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My Journey Home

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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
Aaaaaaaaaaaah!

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.

I AM A WHITE MAN!

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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16 Comments

  1. RedSeeingRed,

    Don’t be to hard on yourself… men usually don’t get their feet anchored on the ground until age twenty eight. Glad you finally saw the light… hope you didn’t give up your love for reggae music.

  2. Excellent read…very glad for you transformation into reality! Wishing you the very best for your future endeavors. I have a strong feeling you’ll find success for yourself in one way or the other…no matter the road you travel.

  3. Nostradumbass

    RedSeeingRed (or should I say Go Cart Mozzart?)-

    I was going to write something tremendously pertinent to your life story but found that it had already been said by Manfred Mann:

    Madman drummers bummers
    Indians in the summer
    With a teenage diplomat
    In the dumps with the mumps
    As the adolescent pumps
    His way into his hat
    With a boulder on my shoulder
    Feeling kinda older
    I tripped a merry-go-round
    With this very unpleasing
    Sneezing and wheezing
    The calliope crashed to the ground

    You get it, the calliope crashed to the ground!!!

    OMG- Blinded by the light…. (Gotta lay off the herb…)

    • Nostradumbass

      How terribly pertinent this was:

      Madman drummers bummers
      (300 lb. punches white boy in face)

      Indians in the summer
      (trying to appear dark skinned)

      With a teenage diplomat
      (white boy in a reggae band)

      In the dumps with the mumps
      (sad that he has to keep mouth shut)

      As the adolescent pumps
      His way into his hat
      (locker room talk about women, is usually masturbation)

      With a boulder on my shoulder
      (reference to a chip on your shoulder the size of a boulder)

      Feeling kinda older
      (starting to wake up)

      I tripped a merry-go-round
      With this very unpleasing
      Sneezing and wheezing
      The calliope crashed to the ground
      (When you test the way things are and it all comes crashing down)

  4. Good for you RSR. Welcome to sanity. I love a good born again story.

  5. Spurwing Plover

    See the other side of these backwards heathens and the song BOTH SIDES NOW

  6. This is not the first time I have heard this story.

    A certain acquaintance of mine claimed to have had a very similar experience as a drummer with a Jazz Band back in the mid 60’s, said he spent 2 years living out of a Tour Bus and working Harlem NY (at the Apollo) down to Miami Florida and all points in between.

    Strangest Racist I ever met, hated when White people talked trash about the Black race, said they didn’t know what they were talking about. Said he earned his racism by living everyday with Black musicians. And the less he had to do with them the better off he was.

    He eventually got rich, but it wasn’t in the music industry, and he didn’t do it stoned on a tour bus with a bunch of Bros.

  7. No doubt you were indoctrinated as a youth by Hollywood’s Negro worship. Welcome to the sane world…

  8. Welcome back, ‘cracka’.

  9. Very much look forward to more posts from RSR. Welcome back to the real world, sir.

  10. RedSeeingRed

    My fellow crackas! Thank you all for the kind words of encouragement! I gotta say, that was mighty white of ya’ll 😉

  11. Excellent read. I learned the truth about blacks as a kid in the early 70’s in Dallas, Tx.

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