One of the reasons it took me as long as it did to become a race realist is that I had plenty of reason to dislike my fellow whites. For most of my school years, I went to private schools where there were hardly any nonwhites. This didn’t stop school from being horrible for me. I was always one of the smallest two kids in the class, and I guess I was a little odd because I’m a bookworm and frankly a nerd, so I was always made a target. I got beaten up at school a lot. And I never saw any teacher ever do anything about it. The same teachers who made a big deal in front of the class and gave me a detention because I had gotten up to put something in the trash can during class would just sit there doing nothing while boys ganged up on me.
Now I better understand the reasons that school was like this for me. One is that no-fault divorce and working mothers were both just getting started. I had to go to school with the first generation of kids who didn’t have mothers at home to civilize them. Adults believed at that time that if you didn’t tell boys to act like John Wayne, they would magically, naturally be well behaved. I think that, while people are still entertaining all sorts of silly delusions, they have become somewhat more realistic about this, in practice even if they won’t admit it in theory.
Another is that most of my teachers went to school during the 60′s and probably marched against Viet Nam and stuff. (Of course, I think we shouldn’t have been involved in the Viet Nam war, and since we were we should have done it entirely different from how we did, but my reasons are different from those of hippies and their intellectual descendants.) They listened to stupid hippie music and decided to be in favor of “peace” because peace is nice, and of course they were totally detached from the reality of how peace is kept (by having a bigger stick than your neighbors). They were trying to practice pacifism in their classrooms, by not using aggressive reactionary patriarchal tools like punishment to make bad children behave. No, they would be enlightened and give those bullies the understanding that they needed! When those boys felt that they were cared about, then they would spontaneously stop beating up their smaller classmates! In the meantime, the smaller kids would just have to put up with it.
Another reason is, feminism was new and was the big thing and I think that the stupid women who became my teachers thought that telling boys not to hit girls would be sexist. They might even have still believed, at that point, that girls who were encouraged to play sports instead of play with dolls would be as strong as boys; back then, some feminists seriously believed that. So when they saw boys hitting girls as well as other boys, they were probably thinking, “We’re achieving equality!” or some such stupid thing.
It might not really apply to my experiences at mostly-white schools, but I have to wonder if the adults were tacitly letting the kids know who the acceptable targets were. If they had all decided to make the one black kid’s life miserable, I have no doubt the teachers would have put a firm stop to it, and I also have no doubt that all the kids knew that they wouldn’t get away with picking on him or any of the other nonwhites, or the one boy who was in a wheelchair, etc. (For the record, people didn’t know I was Jewish; my parents weren’t practicing so it never came up, and my last name doesn’t sound Jewish.) I wonder if they were subtly instructing my classmates, “It’s all right if you choose a designated class victim, just as long as s/he is white.” Not in so many words, obviously, but the most powerful lessons we teach our kids are the ones we teach implicitly. I have no doubt that my school years, at those mostly-white private schools, would have been far more pleasant if I had been anything other than white. Everyone would have made a point of being nice to me, and any bad behavior directed at me would have had the teachers up in arms. But since I wasn’t brown or crippled or foreign, just had a slightly different personality from my classmates, it was open season.
There’s a few other reasons my school years were so horrible, but they don’t really matter for this post. What matters is, until a few years ago, on the rare occasion that I heard people talking about black crime rates and stuff, I would remember the various blond and chestnut-haired boys from fifth grade screaming with laughter while they punched me and told me how they were going to rape me. (They never actually did, though one of those boys finally did something bad enough that he was expelled and his parents sent him to military school to straighten him out. None of the teachers had ever made the slightest protest when that boy attacked others, yelled obscenities, disrupted class, or threw things, and they were surprised when he finally did something destructive enough that they had no choice but to get rid of him? And what must he have thought, when no one ever even said, “Stop that” to him for years and suddenly they expel him?)
So there I was, surrounded by other white kids with like one black kid, two East Indians and one Japanese in the school, and the school violence and disruption were nonstop. Why the hell would I think white people were any better behaved than black people?
And even now, when I ponder what I might do to help the white race survive, I find myself thinking about my old white schoolmates and my stupid, mean-spirited white teachers, as well as various other white people who wronged me, and wondering, Why the hell should I feel solidarity with these people? Why should I want to help their descendants?
Of course, personal problems like that aren’t a reason to turn your back on something important like, oh, Western civilization. (Unless you’re a liberal.) But again, it was this betrayal of me and other white people who I liked and cared about, by other white people, that delayed my becoming a race realist.