To Fam, From Sam (Part I)

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Editor’s Note: Sam is a Full Haus fan favorite, the oldest Birth Panelist, and has more children than most of us combined. This is the first installment of his autobiography, available exclusively on We will be releasing new chapters every week. Check back regularly for the latest edition from the Dickens of white nationalism!

Part One

I am known as Sam since the Fatherland podcast and now Full Haus. “Sam” was simply a convenient contraction of my long-time screen name since before the days of the Alt-Right, Sanguinem Aryan, which means Aryan Blood in Latin. Aryan Blood is one of my favorite black metal bands.

A useful way to communicate one’s ideals, lessons learned and reasons for believing certain things is the autobiography. By it one can show one’s development of ideas without seeming preachy. By stating what happened to me, what I found, where it led me, the conclusions I was, really, forced to make the reader may find solutions to things he may have struggled against. Some will not agree with my conclusions but may at least appreciate the process. The reader may find some of my logic useful for arguing with certain types of people, even if the reader is unprepared to reach the same conclusions. Readers should consider making their own autobiographies. Many of our heroes have made great impact by them. I have read Mein Kampf by Hitler, This Time the World by George Lincoln Rockwell and My Life by Oswald Mosley – all autobiographical in nature. A friend of mine from back in the day wrote his own autobiography very simply and directly and it has continued to move me to this day. It is in fact why I write this now.

But many people do not like to read on a computer screen, at least not books or lengthy articles. I do not. I recall the early days of the internet, 1993-1995. Especially on “our” sites, long articles and even books would be posted. People visit web sites today for the quick jolt of a meme or some image, not to read. I usually don’t like to print things out, either because my printer is always out of ink or does not work for some reason. I think most people are like this. Hence, we have the well-known acronym, TLDR. So, I will attempt to make this work in short chapters in hopes that some will take the few minutes to read and get something good out of it.

You might not start an autobiography if you are too young. The lessons of life must stand out with some perspective. I do not know when you should start but you must have some milestones to mark certain turning points, successes and failures.

I was born in the 60s in a big city. I hate that we must leave out so much detail in what we say to prevent the vile enemy from using it against us. They will pay for this one day. My parents and I moved to the suburbs when I was little. A younger sibling came along. My father eventually left the household when I was 6 or 7; I did not know why. I heard he was a philanderer. My father would eventually die when I was a teenager. I would come to realize later in life how the absence of a father in the house hurt me. That is not to say that you cannot overcome such a deficiency, only that you should realize that you may lack in certain things and you may need to think things through more carefully when you encounter certain situations. There are many cases of guys growing up without fathers, far more than in my era; some of them are probably reading this. You can see how a mother being one’s sole or primary influence can give a lopsided experience that affects the way you react to things.

I found out that I had two older half-siblings when they came to live with us when I was little. They were about ten and twelve years older than me. They came from California and were in high school at the time. One of them would sneak beers and cigarettes all the time. He started coming home drunk in the middle of the night. He fell down all fifteen stairs to the basement once. I remember my father coming back to the house (after he was no longer living there) to beat the hell out him. He took him out to the garage and I could hear the screaming and the violence. You can really hear the fear in someone’s voice when it is genuine. My father came back in the house to tell my mother in anger, “Give me a screwdriver!” The way he said it really scared me and it seemed cruel in a way that I did not dare myself to imagine. By the time I was 8 or 9 years old they were gone from the house.

We would go to visit my grandparents that lived in the city, passing through run-down and dangerous black neighborhoods along the way. I can remember resenting the residents for creating these conditions, because the areas could have been nice. In fact, people we knew would talk about how this or that particular neighborhood had been a great place to live until such and such time. Later in life I would be told that it was because of economics that blacks were the way they were. But that lie was immediately obvious because my early life experience was that my grandparents and their neighbors were not wealthy and they did not act like these creatures. They lived in a small white enclave mostly surrounded by blacks. One time we went with my grandparents to visit relatives and we got a flat tire in a really bad spot. Blacks milling around, watching us: my grandfather, grandmother, mother and little brother. It was a tense moment. It was not like we didn’t have precedent to be concerned.

I remember that in my all-white neighborhood growing up, we played with the children across the street, brothers and sisters. For several years, each summer they had some cousins that would come in the summer and stay for something like a month. The parents would be there, too. The last time I saw them they were leaving to drive home which meant driving through the city. There was heavy rainfall and traffic was diverted from the highway. I remember the poor conditions of the frontage roads and underpasses near the highway: Out-of-towners, unfamiliar with the area, finding their way through a bad neighborhood. So, the blacks closed down an underpass and were demanding money from cars coming that way. When these out-of-town guests were confronted the father said no, he was not going to give money and was shot in the face, dead right in front of his family. I don’t know: maybe he gave them money or did not have money but they did kill him. That’s how I remember it. My mother talked about it.

Anyway, I did not believe that blacks were even poor. My uncle was in a union and worked at the steel mill. He would flaunt the big wad of cash that he always had in his pocket. He would talk about how nearly all of his co-workers were black and how many of them would do cocaine in the bathrooms on company time. So, apparently they were getting their big wads of cash, too, often clearing nearly $1,000 per week, a lot of money in the 70s and 80s. My uncle was no angel either, bragging about drinking the pure ethyl alcohol by-product of the coke plant while on the job. It was little wonder that the steel industry ultimately failed in this area by the 80s and there was little doubt about how most blacks really are…


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