I WILL CALL her Mrs. M., because that was her name.
I had always been something of a teacher’s pet, for reason of superior intelligence and polite behaviour — or so I thought. My teachers always seemed to like me; and I trusted them. Thus I was not surprised when one day, when I was ten years old, Mrs. M. took me aside after class for a little talk. Such had happened oftentimes, to discuss my schoolwork or extracurricular interests, or just to chat.
This time, though, my schoolteacher’s message for me was quite unexpected.
Mrs. M. told me that she thought it was wonderful that I was of mixed race. In a manner at once both didactic and morally encouraging, she told me that in the future, all the races would dissolve and meld together. She said that then, all the world would just be “chocolate-coloured.”
Those last quoted words instantly were indelibly etched into my memory. So was the look on her face — the look in her eyes, as she said the words “chocolate-coloured.” Her eyes shone with the single brightest display of ecstatic religious fervour which I had yet seen at such a young age.
I repeat: I was ten years old.
* * *
And that is the moment I would identify as my racial awakening.
Of course, I was always on some level aware that my parents were different from each other and different from me; and, of course, I would pass through years of confusion and blind, ignorant struggle before attaining a coherent racial philosophy. But the silent, visceral horror with which I slunk away from Mrs. M.’s little pep-talk awakened my sound racial instincts.
I was born damned, conceived and created as a biological weapon for the purpose of destroying my own ancestors. Yockeyites and their ilk, nota bene: However spiritually Aryan I may or may not be, I can never in this life sire children who resemble my parents or grandparents — let alone my ancestors from a thousand years ago. I am the broken link which terminates two different chains which ran from long before the dawn of history. My ancestors can never come again — whether this be interpreted in a mystical sense, or that of the continuation and evolutionary progress of a certain kindred type. Through me, thus, my ancestors are worse than murdered: They are made extinct — no, worse than made extinct. By no choice of my own, I am the irrevocable living denial of my ancestors’ immortality.
Race is as biological as it is spiritual, and as spiritual as it is biological. The denial of the biological foundation of race is merely a recrudescence of the Christian denial of the body, as opposed to the soul; and equally, the materialistic Darwinians who hold race to be purely biological are no different from any other materialists. Man is both body and soul. Without the former, his Earthly existence lacks a foundation; without the latter, it lacks a purpose. On the former account, I am a quasi-Aryan ghost who clings to the margin of Earthly life through the embodiment of a living contradiction; on the latter, my parent with white skin, red hair, and blue-green eyes (who is of more than half German ancestry!) cannot reasonably be called “Aryan.”
It may be safely presumed that Mrs. M. had not the slightest inkling that her little speech was the formative childhood event which would impel me toward such eventual conclusions. In her bliss of Utopian delusions, she must have been unable to imagine that her anti-ideal of a glorious “chocolate-coloured” world would leave me envisioning my ancestors and myself sinking into a foetid eternal mud, drowning in such inescapable degradation as to make extinction seem a mercy. And she could never have guessed that I would someday note the curious resemblance of this Brown Man prophecy to the Talmudic declaration that “Christians [i.e. Europoids; in Jewish theology, offspring of Japeth or in this context, the seed of Esau] are boiled in excrement” for all eternity (Gittin 57a).
Her self-evident failure to predict my reaction is only demonstrative of the rule that egalitarians who proclaim that only individuals and not groups can be judged, are actually the crudest biological determinists. It is only natural that hypocrisy be a law unto itself for those whose only consistency is self-contradiction — whose logic is a repudiation of logic — whose self-proclaimed “rationalism” is a guise for the irrationality of a superstition without gods — and whose ultimate defiance of reality is expressed in the notion that man, through study of natural laws, can conquer Nature. As such, it is only a matter of course for such a person as Mrs. M. to insist that nothing can be presumed about the intelligence of a Congoid on account of his race, and ridicule the observation that a Jew is a Jew and always a Jew with a Jewish mentality — then to turn around and conclusively presume that a mixed-race mongrel must love race-mixing.
Yet to the contrary: Mongrelization is unpredictable in its effects on the individual, although it is all too predictable in its destruction of the aggregate. In the recombinatory chaos of my conception, certain Aryan mental and spiritual characteristics asserted themselves. That I retained a sound racial instinct to a greater degree than most purebred Aryans, may also in part be attributed to what I call defiant cry of poisoned blood against its poisoner. It is a cry I feel within myself every day. By some estimates I have seen, which I somewhat accredit from personal experience, as many as one in ten first-generation mongrels feels this cry to some degree.
* * *
From the moment of my birth, a world where nothing matched was as immersively familiar to me as a world of harmonious homogeneity was to all children of sane times and places. Such is the true meaning of “diversity”; and if neither of my parents could ever understand the natural fractiousness of my relations to them, suffice it to note that they were, after all, such moral imbeciles as to not only miscegenate, but do so in a premeditated and organized fashion — with the formal sanction of both Church and State. By contrast, despite the manifest perspicacity which impelled me at a much younger age to rebel against both the Church and Santa Claus, I may perhaps be excused on the grounds of aforesaid familiarity for reaching age ten without ever seriously reflecting on my nature as a mongrel. Such a failure on my part was abruptly (and quite unintentionally) corrected by Mrs. M.’s little speech.
Given the level of pervasive racial brainwashing to which I, like all children around me, was constantly subjected, as aforesaid I was to remain confused and riddled with self-contradictions not only for years, but for decades. Yet from that moment forward, my racial instincts were awakened. I was repulsed by Mrs. M.’s wild-eyed praise with the same visceral horror with which all normal children react to the sight of a violent crime — in this case, a violence against Nature, against my ancestors, and against each and every cell in my body. I put the matter from my mind, but never forgot it; and the instincts thus awakened grew within me, without name or thought or the application of higher reason.
In the immediate present, there also arose a countervailing instinct: A child’s canny alertness to danger. Having been immersed since birth in a mental cesspool of racial egalitarianism, without conscious thought I also sensed that the race question portended to me terrible trouble; and I avoided it. Nevertheless, my sound instincts asserted themselves in almost every way which was of practical import.
For example, I avoided Blacks without actually deciding to — naturally, almost as if autonomically, through the same primitive fastidiousness as leads a puppy to avoid soiling himself. (When race-mixing liberals claim that people, including children, are or can be subconsciously racist, they are incorrect only inasmuch as they condemn such healthy instincts.) Socially I felt second most comfortable with Whites, third most with the more refined breeds of Asiatics, and most of all when with my own kind — that is to say, when alone. Predictably and problematically, as I matured, I found myself sexually attracted almost exclusively to Aryan females — and most of all to the Nordic type. Mongoloid females are uninteresting to me, even those whom I can objectively identify as beautiful in the same sense as a beautiful, but (to me) sexually neutral artwork — e.g. many Japanese womenfolk, who are a Heaven-sent treasure for Japanese men. And even in the regrettable time of my youth when I was nearly drowned in a sea of libertine propaganda, trendy nihilism, and race-mixing Internet pornography, I have always felt I would rather castrate myself with a rusty knife than suffer bodily contact with a Negress.
Thusly asserted themselves such early instincts as I had inherited not from my parents, but perhaps from my great-grandparents. Slowly thereafter, consciously articulated ideas and data began to twist themselves into such a confused and inconsistent picture as may be perceived by one who was blindfolded from birth, and is first learning use of his eyes. I remembered how my mother always praised mutts, and alleged them to be superior to purebred dogs — healthier, more intelligent, brimming with “hybrid vigour.” As a natural dog-lover, I have always hewed toward the magnificent large breeds which, like the Aryan, would surely disappear if the race-mixers were to triumph. I rebelled against the thought-policing of certain words — and of the ideas which are affixed to those words as a dog is a affixed to its tail. I did not “hate” Negroes at the time — I simply wanted no personal contact with them; but I felt an inexorable hatred for anybody of any race who screamed bloody murder at the instance of the word “nigger.”
Only as to one danger did my racial instincts utterly fail me, with results which were to be personally detrimental: The worst danger of all, that chameleon seducer and master manipulator of mankind, the Father of Spies and Great Master of Lies, the Jew.
* * *
Those instincts acting as a force of Nature within me exhibited also an astonishing oddity for which I can offer no scientific explanation: From an early age, the word “German” held a magnetic attractiveness for me. Consciously and intellectually, I knew nothing of German history, German culture, or German traditions. I simply liked things described by the word “German” — even German chocolate cake, which turns out to have putatively originated in Texas. If a product’s label said “Made in Germany,” I instantly preferred it to one labelled “Made in China” or “Made in U.S.A.” And I felt an instinctual respect for German people — an uncanny, quasi-kindred respect — although I did not personally know any Germans. Whenever I saw photographs of Germans, I could not help but feel that they were uncommonly beautiful.
Like my repulsion from certain races, my attraction to anything with the slightest hint of Germanness functioned purely on the level of unconscious and unreasoning animal instinct. I did not put sufficiently clear thought to the subject until I was past the age of thirty.
This instinct provided the opportunity for me to be introduced to anti-German hatred, when in my youth I fell in with a well-travelled American expatriate. Although of White Anglo-Saxon racial stock, she was an ultra-liberal feminist who with ironic pride described herself as a “fag hag,” and centred her social circle around her prized Jewish friends — most of all the “gay” Jews, about whom she bragged endlessly. She had spent some time in Germany; so of course, I asked her about Germany.
“Germany is a beautiful country,” she declared, “except for all the Germans.” She proceeded to make some derogatory remarks about German people, and joked about getting rid of them — “just get rid of all the Germans, and it will be a beautiful country.” Or at least, at the time I was sufficiently naïve to presume she jested. It is unfortunate that I did not highlight to her the incongruity of such words falling from the lips of an “anti-racist.” I did however articulate to myself that, in my own words, anti-German race-hatred is the only socially acceptable form of racism.
As will be surprising to all who are not well-versed in such matters but predictable to those who are, my subconscious attraction to German things together with my fractional part of German blood also combined with circumstance to result in my being poisoned with Holocaust guilt at a level rare for a non-German. It is an inner experience which can be spoken of, but never fully reduced to words. To-day, that experience also gives me certain insights. I believe that many non-Germans of a nationalist political orientation are baffled and disgusted when they hear Germans use the phrase “due to our history” as the catch-all rationale for every bizarre extreme of masochism and servility. Disgusted though I may too be, I am not baffled at all. I understand.
As such, I was prevented from making the connection between my attraction to German things and my ardent lifelong love of freedom. Having suffered from a young age brainwashing with Jewish soap made with Pure Jewish Fatuousness, imagine then my astonishment when I learned that the most famous German of the twentieth century and the most famous German leader of all time adhered always the ancient German motto: “Lieber tot als Sklav!” (“Better dead than a slave!”) Some practice where others preach.
* * *
I said, worse than made extinct. As such I meant trapped: Permanently enslaved in a state of incurable degradation. Mrs. M.’s “chocolate-coloured” dream, described more honestly and without the same euphemisms employed by coprophiles, raised before my eyes the waking nightmare of a swirling cesspool of arbitrary cross-fertile anthropoids who gaily mingle spit, seed, and ova in a race to the lowest common denominator — a race of the lowest common denominator — a race of fungible, disconnected and atomized materialistic individual cosmopolites without strong feelings, deep attachments, or independent thoughts, fit only to be slaves and incapable of any status other than servility.
No leap of logic is needed to cross the abyss between Mrs. M.’s words and their implications. If a breeder of dogs desires a brave, strong, and loyal guard dog with keen pack instincts, he will refine his stock upon those criteria over the course of many generations. But if a breeder finds his dogs too headstrong, he can take a sleazy shortcut to a more amiable cur simply by diluting his stock with a wretch which likes showing its belly. Soon enough, nine pups out of ten will be pliant little mutts; the tenth can simply be drowned, or imprisoned, or drugged and incarcerated in a psychiatric hospital as the case may be. And despite his conceits to the contrary, man too is an animal subject to the same genetic laws.
The disconnectedness of one born a mongrel and raised a cosmopolite is another inner experience which cannot be fully understood by those who have an unadulterated biological and spiritual connection to their ancestors from a thousand years ago. According to my upbringing, to-day I am a German; tomorrow I will be Tahitian, the next day Japanese, and thereafter a Mexican, an Eskimo, or a Zulu. Except of course I am not really any of those things. But after all, countries are just colourful shapes on a map: A blond man can become Chinese by learning the language and applying for Chinese citizenship papers; and equally so, it is spiteful Nazi hatefulness to suggest that a Jew who speaks German and holds German citizenship is not in fact a German.
Of course such notions are shallow and self-contradictory frivolousness designed to destroy the idea of nationality. Moreover, the shallowness has another result: Those who are at home everywhere, lack any concept of “home” in a deeper sense. I have attempted explaining “home” to those with a cosmopolitan mentality; when the word is taken to mean something deeper than an arbitrary geographic location at which to sleep, copulate, and receive snail-mail, the attempt is as useless as trying to explain race, and for the same reasons. Yet the worst sufferers they who retain the concept of home, but find themselves born homeless. I know I could ask for the status of guest in a proper nation; but nowhere could I be more than a guest, for amongst no one do I share common ancestors and common descendants.
I long for home. I yearn for kinship. I dream of a patriotism based on something firmer than arbitrary political dictates and empty sentimentalities. In my later youth, divers days I found myself gazing in the mirror at my mutt face, silently repeating to myself: “Man without race — man without nation — man without family…”
* * *
Surely as the sun rises in the east and parliamentary politicians lie, race-mixing liberals in whom I confide the foregoing immediately charge me inter alia with insecurity and self-hatred. As usual, they see things backwards and upside-down: I despise my genetic poisoning, because I love myself dearly.
In lieu of penning a book on this rather narrow subject, I may for brevity’s sake safely dispense for now with the accusation through the typically Jewish deflexion of ridicule. For anybody who knows me well would meet the proposition of my being a “self-hater” with gales of contemptuous laughter. I am a proud man — unapologetically proud — proud in my soul; and for me to embrace my own mongrelization would be to embrace an unalterable degradation. It would be as if a rape victim took pride in the indelible historical fact of having been raped. Such would be the ultimate expression of self-debasement, self-abnegation, self-hatred. One who has pride of soul must despise such facts, acknowledge them, and strive to conquer them.
I struggle daily to conquer my many weaknesses, to conquer and tame by force of will that which I cannot change, and to make of myself more than the sum total of my genetics. I do not hide my own nature from myself behind those empty conceits which are the resort of the truly insecure. I will not knowingly and intentionally live a lie. I will not dissolve my consciousness of self, Nature, history, and reality with the usual liberal-egalitarian epistemology of axiomatic wishful thinking.
Such an approach to life, based on truth and willpower and the overcoming of obstacles, bespeaks self-love and supreme self-confidence, not self-hatred or insecurity. Sadly, no act of sheer will can ever in this lifetime assuage the detriments my mixed-race genetics inflict on me in ways which are truly important: Family, children, society and comradeship, and even my own body.
* * *
Based both on objective observation and reasoning, and on the inescapable knowledge of my own subjective experience, I adjudge miscegenation to be a crime.
Yet not only is it a crime. Considering only personal crimes (in contradistinction to crimes such as treason), miscegenation is the worst crime of all: Worse than murder, worse than rape within the same race, worse than assault resulting in permanent maiming.
For as from all other personal crimes, the suffering of the victim ceases when the victim does, at the latest. No other crime automatically and inevitably visits its detriment on the victim’s children and great-grandchildren.
The Earthly suffering of a murder victim ends with completion of the crime itself. The victim of a rape may or may not carry scars for life, and may or may not bequeath to her children some emotional dysfunction which, in otherwise normal people, should surely heal in time thereafter. If a thug were to poke out my eyes, I would be blind for life; if a terrorist were to blow off my legs, I would be an amputee for life. Yet from all such manner of mental or physical maiming, death is a conclusive end of the victimization.
Miscegenation is the only crime of perpetual detriment ended not by death, but only by extinction. It is the only crime which imposes on its victims (and each subsequent generation of its victims) the impossible choice of either inflicting the same crime on their own children, or embracing voluntary self-extinction by refusing to reproduce. This latter is an horrific decision for any individual with normal, healthy instincts (and that such a choice is made lightly and for reasons of pleasure and convenience by many people to-day, only bespeaks the evil which has by now nearly swallowed the whole world).
My instincts are mostly intact; and thus, Nature compels that I desire to have children. As likewise natural, I desire the best for my children. Yet the very first thing I necessarily give to my children is their genetics: Voluntarily via my choice of mate, and involuntarily via my own genetics.
My sufferings and struggles, my frail health and conflicted inner nature, are topics I have for the moment deemed best left to the imagination. Yet they are real; and never are they more real than when I contemplate even the barest hypothetical of siring children. I do not wish my children to struggle as I do, nor to suffer as I have since birth. I want for them the best! And it is bodily impossible for me to ever in this life grant to my own offspring a necessary (albeit insufficient) prerequisite of the best: Blood purity.
I have seen nationalists speak on the evils of race-mixing, but never of this particular dilemma of the Mischling. Perhaps most pureblooded people assume that mutts are too degenerate to care about such matters, or even to understand them. Looking around me, I see that the assumption seems not unwarranted; but the exception proves the rule, and those exceptions cry out for justice as the most agonized victims of race-mixing.
* * *
For the moment, I find it impracticable to decree appropriate punitive and remedial laws to combat the crime of miscegenation. And when contemplating the now-ongoing genocidal extinction of the Aryan, I realize that I cannot contribute directly to the solution, but only to the problem. Such a disability is intrinsic to my plight. I am left thus aught else but to plead to those of pure blood and good breeding.
O Aryan, you must know of my struggles and my dilemmas such that you may better teach your children the reasons why they must avoid the evils of race-mixing. No effort and no risk is too great for me, if my story can prevent the whelping of even one mongrel bastard — or better still, if it can positively influence the birthing of even one Aryan child, the child I myself can never have.
For the sake of all that is good in the heavens and on the Earth — for the memory of the great Aryan achievers of history, the builders of culture and the architects of civilization — for the sake of your ancestors from a thousand years ago, and for the sake of your descendants a thousand years from now, I pray thus: Please do not let Mrs. M.’s “chocolate-coloured” world become a reality.