Some years ago I was in an all black bar interviewing a white woman named Sharon about her violent experiences. A former college football player came up to me, interrupting our conversation, and said, “You know that’s my wife you’re talking to.”

I responded, “I was just getting to know her. When I’m done I’ll give her back.”

He then shook my hand, having been unsuccessful in his intimidation bid, and now wanting to be on good terms with the psychopathic regressive gene pool vector before him. She snarled under her breath something about men being pigs and I continued with the interview, which had just gotten back to her first year of junior high school in the early-to mid 1970s at the height of forced school segregation—busing black kids form the ghetto into white working class neighborhoods, thus insuring the extension of racial animosity on both sides of the color line.

“I was a little girly girl: my make up on, my skirt and coat creased, my pockeybook under my arm. I was nervous walking outside after school because the buses were lined up and the black girls where beating up and shaking down all the white girls. Purses were being taken, earrings ripped out, noses bloodied, hair ripped out. Angel was this giant black girl with a gold tooth. She came up to me and said, ‘Give me your money.’

“I just said, ‘I don’t have any money’, which was the God’s honest truth. We were poor. My father had passed when I was a baby and my mother had six mouths to feed with no government assistance.

“Then she hauled off and punched me in the face. I swear she looked like she was twenty-one. She punched me in the jaw. I felt a hit. My adrenaline was just pumping. I didn’t cry. There was too many people for me to do anything. White girls were getting jacked up all around. We were surrounded by her people. I didn’t cry. I started walking toward the bowling alley where I was being picked up by my sister, who was twenty-three.

“I got into her car and she kept asking me what was the matter. My jaw was swollen. I said nothing at first. She said it again and I started crying. She peeled wheels to the school and took me in to see the principal. She called his secretary a ‘monkey’, and since it was raining out, she said to the principal, ‘You bald-ass m-fer, what were you afraid you’d get your toupee wet?’

“She called him a little bit of everything.

“He wanted to take me around and have me point Angel out. She said, ‘What are you stupid? So she can get her ass kicked every day of the year!’

“She took me outside and made me wait behind her, while she went on every bus and threatened to kill anyone who touched me. The f-word and the n-word were used a lot! When we got home she told my mother that they had to put me in private school otherwise I would get attacked. The next day there were dozens of Harleys and bikers at the school, threatening the black kids, because one of the white girls that got mugged, her father was a Freedom Rider.

“It was a sad time. I never had anything against blacks. Then, after growing up with my grandparents telling me how bad blacks were I get attacked. My older brother wanted a Jackson Five album and my parents wouldn’t let him buy it—they were that prejudice. Then, when you get attacked like this because your white, it just seems to justify every prejudiced thing they ever told you. And even now, in my forties, I have black people try to intimidate me all the time because they think I’m afraid because I’m white. Fuck that. I learned a long time ago that fear doesn’t get you anywhere. They can go pound sand—like that big drunk loser that’s going home to jerk off. It’s not color, it's people. People are rotten, and they use color for an excuse.”

Not long after this interview I met a seasonal black employee at work named Antoinette who grew up in this same area during the mid-70s busing era in Baltimore City. When she found out I was a white man about her age who lived in Baltimore in the same neighborhood where she was hunted in the streets by white boys, out to avenge the attacks on family members by blacks she did not even know, she looked at me with an almost supernatural dread. Over three decades had not erased the fear that she had experienced being a petite quiet black girl forced to go to school with a bunch of tough whites whose little sisters were being attacked by other blacks. It was not until I informed her that I had grown up in suburban Pennsylvania during that time, and only moved into the ghetto because of my failure to thrive as a capitalist parasite.

The tragedy about this kind of thing, is that it is not racial combat, or ‘race war’ but race identified predation, with the weak and the innocent on both sides of the color line being preyed upon by the strong and the evil, who simply use the excuse that the weak and the innocent people of their own color have been likewise preyed upon.

This is the recipe for hell that is the endgame of social engineering; a societal level divide and conquer policy that will come to the fore again in mass events when the social structure that has cultivated this animosity weakens enough. Until then race-based violence committed by minorities will be obscured by the media, and that violence committed by fringe members of the majority amplified out of proportion, in order to keep the necessary societal hate alive and well. Since the dawn of history empires have sowed the seeds of animosity through colonization, deportation and forced integration, cultivated those toxic seeds through treating the majority and the minority differently, and have reaped enough hate to keep me in Harm City material for as long as I can stomach it.

In the meantime I get to enjoy the look of abject emasculation on the faces of would be predators—like the drunken linebacker at that ghetto bar—who wrongly identify me as prey based on their mass media conditioning.