For reference see The Secret History Of Bitchez.

My operational theory is that black men in America have been emasculated on an agrarian model which is very ancient compare to the middleclass campaign of emasculation waged in the modern industrial age and the overt feminist method used in the postmodern information age that have largely targeted the white man.

The method by which most black boys are emasculated is by the mother and along the following lines:

1. scolding, cussing and slapping when babies

2. dragging by the arm and face-slapping when toddlers

3. punching, kicking, and belt whipping up to puberty

Black mothers often state that it is their right to 'lay a hand on' their sons and none else has this right, including the police. Girls are treated less severely, with older sisters sometimes used as overseers of younger brothers. The belt whipping and claim to ownership, up to and including the right to harm and kill the child, comes directly from plantation slavery and is a learned behavior that has been passed down from generation to generation. It is no accident that so many black male youths adopt such a misogynistic attitude toward females and debase them with a singular duty of purpose. Incidentally, the retention of the terms 'male' and 'female' in the black community is also a lingering remnant of the agrarian slave mentality which has found its way into police jargon, with the terms 'man' and 'boy' retaining great emotional significance to the black man against the back drop of him being referred to as a 'male' more than anything by authorities throughout his life. The recent development of the word 'teen' being used to indicate a violently innocent black man under 21 is a continuation of the liberal spin applied to the muddled political football that is the question of black masculinity in America.

Note: Young black fathers often behave with excessive tenderness toward their children in public, while I have seen numerous occasions of female brutality in public, including an attack on a toddler by her mother at a Red Robin eatery last night in the booth next to mine. The child had simply climbed up on his seat to look through the glass at me and was yanked by the feet, swung around, pinch-choked and snarled at by his mother as I ate my battered codfish.

“Lin Town niցցers, Lin Town niցցers!” chanted the bus load of Trinity Middle School students as Virgil, an old dolt of a driver that the children reviled as ‘the worst school bus driver in Wash Pa' [Washington Pa] flinched visibly.

It was 1977 as the bus rocked, the sissy white suburban kids chanted “Lin Town Niցցers”, and the black kids emerged from their slum-like housing and began pelting the bus with stones and a tomato which splattered nicely on the window in front of me. This insult/violence cycle seemed almost symbiotic.

Having just moved into town from Baltimore County Maryland near where my cousins had often had serious altercations with blacks in their Baltimore City neighborhood, I regarded this behavior as odd. My cousins were seriously throwing down with rivals in alleys and on sidewalks, where these cowardly white kids were passively chanting a mantra as they did nothing and the blacks actually attacked. I was already a few teenagers deep into beating up the boys of my new neighborhood and had scant respect for these seated race war cheerleaders. I would have much rather been one of the violent blacks if I had a choice.

A few weeks later as we visiting our other cousins not far from Lin Town one night, my Cousin Fred, a large wrestler, returned home with Kathy, his sister, pretty banged up. He had been walking her home when a group of about 10 blacks attacked him. I silently noted that Fred had perhaps paid the price for the Lin Town Niցցer song of my classmates who all dwelled safely out in South Strabane Township in their sissy world.

Recalling a time when I had been with my father as he dropped off a black boy I had befriended in a hostile Baltimore City ghetto I decided to explore Lin Town on foot, with a knife or wooden shank in my pocket in hopes of being attacked. I fantasized about scalping a black kid and bringing the trophy back to my brother on Moger Drive to hang at the entrance to the brush teepee I had built down in the woods. The youths were not hostile to me, the men were silent and sentinel-like as they were in Baltimore, and the women were actually visible and industrious. I was not attacked. Later living in Baltimore I would be threatened and attacked often by blacks, particularly when with a woman, and I would think back to how Fred had suffered from the animus sowed by my cowardly schoolmates, and how a female companion marks one as a target when traditional enemies ‘pack up’ looking for trouble.

The night before Thanksgiving just over two weeks ago my former coworker Butch, who works at a ghetto location, where there are no white customers and only a few white employees, stepped outside for a smoke around midnight. Butch is a tough, quiet guy, who looks at the world tactically.

A larger younger black customer stepped outside and began snarling at Butch, “You goddamned white cracker!” over and over again.

Butch remained silent and did not even bother acknowledging the man. This incensed the oppressed hero of the liberal media who had no other recourse but to womanly raise his voice to more shrill levels until he was fairly screaming to the world, “You goddamned lowdown white cracker!”

This yelling brought the on duty Baltimore City cop outside, who was a large black man himself. Black Baltimore City cops are not dudes you mess with. The cop said, “It’s time for you to leave.”

The emasculated travesty of African American eunuchhood objected with a manner of pacing and stammering that suggested he was experiencing an adrenalin dump, and the cop cut him off as he stepped up into his face and snarled, “Nothing would give me more pleasure than taking you down, you goddamned black cracker!”

The coward skulked off whimpering into the night like the whipped dog he is. I will point out such situations to my fighters as examples of the almost total dominance of psychology over physicality in such encounters. My readers are no doubt wondering about the significance of the term black cracker, probably thinking that cracker has been applied o whites as an insult because crackers are white. No. White people are called crackers because they can be counted on to crumble like a cracker in such altercations as they have traditionally depended on the police for protection, whereas blacks have never enjoyed police protection, and often have suffered from police predation. The black cop was demeaning this coward by accusing him of being as spineless as a white man!

Flood was a 14 year old sharecropper in Georgia when he and his mother moved to Baltimore.

“I had owned my own hogs en chickens, en had had no bad dealin’s wit whites, or black for that matter. Then I moves ta Baltimore en the gangs attack you and the white cops attacks you. Down home I have a flat tire en a white man stops and helps me—calling me sir and me calling him sir. Up here the white cop gives me stuff, en the white man fears me, meanwhile my so-called black bruthas be lookin’ to whoop ma hide at any moment!

“…I joined a gang, fought wit’ a bicycle chain, wen’ ta work in a mattress factory, buy houses ta fix up, en now own me five houses which I rents ta dem lowdown folks up in Park Heights. Five a dem boys waylay me en knock half ma teeth out with a brick en I fights them off—that’s bein’ a black man in this here town [laughter, as he pats my leg with his massive calloused hand and grins with the empty side of his mouth toward me—indicating the brick strike came from behind—as we sit in his parked car]…en here I is workin’ in da market wit you fo young woman money! Gotz ta have ma lille girl waitin’ fo me when I getz home!”

Isrаel is one of the southern immigrants of the 1950s that was not emasculated and managed to raise sons that held to his standard. However, by the 1970s more and more black boys in Baltimore were being sent into the world by mothers who had raised them themselves via the devil’s bargain of accepting assured welfare benefits from the government over unsure income from a man. The resulting youths were left to work out manhood for themselves in the alleys and streets of Baltimore and managed to develop a criminal version of manhood not unlike that depicted in Golding’s Lord of the Flies novel, which tracks the devolution of a group of marooned British school boys into a pack of feral savages. Significantly most black men over 50 who I speak with have a story about standing up to their father and getting whipped at some point, keeping alive an old Anglo-American tradition of ‘taking it out to the woodshed’ that long ago passed from the white culture. This too has now passed from black culture as the State has paid the mother well to avoid marriage to the father of her children.

It is noteworthy that Isrаel’s upbringing, which left him fatherless after the death of his father at age 12, produced a man, who having raised himself as a teen, is nevertheless in his 70s more than a match for “so-called men” as he calls them half or a quarter his age. This points to the importance of a father before puberty, not just upon coming of age. Below are some stories indicative of the black urban youth’s struggle to raise himself to manhood. Although black women typically emasculate their male children before puberty, in most cases, when the boy emerges into early manhood they let go [unlike white women who tend to cling to their boys into mid-adulthood as an ever-emasculating force] and he is thence cast adrift in a world of other boys who look to older teens and celebrity athletes [and unfortunately now rap stars] as role models. Below are a few tales that illustrate this circumstance.

Earlier this week a man was being pursued by police through a rundown Harm City neighborhood where many of the century old brownstone rowhouses are vacant and in disrepair. Raised to hate and distrust the police the local children were rooting for the fleeing felon when he took to the rooftops and began running across them like a comic book superhero. Then their hero met with misfortune as he plunged through the roof of a sagging rowhouse and the entire house pancaked on top of him!

The police, not imagining this character surviving, called the fire department to dig him out of the collapsed ruin. When the firemen got there they informed the cops that it would take some time for them to shore up the ruin so that it could be safely entered. The cops left, waiting to be called back when the structure was safe. Unbeknownst to them the local kids had seen the felon [an unidentified man pursued in connection with a drug bust it seems] lurking around in the basement. As soon as the firemen jacked the base of the house up he burst through a rotting door like a cartoon superhero and fled down the street covered in little more than dust and debris and wearing but one shoe! The fireman could not catch him. When interviewed later about the happenings on his street one resident said, “I don’ need cable. I jus’ have to look out my window!”

I had just purchased a bike for my six year old son when he informed me that some black kid had taken it off the porch. I searched the neighborhood, looking into every yard on that Sunday afternoon. The white neighbors peeked out of their windows or sometimes ducked inside as I prowled around the perimeter of every yard looking for my son’s bike. The black women and children summoned their men, who stood glaring at me, daring me to enter their yard. I eventually found a ‘bike graveyard’ in an overgrown lot between houses where bikes had been cannibalized by thieves, never finding Glenn’s BMX.

This does serve as an example that blacks in Baltimore are used to protecting their own as opposed to hiding, moving out of town, or relying on police protection. I myself have been harassed by cops on numerous occasions for protecting myself, but only to the extent of searching me, running a background check and giving me a speech about not defending myself but running, hiding, backing down, and calling them.

The night before last at work I found myself walking towards two Harm County cops who have harassed me for walking freely on the street in the past. One was 30 the other my age, both large muscular body armored goons. I normally ignore them when they come into work to buy lunch. But, having outlined this chapter before heading into work I decided on a hard eye-contact experiment. I looked them both in the eye and nodded respectfully just as I do with black men on the street. Both of these cops flinched, one kind of choking on a ‘hello’ and the other blinking and looking down.

What the hell! I’m a 52 year old potbellied twerp with a white beard! I was not even doing the stare down glare as I have too much respect for my boss to intentionally piss off a cop while on the clock. Could you imagine these cops without their gun, their badge, their baton, their mace, their body armor and their radio? I point this out because these cops are members of the most aggressive and most successful Baltimore County precinct, who have reduced crime in their area by something like 20% in only one year. These men are by definition our most masculine slice of the population as they are the only people in their jurisdiction permitted to impose will physically. I used to box with one of the Baltimore County SWAT guys, and worked briefly with one of their substation commanders. There are a lot of physical specimens with contact sports backgrounds in this department, yet aside from the few cruel ones, most of them have trouble with simple eye-contact. There are two young fit polite cops in this same precinct who do not flinch, and project an easy confidence, but this is not a common trait among these cops.

Down in the city we have a different mentality. The three city cops I’ve known, the Transportation Authority cop I interviewed who discussed his brother who is a compulsively violent City cop, and a friend of mine who worked with a former city cop, have all described the following initiation to police work in Baltimore City between 1965 and 1985.

The rookie cop is taken to an all black section of the city by his training officer and then told to select a random black man, the bigger the better, and beat him to the ground and either arrest him or release him with a verbal warning.

This may seem bizarre but is how I train fighters to impose their will on other fighters. Such are the methods that have been used by outnumbered occupying forces in tyrannies throughout the ages: terror, brutality, and the fist of power. As Dave the Cop once told me, “The first thing you do is walk up to the biggest, blackest back-talking niցցer and split his goddamned head wide open!”

Since the Rodney King fiasco and the installation of street cameras and the widespread ownership of video phones this type of policing has pretty much disappeared. I did have a narcotics cop tell me that his unit routinely abducted suspects and took them to city cemeteries where they were tortured and interrogated to avoid conforming to department regulations, but this was a special unit essentially fighting a war, not every day cops. Drug users and drug dealers have told me that most cops just rough you up a little now, and are primarily concerned with stealing whatever drugs you happen to be carrying on your person, usually declining to arrest.

Outside of the drug war there seems to be little police brutality. However, in every black Baltimore family there is at least one living man who grew up in the time when police randomly beat them down and never ever came to their aid. They came of age in a brutal world where you had to be able to physically assert your manhood to have any sense of autonomy.

Whites wonder why blacks in the news are irrationally defiant and routinely fight police officers. This is simply a coming of age ritual, a manhood rite not unlike the Sioux Sun Dance, an Apache boy running all day with a mouth full of water, or an ancient Greek youth entering his first boxing tournament. It is not something you are expected to ‘win’ but something you are respected for surviving. Fighting the cops is a viable survival option in the ghetto, as they will usefully try and not incur charges by killing or maiming, and once released the victim of police aggression has established a high level of street credibility and is unlikely to be attacked by any rival youths as he has already engaged the enemy of the community; the occupying army bent on crushing the only viable economy—the drug trade.

The dynamic that is bringing the unrest over police clashing with black men and youths who behave with this very rational defiance is that their mothers and sisters have now fallen into line behind white liberal women, calling for justice, and being advised to sue by opportunistic lawyers who have long specialized in humiliating law officers in court. To sit in a courtroom and watch a graduate of college and law school rip apart the report and statements of a cop who barely graduated from high school is like watching Mike Tyson box a girl scout.

I have had numerous black fighters arrested for defending themselves and they are treated more brutally than the men who attacked them as they are the more potent individual and all cops resent a civilian who can take care of business. This is universal, this cop resentment of a dangerous man, and accounts for part of the heightened violence against blacks as a higher percentage of blacks are viable physical combatants due to their youth ordeals.

As my friend Steevo is fond of saying about black rivals, “They are raised like bitches and they fold like bitches.”

White men have been comprehensively emasculated by their mothers and fathers, the materialistic nature of their security-driven society, and the political hierarchy and academia.

Black men have just been emasculated by their mothers and the materialistic society. The adolescent reaction to this is to create themselves in the misogynistic image of their absent father. One of my greatest pleasures was working as the youngest man on an all black crew and silently observing their behavior, listening to their stories and noting their affinity for one particular song: 'Papa Was A Rolling Stone'. One winter night in the early 1980s the song came on over the overhead radio while I was in the aisle with six men: Vietnam vets, former pimps, a drunk taxi driver, and a college football star. Watching and listening as these six men danced and sang as they stocked was uplifting and gave me a sense of how they had embraced their own alienation as an identity.

Today what you get when black boys invent themselves as men is largely a woman’s idea of a man: posturing and loud. I can tell you that to a woman or a child or a feminized man, a big guy flexing and yelling is terrifying. To the tactically mind man this same apparently intimidating fellow is easy game.

A group of Native American warriors were once brought to Washington D.C. to be awed by the Whiteman’s might. Upon being shown a shore battery of massive ship sinking canons the warriors laughed and noted that any brave stupid enough to get caught sitting his pony in the sights of one of these useless monstrosities deserved to be blown out of the saddle. That is the tactical mind of the primal man which has been remerging in the form of insurgent 4th generation warfare; and in the mind of the American special operations soldier who often abandon the command hierarchy in the field and fight like primitive warriors did for tens of thousands of years.

The problem that black men face in high stress situations is that they tend to be conditioned to imitate the behavior of those who raised them—their mothers. Counter to their own goals they tend to become loud and agitated lessoning their impulse control. It is notable that the most feared black men are not loud, but cool, silent and calculating just like their scarce white counterparts. So while the emasculated white man tends to react with an indignant fear the emasculated black man tends to react like a raging menstruating woman. Essentially, any confrontation between the socially emasculated suburban white man and his emasculated urban black counterpart, is pitting a black ghetto bitch against her prissy white counterpart. Neither mindset makes for a viable sustainable combatant and when the two meet there are any number of possible bad outcomes.

Significantly while most black men run their mouth excessively in confrontations, developing self-justification and group cohesion along feminine lines, when committing for-profit crimes [excluding urban unrest engagements which are highly feminized] they tend to speak only enough to get the target thinking along verbal lines and thus prepped for attack, or act in actual predatory silence.

Once I was leaving my Baltimore City house after dark. As I turned the door knob it was also being turned from the outside. I reached for the sword behind the door and yanked the door open. The young innocent starving oppressed black youth martyr that had been trying the door to my house [I suppose in hopes of avenging his ancestral plight at the hands of us white devils] was holding the knob slack jawed. Raised by a bitch he folded like a bitch and scampered away into the night before I had a chance to run him through.

Black men have a different hurdle than white men when it comes to reclaiming their masculinity. Some have, and I am proud to call them friends. Those who opt to rebel against their emasculation through targeting the more thoroughly denatured Whiteman and by serving as foot soldiers in the recent feminist revolt against masculine police authority will continue to miss the mark and fall back into the estrogen well in which they were incubated.

If you are wondering if our liberal* masters are really championing the cause of the young black man or simply using him to stock the prison systems and create fear and guilt among whites, consider this public service poster that was put together to encourage black urban youth to seek counseling to alleviate the ghetto gambling epidemic, the primary beneficiary of which is the state and municipal government.

Next to the H and the G of the two lines above is an arrow pointing down to a typical homeboy wearing cargo shorts, tank top and cocked and fitted hat. The implication is we can definitely afford to lose his ass!

To the right, safely away from the dreaded loss affordability arrow stands a cute little baby doll that looks like a chocolate-coated Adrian Barbeue. In front of her, his arms crossed, looking like a younger Laurence Fisburne as a gay white man’s dream date, is a content young man with sweater and gold chain, happy that he gambled in Baltimore’s new casino, and assured by the print beneath him, that should he and his little girl lose more than they can afford, they will be able to call the FREE HELPLINE at the Maryland Center of Excellence on Problem Gambling.

Nothing to me is a clearer sign to indicate that the young black man of urban America is a disposal pawn in the hands of the Maternal News Nation than this poster, which clearly indicates that the successful black man is a very materialistic androgynous looking fellow and that the young urban rebel who has clumsily tried to invent a brand of militant manhood for himself is entirely disposable.

*Please keep in mind that to me Hitler was an irredeemable liberal and Ronald Regan was a prissy hippie. Your definition of a liberal is probably somewhat different.