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December
9, 2007
Race and
Crime
Learning
from Diversity, The Case for
Expatriation
by Fred Reed
Again it happens. In Baltimore a young white
woman boards a bus and wants to sit down. Each time
she tries to take a seat she is told by nine black
middle-schools students, ages 14 and 15, including
three girls, that she can't. Finally she sits
anyway. The little -- the middle-school students, I
mean -- attack her.
From the Examiner,
"She sustained 'serious injuries' and had to be
transported to the University of Maryland Shock
Trauma Center, according to a police
report
[Sarah] Kreager suffered two
broken bones in her left eye socket, police said.
She had eye muscles that were damaged
She had
deep lacerations on the top of her head and another
above her neck." Her face will never be the
same.
Life in the United States. Race relations as
usual. Journalism as usual. I suppose you have been
swamped, dear reader, by the national press
coverage of this racial attack -- right? The
outrage? You've heard about it over and over on the
lobotomy box? Editorialists everywhere just won't
let it rest? Sure.
Curious. Don Imus, apparently a radio jock of
some sort, refers to a black women's basketball
team as "nappy-headed hos." Rude, certainly, and
unnecessary, but nothing more. It becomes national
news and he loses his job. Blacks beat a white
woman until her bones break and
near
silence.
I'm sick of it. I'm sick of these attacks and of
the animals that commit them. And I'm sick of the
attitude of the press. But I'm doubtless alone in
my sentiments. Right?
The headline in the WJZ
account says, "Woman Attacked On Bus Placed In
Witness Protection." Why? The only reason can be
the expectation that blacks will try to kill her to
prevent her from testifying against the attackers.
Things are out of control.
The attack was not just a crime, but a
particular type of crime. In Mexico, where I live,
there is crime, but it is usually economic. If I
walked in a bad part of Guadalajara by night with a
Rolex on my arm, an enterprising gangster might
well demand it at knifepoint. If I peaceably gave
him the Rolex, he would likely just leave with it.
It's about money. Yes, crimes of passion occur when
men got boozed up and fight over women or which
football team is best. These are easily
avoided.
But when a group of very young blacks,
unprovoked, attack a defenseless white women, with
the intention of badly hurting her, break her
bones, and then try to drag her off the bus, we see
a different sort of crime. The only motive is
racial hatred.
Crimes of this type are either increasingly
common or increasingly visible because of the
internet. They involve gang rapes of white women,
forced humiliation as for example by being
compelled to provide blow jobs in front of
boyfriends, followed by murder. The press
assiduously covers them up. The usual formulation
is that "youths" were responsible or, very
infrequently, "minority youths." A photo of the
victims may appear, but not of the perpetrators.
Press coverage will be as local as possible. On the
web I recently saw television coverage of one such
crime in Florida in which the reporteress kept the
camera below the waists of those involved to avoid
racial identification.
If the attackers were somehow anomalous, the
occasional psychopath for example, the solution --
a reasonable response anyway -- would be to put
them in prison forever and get on with life. But
they are not anomalous. They are probably the norm
among young blacks of the slums.
I don't think whites realize what is out there,
how bad things are. If you live in Washington, DC,
and work, say, on K Street or Connecticut Avenue,
you see well-dressed and courteous blacks who are
pretty much like everybody else. Much more
resentment lies under the surface than you probably
believe, but they certainly aren't going to attack
anyone. They are not a problem.
But go into the realms of the underclass, the
great sprawling necrotic Sowetos of any big
American city. Better yet, don't go. You wouldn't
last ten minutes on foot at night. Few whites
really know that these places exist, and they never
see them. Cabs will refuse to take you. For some
half-dozen years when I was on the police beat I
did see the bad neighborhoods. God help us.
These 'hoods are utterly black, with whipcord
young males leaning against lamp posts and eyeing
cops with hostility. The people in them have no
identity other than black. They aren't African and
aren't American. They don't read and many can't.
The schools are just holding cages. They've got
nothing and they're going nowhere and they know it.
The great white beyond out there, with its
computers and universities and those rich white
people with their jobs and books and understanding
of mysterious things like international politics --
they have no access to these.
They hate whites. I don't mean that they harbor
class-mediated resentments deriving from incomplete
socialization to the Euro-based norms of yada yada.
I mean they hate whites. Or do you suppose that
they beat a young woman into hospitalization from
affection? To break bones in a woman's face you
have to kick her or hit her very hard, hard enough
to cause brain damage with a little luck, hard
enough to kill. The ganging up is a pattern.
There is nothing whites can do about it except
live away from blacks and be very careful about
taking public transportation. It is not a good
thing to find yourself at eleven at night in an
otherwise empty subway car with your teenage
daughter and five young blacks.
Fear of blacks chiefly drives the furor over the
right to own guns. Conservatives don't want guns
from fear that a Jewish dentist might crawl through
the window at night. Liberals do not fear white
duck-hunters or the white suburbanite with a pistol
in his closet. It's arm against them, or disarm
them, though few will admit it..
What will happen to the adolescent monsters in
Baltimore? A good guess: They will be charged with
assault, publicity will be minimal, they will face
only minor consequences because they are juveniles,
and a black jury (if things get that far) will give
them a pass. Their classmates, if anything they see
can be called a class, will regard them as
heroes.
I wonder how long things can go on as they are.
Nothing gets better. The murderous stewing hatred
remains and given a chance will beat more women
senseless or, sooner or later, burn another city.
Winding this spring is not a good idea. If the worm
ever turns, Katie bar the door.
Reed
Archive
Copyright 2007 by Fred Reed and reproduced here by
permission of the author.
About
the Author (by the author):
Fred Reed is a Marine combat veteran, police
reporter, amateur biochemist, former long-haul
hitchhiker, and part-time sociopath living in
Mexico. Fred, a keyboard mercenary with a
disorganized past, has worked on staff for Army
Times, The Washingtonian, Soldier of Fortune,
Federal Computer Week, and The Washington
Times. He has been published in Playboy,
Soldier of Fortune, The Wall Street Journal, The
Washington Post, Harper's, National Review, Signal,
Air&Space, and suchlike. He has worked as a
police writer, technology editor, military
specialist, and authority on mercenary soldiers. He
is by all accounts as looney as a tune.
Visit the "Fred
on Everything" website to read his previous
columns and sign up for his regular e-mail
feature.
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The essays in A Brass Pole in
Bangkok, are sometimes wildly funny,
sometimes deadly serious, always merciless
in their unmasking of the pretenses and
charlatans of society. Fred, a former
Marine, subscribes to no ideology ("an
ideology is just a systematic way of
misunderstanding the world") but
exuberantly wreaks havoc on practically
everything, and delights in everything
else: the psychotherapy swindle, squalling
feminists, race racketeers, damn fool
wars, red-light districts in Asia, and
tequila fests in Mexico, where he
lives.
A
Brass Pole in Bangkok: A Thing I Aspire To
Be, by Fred Reed
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Buy Fred's new reprehensible book,
Nekkid In Austin! Another
collection of Fred's collected outrages,
irresponsible ravings, and curmudgeonry
from "Fred On Everything" and some
innocent magazines that, he says,
foolishly published him. Wildly funny,
sometimes wacky, always provocative essays
on the collapse of America.
Nekkid
in Austin: Drop Your Inner Child Down a
Well, by Fred Reed
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