I have noticed through comments and e-mails on the website that many of our readers are suburban or rural whites [my Paladin Press base I suppose] who probably are uncomfortable with some of my opinions concerning urban black America, but nonetheless are interested in reading them. As Jeremy Bentham has observed, my life in Baltimore seems likely to prefigure your future as more of America goes the way of Detroit, Flint, Camden, D.C., and Harm City.

I have an idea for another nonfiction book to be written entirely online before being published, which I expect to post a single chapter a week into the summer. The concept was originally another volatile screed titled Case For The Caucasian Extinction Event. That will be in there, with installments on my dealings with white and black racists.

After last night and this morning I think a better tact would be to just write of my weekly racial experiences from the perspective of a white in a majority black city. This should be useful to all of you white nationalists and white separatists who are convinced that black penises are going to trump white and Asiatic industry and science and that within 50 years you are going to go from outnumbering blacks by 7 to 1 to them outnumbering you by 7 to 1, as they do in my world. According to the most pessimistic idea threads out there I am currently living where you fear you shall end up—hey man, at least they make house calls. It’s not like T-Bone and RayRay are going to make you move into the ghetto—they are going to do the heavy lifting and move it to you.

So without further ado, and since Black already owns Friday, I give you White Wednesday.

Oliver is a fighter I train. He also seeks my advice often. Oliver and I are both people at odds with our own race. Oliver, a man of West Indian ancestry, and darker of skin than most Baltimore blacks, would strike you as a white man if you spoke to him over the phone. He regards the illiteracy, stupidity, and incivility of black America as something beneath him and his. His disgust of the current top black boxer for his cowardice and 2nd grade reading level is palpable.

Just as Oliver tries to distance himself from stupid black people—Read Oliver On Stupid Shit and Taking Out The Trash—I distance myself from cowardly white people, both of us having our own dark view of—our own. I shall return to our various conversations on these things in chapters to come.

Yesterday on a foggy dripping day, Oliver called to ask if he could come and pick up a book. He first asked if I was asleep, as I seem to write in a trance, for everyone who calls me while I am writing asks me that. He was nervous about asking for my time and began inquiring about my schedule. So I asked him what he wanted. He said, “I’m working on my writing and am not pleased with it. By the way they should donate your brain to science just for these names you come up with, like in the dog article.”

“Look, that takes no brain at all; the black kid is definitely Skidmark and the white kid must therefore be Cumstain, right?”

“Well, I’m interested in your help becoming a better writer, learning how to express myself.”

While I was awaiting Olive’s arrival he called. “James, I just turned onto White Avenue. Do you live on White Avenue?”

“Where else would I live man?”

A minute later, Oliver, who normally drives a black van that looks like something a traveller gang would drive in a low budget British movie, pulls up in a nice sedan. He steps out looking like a middleweight version of Shannon Briggs as the reprobates at the halfway house crowd their porch down the street. I stepped onto the porch and scolded him. “Look man, as a white supremacist superhero living on White Avenue in a majority black city, I expect my black sidekick to pull up in a menacing black van, not his mother’s sedan!”

As we nosed through my library and I gave him a copy of the book I dedicated to him he began asking me about building a reading list, researching various subjects, and I realized that I am sliding into the paternalistic end of the boxing fraternity. Boxing history in the U.S. has been the story of an apolitical, multiracial fraternity of autonomous weirdos. Whites trained blacks, then the blacks trained whites, and then the whites trained blacks, and now top black trainers are being sought out by white Eastern Europeans; culture divorced from race—but rooted in racial predicaments. The ethnicity with the least earning opportunities out of the ring fights while the more connected others coach and manage them. As the times shift the boxing world remolds itself like a glove to the hand.

White fighters of my time sought boxing as a way to ward off emasculation and tended to become ‘tough guy’ type fighters, while black fighters have traditionally been the most intelligent men in the ring and in the corner. This is fascinating considering that in the general population blacks are always at the bottom in any test of intelligence. So, just as I rejected being soft and lily white and depending on Officer Friendly to save me, by boxing, Oliver took up boxing as part of a quest to expand his mind. He studies the ‘crafty’ and often white fighters, his favorite being Willie Pep. I at his young age was emulating Roberto Duran and Joe Frazier, two savage knuckleheads of unwhite hue.

So, here we stood, in this writing den, both seeking a separation from our differently reviled kind, trying to become our own kind.

The bus driver that takes me down town in the fog is a racist and will not even look at me, her scornful scowl stamping hate on her forehead. At the bust stop down on The Block across from the police station waits Slim, a tall middleweight about Oliver’s age who sizes me up and keeps a respectful distance. He offers to let me board first and I do. He does not sit in the back with the knuckleheads who are chanting about ‘da bitches we be gagin’ en doze Mexes we be bangin’.

He seeks conversation with myself and the other white man up front about work opportunities and job leads. He is definitely a former athlete—I’m thinking a community college basketball guard or football tight end. He has the intelligent roving eyes of a Bernard Hopkins, an Oliver; a man who thinks and keeps his words close. You will never see Slim portrayed on any news. He will never elicit the pity of the Left or the disgust of the Right; he is the black man that cannot exist; not a celebrity, a politian, a well-heeled professional, a thug, a pro jock, or a downtrodden homeless man. Slim is many a black man and you will never see them for they cannot exist as they serve no political agenda; cannot be milked to pump your fear gland or your pity organ. If The State has its way he will be eradicated in a generation or two.

Victor is a handsome little Central American man in his early 20s who thinks about heading to the back, looks up on the deck at the 10 odd thugs, and then decides to stand by us. Slim makes room for him so that he can sit and gives him a friendly nod. I get off at Middle River—which is not Middle River but indicated as such on the bus schedules, and prepare to walk a mile and a half to the real Middle River—which is an actual body of muddy water.

Victor gets off behind me. I have not seen him before. His hands are in his pockets and he is strong and fit looking. I stop and let him pass me so I can walk behind.

He’s not comfortable with this and slows up and turns, speaking softly, “Oing to Mille Iver sir?”

“Yes—I’m headed to work at the market.”

“I am Victor—walk sir?”

He pulls out a full pack of cigarettes and offers me one. I decline. He obviously wants me to walk with him. But when he lights up I start marching, taking me too far ahead in the fog for us to see each other. When I get to the river I stop and look for him and he is following, hunched over with his hands in his pockets.

Victor knows just enough English to try and negotiate his safety and is plainly fearful on his own. He strikes me as a decent young man. At this point it is dawning on me that I am no longer perceived on the street as the creepy homeless guy to avoid, but a respected white man that can be asked for directions, and trusted not to cause trouble.

I’m looking old I suppose. But every day over the past year or so, for every hate filled black person who scowls at me, it seems two hold the door for me, or address me as 'sir', ask me for directions, or just decide to come and stand by me rather than with the criminal element that the Left and the Right so fixate on: saints to the left and devils to the right.

Online I only read of the scum. I am guilty of this in writing of fascinating scum over boring decent folks; have devoted a dozen books to the scum. I did some reflecting last night on the fact that being a vicious creep is no longer as easy as it used to be, especially when I interact with people like Oliver, Slim and Victor; people that disprove the Right wing notion that bad behavior is genetically predetermined and the Left wing notion that people of color are forever children who must be provided for. Yesterday I walked with three men of the so called ‘savage races’, and they observed courtesy that would have satisfied my Great Grandpa Kern.

Two days ago as I walked home through the residential grid, which seems rural when you are in, it I spotted a cruiserweight in hooded coat passing in the rain, walking in circles and pumping his legs. He was either homeless and freezing [The shelters were filled to capacity as of Sunday night when I saw 30 guys huddled in a ditch downtown hoping someone inside would die so they could get in.] or he was insane—and he’s a big fit dude about 40—would probably beat me in a fight.

He mumbled something to me from across the street so I ignored him and kept going. He did not follow.

This morning, in the driving rain, after off loading from a bus piloted by a black woman who looked at me as if I had just struck her child, I saw him again, pacing the same grid. 'This guy was homeless,' I thought. 'He is keeping off the main drag and not loitering, moving just fast enough to keep warm.'

I did not turn my head to look but kept him in my peripheral. He had a black plastic bag. This is what an unemployed black man who is not a criminal in Baltimore owns, a trash bag full of whatever is left to him in this world. He’s at the cast off age when children are grown and the baby’s mamma is looking for a man who can support her as she’s done having babies and Daddy Fed isn’t putting out any more. The fact that he is not on the main street and not near the shelters means he is leery of the criminal element and the cops.

He asked me something as I walked by as poorly dressed as him but with an umbrella. His voice was soft, meek, not demanding. I ignored him. He did not ask again. He knew I heard him and that I did not care.

I walked another half mile arguing with myself. I had plans on writing this morning and did not need to be bothered with this guy—but bothered I was. By the time I hit my street and saw the 11 recovering dope fiends on the porch of their house smoking, I decided that I was a cankerous sore on the body politic. My instincts for these things are now well developed. This guy was down and out and trying not to be a problem.

I came up to my room and bagged up a bottle of water, a plastic baggie with napkins and spoons, a jar of pickles, a pack of applesauce cups, a can of chili with a zip lid, and a bag of cough drops and headed back down the street to where he would be if he was really walking a grid in such a way as to not be pegged as homeless.

I saw him coming around and walked toward him. He veered to get out of my path. So now I knew he was out in the cold and afraid he was going to get rousted to some ditch where 30 bums would conceal a few predators.

I walked up to him and he nodded to me and stopped. He got upcurb leaving me in the street—which is instinct after a few years of this.

“Good morning,” I said. "What’s your situation?”

He looked fearful and a little proud. “I was wondering why you were walking back around in this [the rain]. I was just asking for a smoke.”

I nodded to his bag. “I was out on my ass for five weeks after my wife kicked me out and then my girl gave me the boot the next day.”

He smiled at my story and looked away, I think not wanting to lie while we were making eye contact. “Oh I got a place to stay. I’m just out and about.”

“Look man. I’m headin’ out to my son’s for dinner. This is what I’d eat today. The water in the glass bottle is clean. I don’t drink out of plastic but wash out those glass bottles and reuse them. My name’s James,” I said, stepping up onto the sidewalk.

He extended his hand, “I’m Brian—thanks man.”

We shook hands and he took the bag, a little shamefaced it seemed, as I noticed he had at most one change of under clothes in his bag. He was absolutely soaked from head to toe.

Brain nodded to me and rounded his shoulders back down as we began walking our own way. I felt like I had to say something and said, “Merry Christmas,” and he blinked both eyes acknowledging the sentiment, which I thought sounded hollow coming out of my mouth.