Following is a real-life anecdote about one of the few times of late that I have seen a White woman with a White child around these parts.
Our paths crossed at the unlikeliest of places: One of those government-mandated functions for which all people must appear in person every few years, and wait interminably. Wait—and wait—in a huge room with a high ceiling, bright lights, large windows, and rows of giant high-tech screens showing improbably cooked statistics about how wondrously the economy is improving (between flashes of the latest ticket number to have been called). I halfway expected to see an announcement that this week’s chocolate rations had been increased. ’Twas all an imposing splendour of techno-glitz—equipped with far too few dingy, narrow, visibly dirty cheap plastic chairs for the seething mass of anthropoids cramming the huge room like uglier sardines. Priorities and the relative status of the masses were readily apparent, at least to those with a functioning brain.
Whereas said masses were constituted in a crowd which proved that there are far more shades of brown than colours in the rainbow. Who would have thought that the colour brown could be so diverse? So much for chocolate rations. The precise race of most present was not visually identifiable. I imagined the astonishing hues of a sanitary sewer, and it was all no mystery. A more apt metaphor, for the smell of unwashed flesh blanketed the room—oozing from every pore of many, to seep into every pore of all. Hail equality! E pluribus unum.
I am part of this mess, I thought to myself. I belong here, in the „chocolate-coloured“ future. My schoolteacher told me so, when I was ten years old.
I intentionally did not even seek a seat, for approximately the first forty-five minutes. Then raw physical pain overcame my fastidiousness about those horrid little chairs. Of course, in such an environment, requesting courtesy for a cripple would have been terribly naïve. Thus for the purpose of grabbing a chair the moment it was vacated, I managed to glimpse the number on a ticket which so happened to be held by one of the few with an identifiable race: A young East Asian man whose body language and manner of dress practically screamed that he was homosexual.
„Way to go, you assimilated, Westernized degenerate—promoting the unwarranted stereotype of Asiatic men as effeminate,“ I thought to myself bitterly. That has always been a sore point for me, as an Asiatic. The Yellow Man’s virility may be easily proved by population statistics alone. Moreover, faggots are vehemently condemned in the higher traditional East Asian cultures—no, not even condemned: Socially nonexistent (and more or less physically nonexistent, too). It is sad but true that my White parent, who married an Asian, loves queers and also Blacks as part of one mushy human family—whereas my Asian parent secretly despises niggers, and deems all homosexuals to be ipso facto child molesters. The latter worldviews are deeply ingrained, both culturally and genetically, including in me. Though in purer Asians, such opinions are oft concealed behind the wall of a correct stereotype: Impenetrable Asian reserve.
I gritted my teeth, watched for the approach of the rice fairy’s number, and wondered about the odds of contracting AIDS from a chair.
Quite soon as I scooped my seat, Murphy would have it than another opened adjacent—and was immediately filled by an elderly woman with pale skin. I barely glanced at her before issuing a friendly hello—which was met such a cold stare as made me feel I was an insect under a magnifying glass. Twisting my body painfully to get a good look at her face, I realized that she was a Doppelgänger of Barbara Lerner Spectre—same face, same eyes, even the exact same hairstyle, but with glasses. The bespectacled Spectre. She turned to her companion, who had occupied the seat on the other side by some mechanization I had not seen, and emitted a torrent of what I immediately recognized to be Russian with a Jewish accent.
I debated whether to toss at her a few extraordinarily rude Russian obscenities I know, or try the gutteral Hebrew gutter-speak which I also know. I decided against both, on grounds that I never argue with a Jew and, in so far as practicable, never speak to one—not even with speech appropriate for Jews.
The seat on my other side opened up, and was promptly occupied by the single worst odour I have ever suffered from an ostensible human—a ball-shaped blob of brown flesh, large enough for three of those little chairs. Perhaps since I usually avoid urban environments, it was the first time in my life I have ever literally held back bile at the stench of an unwashed and unwashable anthropoid. Silently thanking the gods for the curse of my extreme skinniness, I made myself small as possible, and edged a bit closer to the nasty Jewess. Please don’t let this—thing—touch me. My prayers were hopeless.
The Jewess disappeared, was duly replaced. Determined to be more cautious, I again turned painfully to get a square look. Whereupon I found myself contemplating steel-blue eyes and definitively White features framed by light brown hair, with a scaled-down little copy in tow!
It was the first certainly White person I had seen that day—and the first young White mother with a White child I had yet seen that year. My heart sang, and I felt suddenly one with the cosmos.
Without quite knowing how, I managed to find myself in a conversation about her kid’s music lessons. She mentioned that she is a „stay-at-home mom“. I complimented her, noting that such is rare nowadays, and recounting for her a sweet story about my own mother taking me to music lessons. Beyond that, I remember but few further details. The details were not important. Nothing was important. All that seemed important to me was to somehow, some way, simultaneously fall to my knees and shake her by the lapels and scream, Thank you, thank you!
She was friendly but unsure, and exuded palpable nervousness. I do not know whether such was a subconscious effect of the unsavoury, odiferous environment—or the general paranoia of strange men which is symptomatic of a sick society wherein genuine manliness is feared, and so many unmanly males are indeed vile cretins—or the fact that I am extremely odd-looking—a bodily freak of Nature who, though freshly washed, was also at that point enjoying a period of being too busy with my stash of forbidden books to shave or groom properly. Weird, to the extent that I had frankly apologized for scaring her child with my appearance. It perhaps helped that I am incorrigibly polite, and incongruously well-spoken. It certainly helped that I am visibly helpless. In a fistfight, I would be about an even match for her kid—a strapping girl of about seven or eight. There is no hiding that.
Without missing a beat, she casually mentioned that her husband had offered to take the kid, but the little one had wanted to see the big government office—a request to which she now evidently regretted acceding. With appropriate (and quite sincere) concern, I informed her that about an hour before, a loudspeaker announcement had stated the computers had been down earlier that morning—resulting in unusually long wait times. At that news, the look on her face broke my heart.
The whole time, I was scrambling inside to divine some creative way, some subtle cue, some subtextual code for mentioning the unmentionable: Thank you, White woman, for having a very evidently White husband, and thus most importantly: A White child.
Silently praising the glory of Nature, I marvelled at how daughter was a perfect reproduction of mother. They seemed almost as if they might have been twins, somehow separated by about twenty years. I realized that in another twenty years, the daughter would look more or less exactly like the mother does now—a related soul with the same body, who could then continue the cycle unbroken. I reflected on how she must be the spitting image of her grandmother’s great-great-grandmother, at the same age—of how those long dead still live on, through persons who are different individuals, yet of one flesh and one blood in an unending stream of life. I pondered what I will hereby call metempsychosis, to avoid words for old concepts which unfortunately now sound too New Agey.
I struggled with the knowledge that in a sick society, I had but a one in a thousand chance of mentioning such beautiful thoughts without terrifying her. Though really, I didn’t want to start preaching philosophy. I just wanted to somehow, some way offer some positive reïnforcement. The mainstream media day in, day out blares the message that it is a beautiful thing to have a brown child. Why could I not, how could I not sincerely express a counterpart message as to a White child?
But yet, how could I?
I was grateful for the opportunity to opine, in a more subdued manner appropriate to the social context, that I think it’s great she actually takes care of her kid and has a natural, full-time relationship with her. But I knew that she was almost certainly steeped in some sort of racial egalitarianism—and any mention of race would make her fear that I was about to pull a machine gun out of my back pocket and shoot everybody in the room. Thank you, ADL, for making certain conversations impossible—just as you intended.
Being not stupid, I moreover realized that if I were to make the slightest mention of race, there was a not insignificant chance the effect would be the opposite of that intended: She might run out and buy her kid a Black Barbie doll, so as to counteract the effects of exposure to evil, toxic racism. I do not desire to be counterproductive. „First, do no harm.“ I was stumped.
The conversation dropped off. She comforted an increasingly impatient miniature version of her. I stared at the floor. I wished there was some way I could establish continued contact. In the overall context, I knew it to be impossible. We were but atoms in an asocial society, never to see or speak to each other again.
My number came up. I bade her good-bye, and left her behind. I knew I had missed an improbable opportunity which was impossible to take. I prayed in my heart for another chance.
What will be the future? There are a dozen different ways, bad and worse, that that endless chain of ingeminate mothers and daughters might soon end. At school, from the media, and possibly from home, the kid’s brain will probably get filled with poisons calculated to confuse sound natural instinct—and that brain will be washed with Jewish Soap. But at least the chain went on for one more generation. For a race now on its deathbed, every generation and every White child is a precious gift—a possibility that it may continue further. Whereas I can forget all my lofty talk about thousand-year thinking, if it all ends in the immediate future. In the context of any time scale long enough to matter, you White people are now living strictly in the present.
In my own immediate family, the endless chain ended before me—I was its destruction. My first White cousin to have a child, bore in her womb a negroid baby; and the next sired a mestizo at a drunken party. Whites are a rapidly shrinking minority in my extended family; and the trend accelerates, generation over generation. Looking around me on the street, in a relatively good area, confirms that the trend is not limited to those related to me. Miscegenation is a fast-growing cancer. And reading between the lines of population statistics worse cooked than the economic stats, it seems likely as not that, as demographic and cultural changes accelerate, Aryan mankind will be totally extinct in the wild within three generations of the present—more likely still, if a big war were to occur in the near future. That qualifies it for IUCN „Critically Endangered“ status.
To borrow a term from the old Linnean taxonomy, which (for those who don’t know) did indeed distinctly label the several human species:
Those who presume me to exaggerate, should pause to soberly ponder the power of exponential doubling—a law which cuts both ways and in multiple directions. Every White person born three generations hence will need eight (2³) White great-grandparents alive to-day.¹ All of them must be White: Seven White great-grandparents, and one non-White, will not a White great-grandchild make. Looking just a bit further than CR „critically endangered“ criteria, in ten generations (only about 250 years), every White child born then will need 1024 (2¹⁰) Whites to be not only alive to-day, but geographically and socially arranged in such a manner as to form an eventual family tree with no intervening non-White nodes.
(¹ As in the linked article on exponential doubling, this discussion intentionally simplifies the matter by ignoring the criss-crossing of common threads of ancestry. At a distance of ten generations or more, such may be of significant consequence, especially in small populations; and at a distance of dozens or hundreds of generations, this effect must numerically dominate any calculation done as other than a back-of-the-envelope conceptual demonstration. But at a distance of only three generations, very few people in fact have fewer than eight distinct great-grandparents. Moreover, a human population so small as to require such close breeding for its survival is likely doomed—especially when dispersed as a minority amongst hostile aliens.)
Invasive species, genetic pollution, and hybridization are all threats recognized by mainstream conservationists—except when considering Homo Europæus, the Aryan, the White Race. Otherwise known as „race-mixing“, such phenomena are the very worst threats to White survival. Every mixed-race baby bears with it the potential of exponential dilution of the White gene pool. I say this as a mixed-race baby myself. I cannot have White great-grandchildren in three generations, because I am physically incapable of siring White children. Biologically at least, I can only be part of the problem; I have no choice in the matter, for I was born that way.
And the problem is severely compounded by social, cultural, demographic, and geographic inhibition of Whites from reproducing with Whites. Also and thus by trends such as childlessness, homosexuality, and astounding rates of suicide. Also by ostensibly proud White parents who teach their oh-so-proud White children that the Earth is flat—an asocial and racially poisonous notion unsuitable for Whites, which can inhibit not only practical reproductive fitness, but even fitness for survival in this world. Also by the potential that one more big War could physically exterminate a large portion (and the best portion) of the remaining White gene pool—whilst fragmenting the last remnants of the White population socially and geographically amongst a „multicultural“ (i.e. non-White) society, which will thence absorb and assimilate them culturally and genetically.
Every individual White child born to-day bears within him or her the potential, together with approximately seven other White children, of being the ancestor of more White children a mere three generations hence. Every individual White child born to-day has the potential of throwing off race-mixing and anti-reproductive propaganda, and following his or her own sound natural instincts. Every individual White child born to-day is one tiny little buffer against the imminent threat of White extinction.
So—at any opportunity you can take without doing more harm than good, give due thanks to White women who actually have White children. Priorities, people!