apollo was a good person.” And that kind of threw me. I didn’t know what he was talking about. And he continued talking.
‘”He must’ve needed that money for a Christmas present. I told him to put that gun down. That’s a felony. It would be a felony to shoot someone. And it would ruin his chances for the basketball scholarship.” Peters is telling me this stuff while he’s sitting there bleeding.
‘”I know his mother. I’ve talked to her. She’s a fine lady. She tries hard. She’s only got 20 other kids… and it’s hard.” You know, that kind of stuff. He babbled on in that vein for some time. And it suddenly dawned on me — the entire story of what went on: who this thug was and what had happened.
‘I’d known this Apollo. I’d seen him around. He was the previous year’s basketball star. The next year, which is the year I’m talking about, he became a senior but was too old, at 20, to play basketball. So he spent most of his time roaming the halls. You don’t want to get him out of school, you know. You have compulsory education in Ohio until you’re 18, but if you’re nice and don’t cause too many problems — if you don’t gun down the teachers and stuff like that — you can stay ’til you’re 20, 21, 22… even bring the wife and kids to the graduation; that’s all right.
‘I’d had run-ins with him when I was on hall duty. And Apollo was no shrimp, believe me. I’m 6’4″ and he stood about 6’7″, 230-240 pounds, a real hulking Negro in his prime. A very, very dangerous animal.
‘Now Apollo mostly hung around the cafeteria. And he knew the schedule. He knew when the cafeteria worker took the day’s receipts to the bank. And that’s what he was waiting for. He was waiting for that chance. When I looked down from my classroom window, he was shooting into the windshield of the car belonging to the cafeteria worker who was taking the money to the bank. He chose that day to strike.
‘Peters had intervened, unarmed, to try to “reason with the boy.” And that’s a direct quote from Peters’ mouth.
‘Apollo, probably enraged at the disturbance, purposely shot Peters — and there was no mistake about it. It was just animal instinct, like when you take a bone from a dog.
‘Miraculously, when Apollo first aimed at Peters, his cheap 25-caliber revolver misfired. What did Peters do? Did he rush him? Did he run? No. He stood there and “tried to reason with the boy.” Those are his exact words.
‘Apollo coolly ejected the faulty shell, rechambered a fresh one, and shot Peters with deadly accuracy. And at ten feet, a 25-caliber pistol proved to be deadly.
‘All this came rushing back to me while I was helping Peters remain calm. At first I didn’t understand what Peters was talking about, the ravings of this “liberal” mind.
‘”Don’t blame him,” Peters said. “It’s his background. His mother tried.”
‘As he lost more blood, the circle of Negroes became louder and they started jumping around, their ghetto blasters were blasting, and they were “doing their thing.” And it became even harder for me to follow what he was saying.
‘”I had him in class. He’s a good worker,” Peters said. He was talking about Apollo. His mind reeled under the inconsistency of his code of beliefs and the actual fact of his predicament. And I believe that. His mind was telling him, No, Peters, you’re not lying there on a parking lot, dying from a gunshot wound… you’re just at a pep rally. He just didn’t fully understand.
‘Never once in the approximately five minutes that I held him up there before the squad came did he ask about himself. And I thought that was a phenomenal situation. The entire time, Peters tried to convince me — or convince himself, or convince somebody — that Apollo didn’t do what I saw him do with my own eyes: shoot him.
‘His last words were — and I do remember these quite vividly — “Where did we go wrong? It’s not his fault.” And then he said “His fault — his fault….”
‘Just like that. And I kept thinking that at the last second, Peters finally realized the enormity of the crime that had been committed against him. To this day, I don’t know, but I have that feeling.
‘He lost consciousness for the last time as the squad came, and he died on the way to the hospital. A bullet had hit the bottom of his heart.
‘Now Peters really was a typical teacher. Middle class, hard working, established. Just a nice guy. You know what I’m talking about? Just a nice individual. And like all nice Whites everywhere, especially teachers, he was a chronic sufferer from a disease we have in our race known as solipsism.
‘In philosophy, one form of solipsism, the one I’m talking about, is the belief that “the world is just like me.” The belief that “We can be reasoned with; everyone’s relatively nice.”
‘And this “mirror image” fantasy so clouds the mind of “nice” Whites that they’ll go to their needless deaths — and, believe me, there are going to be a lot of them going to their needless deaths — clinging to phrases like “Come reason with me and we’ll work things out…. Just give non-Whites better housing and education and they’ll be like Wally and the Beaver, or David and Ricky just playing the guitars in the family room… and Dorothy and the Lost Children are still in Never-Never Land.”
‘It’s this “niceness,” this kind of solipsism that says everyone is just like us, that’s drilled into Whites from the first day of kindergarten to the day they graduate from public school. “Be nice. Don’t rock the boat. Get a job. And everything will be all right. It’s 1946 again. Everything is fine.”
‘But they never stop to think that about 90 per cent. — or 95 per cent. — of the world isn’t White. It isn’t “liberal.” It isn’t middle class. And it certainly isn’t nice.’
Edwin Peters believed that, except for a “wrong turn” somewhere, Apollo was just like him. He believed that Apollo could, given enough “understanding” and money and privileges, turn out to be an upstanding citizen of an advanced Western nation, perhaps even an outstanding citizen.
All over this country, there are tens of millions of White people who believe more or less as Peters did. Despite the overwhelming evidence of Black and Mestizo violence and low achievement — despite the half-century-long near-total failure of assimilating these groups to Western standards of civility, comportment, and culture — they still think that new Platos and Shockleys lurk in the ghettos somewhere.
Not only are they wrong, but the insane multiracial experiment into which they have plunged us, instead of making tinted White folks out of the Third Worlders, is actually making our own future generations into Third Worlders, as racial mixing and cultural degeneration get worse with each passing year.
But not all of these deluded White folks, who have internalized the “equality” meme like radical Muslims internalize jihad, are as far gone as Peters. Millions of them will wake up from the “equality” nightmare as conditions worsen. Not all of them will have to be fatally shot to see the light.
For some, the neocons’ abandonment of any pretense of protecting the border will be the straw that breaks the incubus’s back. For others, they will awaken the day after their jaws hit the ground when Bush and his co-conspirators legalize all the illegal Mestizos, instantly removing the “I’m not racist, I just want the law to be enforced” pretense, forcing them to face the one fact they’ve been suppressing: the fact of racial differences. Some will awaken after losing a loved one to non-White crime — and that is sure to become a growth sector in the Third World America of the near future. Some will free themselves from the false religion of “equality” when they can no longer contain their rage at a economic system which elevates non-Whites and peonizes Whites, so that the White sons and daughters of the founders and builders of this country become little more than serfs who must share in the squalor — and in the violence and the diseases — of the savages who were imported by the billionaire elite.
Then the scales will fall from their eyes and they will see in sharp focus the reality of racial differences — and the utter emptiness of the quasi-religious ideas by which they were conquered and enslaved.
Remember how a near-miracle occurred when Edwin Peters confronted Apollo — how Apollo’s gun misfired and Peters had a chance to save himself as Apollo reloaded? But Peters missed that chance. He didn’t charge Apollo and knock the gun from his hand. He didn’t awaken in time. He clung to his false beliefs too long, and so Apollo had the chance to reload and fire that fatal shot. And so Peters died.
Right now, America — and all of White civilization — has a last chance. We’re under attack, but we’re still alive. Non-Whites are invading, but we’re still the majority in our ancestral homelands. There’s still a chance for us if we wake up from the “equality” delusion soon enough. Apollo is reloading. It’s now or never.
It is up to us to help as many White men and women and young people as possible to awaken now, the sooner the better. And it is up to us to be there when the millions do wake up, to channel their reawakened energy, their righteous anger, and their determination to fight, into constructive channels so we can be a free people once again.
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Source: American Dissident Voices broadcast of June 11, 2006