To Fam, From Sam (Part IV)
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 fourth installment of his autobiography, available exclusively on full-haus.com. We will continue to release new chapters every week. Check back regularly for the latest edition from the Dickens of white nationalism!
As I entered high school I could certainly identify with the disaffected white youths of the movies. Our community was mostly white at that time, but there was something wrong with the spirit of our high school. It was as though we had been cut loose. The building and facilities were old. The band uniforms were sloppy-looking and frayed. The gymnasium and sports equipment were all broken down. You could see that the school had been something great at one time. There were stories of top-notch drama club stage productions in the past. When I was very little, locals would talk about upcoming productions like they were some kind of downtown premier. Shop classes were being discontinued. The science labs were outdated.
Then the first brown faces started showing up. I thought, “This is it. This is the end.” When I graduated there were only a few dozen of them. Within a few years the school was majority black. But then the damnedest thing happened: New gymnasiums, new band uniforms, an entire new wing with state-of-the-art laboratories, a top quality rubberized-outdoor track, a new theater area with a big glass lobby, and other updated facilities. So I figured it out: Blacks get what they want. Whites don’t get shit. All of this happened after I graduated.
While I was still a high school student I started reaching out to pro-white groups of the time. I wrote to Art Jones to subscribe to his America First newsletter. He would sell tape recordings of his appearances on local talk radio. He was uniquely bold and humorous. He had a phone number that you could call to listen to a funny racist message about the news of the day. This was when AIDS was first breaking out and he was ranting about fags donating their AIDS-blood to blood banks. I wrote to Thom Robb’s Ku Klux Klan and received their newspaper. When I was a junior, some friends and I prepared a birthday cake for Adolf Hitler and sang happy birthday to him during the band hour. The band was horribly supervised and the director was a drunk. In senior year I spray painted a swastika on the school. I was not caught and have no idea how they didn’t know it was me. That is probably all I should say about my high school activities.
My father died around this time as well. I never got a lot of detail about it. He lived in a condominium in a fashionable neighborhood in the city. He had been a life-long heavy smoker but had quit in recent years. They say he died from smoke from a fire started in his condominium from a smoldering cigarette. Some say he had recently started smoking again. That is really all I know about it. In life he had seemed to have liberal sentiments and we would argue about politics, culture, and religion. One time we were visiting his place of business and I brought my school folder. On it I had drawn a swastika and he was concerned that his business partner (a Jew) had seen it. For all my father’s liberal platitudes it was this Jew that ultimately screwed him out of his business. My father was a successful machinist by trade and started and ran his own machine shop. He expanded maybe a little too fast and then took on this Jew partner. And look what happened.
By the time I graduated high school I was very disaffected. I thought I should join the military or something. While I was in high school my father insisted that I go to college, but then he died. Not really knowing what I should do, I applied and was accepted at a decent local university in the city. I did well but looking back I thought my younger brother had done better because when he graduated high school he worked in a factory for a couple years before going off to college. I think I would have been more mature and had a firmer sense of direction if I had done the same. Plus, I would not have been penniless. When my own sons were old enough I advised them to work for a little while first. Learn about the real world. Make some money. Then, if you want to go to college for some good reason, go.
When I attended college I lived in the city for a while. The university was more or less surrounded by notoriously dangerous negro areas. I took the train every day for a while. Looking back, I really would not have recommended this. I never had any really bad occurrences but I was certainly exposed to danger because bad things did happen around there. If you are reading this you know that the way you carry yourself sends a signal about whether you are a victim or not. A woman or a smaller person or maybe someone who is overweight may appear a certain way to animalistic, predatory ferals. I would not send my mother or daughters into such an environment.
One of the few bad and funny interactions I can recall with blacks was the time I briefly tried to join the ROTC unit. They gave me a uniform to wear and I was riding the train. This pack of probably very young teenage negros surrounded me, laughing and joking about my uniform, calling me “Captain.” “He think he a muthafuggin Captain!” “Hey Captain you a Captain?” And finally, “He the captain of yo momma’s pussy!” These creatures would constantly wander through the campus. They finally killed one of the university cops.
That school was far less liberal than you think of universities being then or now. But they had a Union of Concerned Black Students and a free newspaper which would come out now and then. I would pick-up a big pile of them (because they were free) and put them right into the garbage. In retrospect that probably only made it seem like they had more readers than they actually did…