My Journey Home


Hey all—this is a contribution by a relative newcomer, “RedSeeingRed” (not to be confused with yours truly). He’s got a few others in the hopper which I’ll drip out intermittently, but figured I’d start with this one since it hits somewhat close to home. Though I was never quite as immersed in black [non?] culture as RSR, I certainly was a DWL, allowing myself to likewise be played for a fool via the manipulative concept of “white guilt”. His story—along with mine, and who knows how many others—is testament to the fact that even the most dyed-in-the-wool libtards may eventually come to see the light.

Seeing the light


My Journey Home

A Liberal’s Awakening

By: RedSeeingRed

It was a young liberal from a white community’s first brush with real blacks (not just the ones from TV). I had come to college to study music. The variety was much akin to a box of chocolates, if I may borrow from Forrest Gump. I became obsessed with reggae music and joined a band. My seven year odyssey would take me from one end of the political spectrum to the other and beyond.

The band was a mix of white and black musicians. Looking back on it now, it was kind of like zoo handlers and apes, but at that point, it felt like they were the alphas. This was simply because of how loud and ghetto they would speak, how flashy they would dress, and how much weed they would smoke. There was no content of character to admire.

First impressions are always the strongest, so when I heard about the “plight” of racism they endured on a daily basis, it stuck with me for years. I saw the world through African eyes and empathized with their viewpoints.

Violence was commonplace among the blacks, and if I wanted to make this story 100 pages long, I could chronicle half of the physical altercations I witnessed just among band members. The last act of violence I witnessed before I left the band was probably the most typical and most telling of them all.

Our bass player, a large negro of about 300 lbs, punched our guitar player (a white man) in the face for drinking the last Mountain Dew. He crumpled on the ground, out cold. Waking up moments later, instead of receiving an apology, he apologized for drinking the last soda.

Of course, the crime was constant in the band. Let us forget about the copious quantity of cannabis consumed on a daily basis. There was violence, theft, harder drugs, prostitution, possession of illegal firearms, and in one instance a high speed police chase. All of this, of course, was twisted around to place blame on the white people by using the well oiled art of conversation dubbed ‘reasoning’ that seems to be one of the black man’s few skill sets.

I started working with my Jamaican friend doing odd construction jobs. We were fired A LOT for lateness. He was always so slow. I used to think it was cool, and joined in his chorus of “chanting down Babylon” every time we were let go from a job.

Friendships would come and go with him in addition to the jobs. His good friends, one by one, became ‘racists’ because they would no longer give him weed or money.

I, being the liberal I was, took his word as gospel and slaked his every thirst with my own money and white guilt.

One day, after seven years, enough became quite enough. I had dropped out of school to devote 100% of my efforts to the band and my white guilt addiction. Broke, jobless, and constantly high on marijuana, I left to acquire a college degree to make something of myself. I enrolled in a small school in a very white town in the Midwest.

The absence of blacks, weed and urban flavor was a culture shock to me. It was like having ice water dumped over my head on a hot day. At first, it was quite unpleasant, but then it was like basking in a revelation from God himself.

I am a white man.

I said it timidly, almost ashamed of the words leaving my mouth. I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

I am a WHITE man!

This time was a little stronger. My white guilt was fading quickly. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the sides of the sink more tightly.


Anger at my wasted time, and hunger to make up for it filled my voice. I felt like a freed prisoner!

Heart beating a mile a minute I surveyed my living area (which to this day I consider an accurate gauge of a person’s identity). The only thing in the whole apartment that had any connection to MY culture whatsoever was the television!

I purged my home and cleaned my soul in the process. Dropping the last of the garbage bags into my dumpster, the breeze kicked up and licked my sweaty brow. My identity was restored, and I walked across the street to meet my neighbors; Unashamed from that day forward.


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