As a coach, employer, coworker and writer I have been approached by many young men about their quest to understand their place in the world, and what kind of place it is. The ages of these inquisitive and critical examiners of themselves and their environment range from 25-40. There is a sharp divide. Those younger seem uncaring or uncomprehending. Those older are either set in their ignorance, or are capable of analyzing whatever information that is put before them.

Recently—in reading terms—I was taking another look at Dante’s Inferno, ‘A Forest Dark’ and noted that the epic begins with the protagonist declaring that at age 35 he has become possessed with a thirst for the truth that underlies the world of men and their lies.

The men I speak to are often of this age or life stage, tinged with bitterness, but in two differing ways.

The mostly suburban white men are bitter with themselves and angry with the world upon the realization that they have been indoctrinated since childhood to believe in falsehoods. In short, they are angry over being lied to about the world. As this anger comes in part from an analytical ability to decode the matrix of lies they were born into, such men are easily assisted on their way to a more serene vantage, through further investigation.

They are often also afflicted with anger toward the subject of one of the lies: the African American, who they have been taught is a pure sainted victim of their greed, and is equal to them in every way, save for his innocence and needs which are infinitely greater, due to the natural evil taint the white man carries in his soul.

It might help such suburban white men, wrongly afflicted with guilt by the system that actually perpetuated the crime of inequity against the black man, to consider the black man’s position.

The urban black man has been taught the same lies about Western Society, that it is an unjust construct which is purely the product of white capitalist male greed directed at the black man as target and exploited resource all in one. The only history taught in urban school is black history. Therefore black men come of age seeing the world as an evil garden constructed for their enslavement and misery—a permanent preternatural matrix adapted for their exploitation for the benefit of every white man, and only the white man. That eternity of inequity is capped off by a mere century of history—African American history—with every noteworthy world event occurring under this heading.

Into this insane lie of a mythic construct steps the black man, who has been poorly educated by design, and taught that every thought of his is equal to every thought of a white ingenius MIT graduate, that every action of his is equal to the action of the best social operations soldier in the U.S. Military, that every need of his is equal to the need of a world-saving messiah.

Then this man is barely literature on an oral scale,* yet the product of a luxurious air-conditioned, overfed leisure existence that would have been the envy of Louis the XIV. He enters the adult world tagged with a name that is not even spelled according to the grammatical laws he was supposed to have been taught in school, but was not. He then gets a job running a register or stocking shelves at the local grocery store, expecting to work his way up the chain of command to the top spot—one fine day—as he’s sees the picture of a black man on the wall next to the picture of three whites, the four who constitute the management team that runs the operation. There is the declaration of opportunity, right there before him, all the way up to the presidency, top job in the land.

All he needs to do, according to his government education, is to do the amount of work he feels comfortable doing, at the level of quality that he feels [for feelings about oneself is the cornerstone of modern urban education in government schools] is adequate, depending on his current energy level, as dictated by the level of drama currently dominating his home life, as one cousin is shot by another black man, another is arrested by a white cop, and he his harassed by black hoodlums and white cops alike as he tries to make his way to work.

Recall that in the black community, the term “feel me?” is used to indicate “do you understand?” And that words of three syllables or more used by whites are often greeted with hostility, as belittling speech. Feel me is a recent term that was not common to black vernacular in earlier times and is a product of the toxic feminized government education.

*Meaning that comprehension is so low as to render verbal explanations ineffective at reaching his mind unless delivered with emotive amplification.

Finally, after a year on the job, he notices that the head cashier—a white lady—takes him off of the lead register slot whenever business gets heavy. This bothers him, as he feels that this will result in him being overlooked for promotion to lead, and then assistant, and finally to department manager.

So, Jerome approaches Sharon last week and says, “Miss Sharon, why do you keep taking me off of express when it gets busy?”

Sharon says, “Before you ask the question, are you sure you want the answer?”

Jerome says, “Yes Ma’am.”

Sharon responds, “Because, Jerome, this business is not based on our comfort zone, or what we have been led to believe is expected of us. We don’t sell anything different than the store up the street. We are in the customer service business, which means getting the customer out the door—which is my job to schedule for. At the end of the month I can afford to put you on express for the experience, and to give Maryellen a rest. But when the money comes through that door, and I look at my roster and see that Maryellen scans twenty-seven items per minute and you scan nine, then it’s a no brainer. It is not personal, its business.”

So, not only does Jerome have a completely false understanding of the world he lives in, as explained to him by the liberal educators in charge of implanting his active delusion, he also has a false understanding of his place. Jerome is now at the bottom of the cashier pile he was shuffled to last year, when management discovered he did not have what it took to stock the hotdog case, as he had been educated in a meritless vacuum. He is now stuck at the bottom of the pile at the bottom of the pile in the business that is at the bottom of the opportunity pile, with not a tool in his under-selected made-in-the-Ivory-Tower kit, to help dig his way out. The fact is, he has been shuffled into economic oblivion rather than being fired because he is a member of a protected group [an attempt at remedial retraining—due to his motivational challenge—is a dubious and highly stressful undertaking which could invoke his implanted sense of self-esteem and result in a huge HR headache for management], and is therefore denied an opportunity to learn from his mistakes, and is that much worse off.

So, Mescaline, Bart, Andrew, Sid, Dom, Shane, Bob, Sean and the rest of you bright young white men who have been taught since kindergarten that the world is an evil place because of what you are, and that you can only make it better by punishing yourself and giving back to those you were taking from while you were in your mother’s womb, you at least have the tools to see the world for what it is. Jerome’s view of life is in fact the product of criminal thought-quashing and therefore limits him in everything. You also have mirrors for self-examination erected all around, where Jerome is not even permitted to learn from his mistakes and failures, but fated to remain un-reconciled with life, a prisoner, even in his own mind, of the liberal slave master that first fucked him in the brain when he was five, and continues to inseminate his thought process with self-limiting mantras every time he turns on the TV.

We have all been lied to, and those who realize this are in general understandably angry. But at least the whites among us who have awakened have the advantage of knowing why we are angry, and at whom.

A white man who cannot afford a car might be angry that he is blamed for the fate of blacks who cannot afford cars and must take mass transit. But at least he knows it’s a lie.

The Maryland-born Jewish baker’s assistant, making $9 per an hour in Pikesville, and running a gauntlet of black muggers in Park Heights as he leaves his one room rental nightly for work, might be angry that he is blamed for the depressed state of the U.S. economy, based o the fact that the nine Manhattan investment banks that raped the world in 2008 are run by Jews. But at least he understands the basis for the lie that he is both perpetrator and benefactor of some global tribal conspiracy.

But poor Jerome, all he knows is that the world is hopelessly stacked against him, and that nothing he can do can make any difference in his life, that he is powerless even on his own personal scale—his only chance of fulfillment being the chance that some man that was born powerful will hand over a larger proportion of his ill gotten gains to a government agency, that will then dedicate itself to Jerome’s cause. Even this utopian happy ending would leave Jerome powerless.

Why wouldn’t Jerome be afflicted with a vague nagging anger, the purpose of which is to keep him forever in a state of internal misery, primed to be incited to mindless action at the call of his masters’ media hounds?

I have had countless discussions with ill-prepared black male employees, that resulted in their tears—angry or despondent, depending on their temperament—when they came to the realization that they were starting from scratch at age 30; of having to reengineer their entire thought process about themselves and the world around them, just to place themselves on the same economic footing I was when I stepped out of Trinity High School in Washington, PA, at age 16 and one day, having rejected all of the lies that the nefarious adults that staffed that stifling institution had tried unsuccessfully to pump into my soul.

For a man at the bottom of a world, that is itself a lie, to wake up to that realization—leant dreary weight by his own complicity in the process—is a brutal thing; the suffering of the man who has been denied a test of his merits or a rite of passage; the suffering that no primitive society—no matter how cruel and dedicated to the torture, and even the eating, of its enemies—would ever consider inflicting on one of its own.