Looking within

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve earned the right to be a racist. How am I better than my alleged inferiors?

I can gloat over white achievement and the glory of western civilization until I’m uplifted and proud. But what contributions to this gleaming white world have I ever made? As an individual I’m down in the dirt with the blacks.

For ten years I’ve worked minimum wage jobs and smoked pot. Blown cash on drugs, booze and fucking. Sank a decade into rampant rutting and stumbling around drunk and high. My parents paid for my wasted education. My family kept me out of the streets.

I’m a lifelong dependent with anti-social tendencies. My time management skills are lacking and my impulse control is weak. If my parents didn’t help me then the state would have to intervene. Without the support of family I’d need government assistance like all the imported muds mucking up the safety net.

I’m lucky I don’t have bastards or a criminal record. I’ve saved nothing, built nothing, preserved and protected nothing. I’m a taker, a parasite sucking at the deflating tit of my inheritance.

It’s normal to prefer the company of people who look, sound and act like you, but beyond that why am I proud to be white? Racism as far as trusting your own people over alien groups makes sense and is consistent with our evolutionary history. But using group membership to boost esteem can obscure deeper flaws in personality. And what white characteristics do I even exhibit?

I’m quiet and courteous in public. I’ve never shot or robbed anyone and I can read and write. Apart from not being an illiterate murderer I’m not sure what makes my particular white self so much better than the crepuscular cretins we love to castigate.

Sure, I’d never make incoherent threats on a bus or blast obscene music on a train. But underneath the surface of my civility, of polished white presentation, there’s african style corruption, indolence and idiocy. Peel off the mask of my polite white face and you’ll see the soul of a dysfunctional negro.

The same goes for my feelings towards gays. I view them as public health hazards and symptoms of family breakdown and social disorder. In the current year, std rates in the u.s. are higher than they’ve ever been and gay and bisexual men are at an elevated risk. They’re incapable of restraining themselves and shutting their buttholes long enough to cure their chlamydia and gonorrhea.

They wail about funding and acceptance and rights as they descend into the depths of bathhouse depravity where they incubate and spread fatal diseases, soaking up resources and misusing scientific and medical talent to shield themselves from the deadly consequences of their infantile indulgence.

But I’ve had an std before. I’ve acted just like a morally blighted and spiritually gutted gay man who puts sexual pleasure above health and happiness. My sexual compulsions have physically endangered others and caused emotional confusion and pain.

The biggest difference between me and a gay man is that I have sex with women. It’s not as though I’m an upright family man fearing for the future of his community, warning my people and protecting them from predators and profligates. How can I can preach sexual continence and the importance of stable relationships when I’ve allowed family ties to fray while seeking novelty and stimulation?

I have no community. I was thrown into individualism, self actualization, into doing what you want when you want with who you want all the time until your body turns to dust. Where only bigots stand in your way and only archaic religious beliefs hold us back from being their true selves. There was no racial or ethnic consciousness, no celebration of ancestry or connection to the past. The future was mine; it wasn’t the continuation of a legacy. I took advantage of the license granted to me by a permissive age of disintegration.

Until I became so disgusted with myself that I knew I had to change. And I thought about the value of a rooted existence, of devotion to something greater than my cravings and lusts. I began to figure out my unhappiness and envision a future that would reconnect me to a past I’d casually disowned. But it’s all been theory and speculation so far.

In my head I’m a straight white man proud of living in a civilization built by straight white men who love independence and freedom. In my actions I’m closer to a gay black man who needs other people’s money to continue inhaling and ejaculating while remaining passive, resentful and self pitying.

Sure, it feels good to know I’m not in a demographic that’s overrepresented in violent crime and genital afflictions, but what have I done as an individual to make my people proud? What makes me worthy of esteem? It has to be more than not being gay or black and in jail or spreading aids.

I could spend my entire day pouring over stats and stories of black misconduct, homosexual deviance and the social and economic devastation wrought by ill conceived and malicious immigration policies. I could brood over elite corruption and cultural decline and state supported decadence and it wouldn’t change the fact that I’m more of a product of these forces than their external opposition.

The submission of humanity to technology might move me to impassioned denunciation, but as soon as I’m done I’m going to use my smart phone to order more drugs. And then I’ll sit around and wonder when I’m going to get the recognition I deserve for doing almost nothing, for narrowly avoiding prison and unwanted children and life threatening illnesses.

At least I’ve been racially and morally awakened. I now know that even though I’m the product of a sick society, becoming healthy is in my hands if only I put down the pipe and the smartphone, if only I stop acting like an unfocused animal minority. I need to become worthy of the civilization I claim to love.

Author: The Empty Subject

Born curmudgeon

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