Why You Shouldn’t Race-Mix

Because you will have ugly children.



Not mixing:


The one-drop rule has a wholesome basis in instinctual feeling. It’s not a question of whether this or that octoroon can “pass”; it’s a question of, granting the obvious diversity of early hominid species and their respective contributions to present “mankind”, why would you want to screw up with a heritage purified by an Ice Age by dumping back into it some completely unfiltered ape blood from Africa?
Lucius Somesuch

I think there’s a resurgence of traditionalism because at this point in time Whites are learning to reject multiculturalism, and I think the Alt-Right is part of the throes of that transformation, which must take place. Europe is not going to be the multiracial societies that they have become over the recent decades. The Alt-Right is at the center of that. It’s a huge transformation for Europe to make. Whites are now going into purification mode, and nationalists are resented because of their leading role. But without that leading role, and without that transformation, Europe will not survive. – not Barbara Lerner Spectre

A Mixed Message

The poster below has different messages for different audiences.

  • For White men and boys: “Die.”
  • For Black males: “You can have an unrealistic blonde, a genetic upgrade, and gibs from White folk. No downside.”
  • For White women and girls: “Get a sexy cabana boy (he will stick around, promise!), have a genetic catastrophe, fall into the underclass.”

Nothing in staged commercial photography is by accident. The wedding band is on his middle finger.Rnmd2

The Wages of Cuckoldry is Scorn

American football star Colin Kaepernick disavowed the U.S. national anthem, and not because of his government’s imperial rapine. Rather, he gave this as his reason:

I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.

Did Kaepernick’s adoptive parents echo King Lear’s plaint about a thankless child and a serpent’s tooth? Black-fathered bastards or adoptees raised by Whites often embrace their missing father’s African identity. This is understandable given human nature, but what interests me is the spiteful contempt they almost invariably show for their European cuck and wet-nurse benefactors.

It’s been an ugly story, even before the flag flap. Kaepernick’s biological father, true to script, dindu nuffin. His White biological mother, who gave him up for adoption in infancy, attempted to contact her son after he had already become a millionaire and her parents, in turn, hasten to add that they supported their daughter in her obscene pregnancy. Her second son is White; the poor child was delivered from a telegony-stained womb. Kaepernick’s adoptive parents are humiliated and not just by the anthem controversy. This photo is from three years ago and the eyes tell all:


Image credit: (c)fox40.com

Colin Kaepernick is nature’s instrument of cruel but fair justice. The serpent’s tooth is for the best, a reassertion of the one-drop-rule absent its codification into law. Something always arrests Europe’s tropical drift. As Czesław Miłosz wrote in his poem about rebellion:

And what I have met with in life was the just punishment
Which reaches, sooner of later, the breaker of a taboo.


The Mudshark: A Comedy Or A Tragedy?

A young brunette and a dark-skinned man are strolling about downtown on a nice evening, looking idly into the storefront windows they walk past. It’s not what you think. I was meeting up for drinks with a group of coworkers and as it happened, most of us were running late except the above-mentioned brunette and the Black coworker of mine, who were not a couple. To kill time while waiting for the rest of the group, they walked around for a bit. Later, she described to me the shock of noticing people’s reactions to the sight of them as a presumed couple. She said that she’s never experienced that before: every person she passed either gave her dagger-looks or froze her out. “How can somebody choose to live that way?” she asked.

On a crowded subway train, a petite White woman stood with her stroller turned away from me. I gave her a sympathetic smile as she jostled her way through the crowd to get off the train at her station. She caught that and responded glowingly. Then she turned the stroller, revealing a biracial child that obviously had a Black father, and — this was purely a reflex on my part — my friendly expression changed to a cold mask. She caught that too, and it showed in her eyes.

How about an East Asian perspective on mixing? Stationed as a U.S. soldier in Korea, I was out with a local girl one afternoon. We were cutting through apartment blocks and came upon a group of young boys who shouted something at us in Hangul. Her face turned deep red, she squeezed my hand and prompted me to walk quickly. Once clear, I asked her what they said. She replied “they called me a terrible name, I don’t want to tell you.” Two years later, now out of the Army and back in the United States, I was having lunch with another Korean girl. She mentioned that she had two Amerasian classmates in Seoul and told me that the half-White girl was very nice. She then scrunched her face into a portrait of disgust and added “the Black one was so ugly. Everybody hated her.”

Folks, I didn’t create the world, I just describe it. For pretty lies, you’re free to look at Old Navy ads. For ugly lies, turn on your television. And as for comedy, there is this story in the Observer, titled “The Tiresome Question I’m Often Asked About My Brown Kids: Where Are They From?” that transcends the sordid to reach for high farce:

I’m a white mother of six children, five of whom are children of color, and four of whom came home to our family through foster-adoption.

So… one out of six ain’t bad? Not exactly:

[M]y first child, Rory, who is my biological son. His father is Jamaican, and Rory, now 18, alternates between referring to himself as biracial or Black.

Sometimes you just have to laugh. The linked article is unadulterated comedy pinned on hackneyed bitching about normal questions that normal people ask her about her abnormal household.

But that spectacular story aside, what about the common and depressingly banal instances of mudsharking — does one laugh or weep at one woman’s self-removal from the common gene-pool? I guess it depends on whether you think that her straying was predisposed or an accident. Or to expand on that question, is exogamy effectively nature culling a defective female in a mocking form of subtractive eugenics? That is the case if you accept a deterministic explanation that ‘sharks are genetically predisposed to becoming morbidly generous and disloyal. In that scenario, female exogamy is a boiling-off dynamic similar to Amish youths who leave their communities for modern life.

Or is the eugenic explanation false because women are malleable, or like leaves in the wind that follow the strongest current? That would make miscegenation a tragic loss to all of us, no different, from the Darwinian perspective, than an ordinary teenage girl’s death in a traffic accident.

More succinctly then, is it fate or chance? I will leave that question to the reader, but first ask him to acknowledge a common overcorrection of sex-realism, the tendency to discharge women of their agency. When it comes to sex, from selecting the shade of lipstick to making herself vulnerable to rape, nothing a woman does is “by accident.” Rather, her choices, big and small, follow a ruthlessly Machiavellian, internally consistent logic that guides her toward the optimization of her reproductive outcomes. In a healthy girl living in a healthy society, that internal guide can lead her toward life’s end-game of triumphant grandmotherhood. In other cases, her inner guide will be a false song, as with women who delay pair-bonding and motherhood. Or its program will be hijacked,  as with girls who deform themselves in body and soul.

Mudsharks follow that hijacked behavioral template. Some are extreme submissives thrilled by being degraded. And what’s more degrading that the steps that lead her toward lumbering through Walmart with fatherless, identityless children?  Others are acting out the female equivalent of omega-rage, lashing out at their world in the most devastating way they can, exacting revenge on their fathers or former White boyfriends by staining their own branch to spite the tree. And yet others merely have exotic tastes and as with the author in that Observer article, they want the world to know it.

So is the crossing of racial lines always pathological? My answer would be that miscegenation is a breaking of a taboo. Sometimes nothing bad happens. Sometimes love has strange whims and two good people find each other across cultures. In fair-weather times, a touch of spirit for vive la difference can even turn up a genial “superman.”

But these are not fair times and fortunes are no longer in a forgiving mood. A big part of our former dispensation was society’s acceptance of the collective costs of individual discretion and indiscretion. Yet tolerance has its limits and human nature, with its aversion to cuckoldry and habitat corruption, asserts itself when pushed by circumstances such as the current demographic climate Whites are finding themselves in, facing an engineered future of being minorities in our own countries. Such a worst-case-scenario is frightening to a sane person. And that is why the future is identitarian, which means that you have to know who you are.


Wisdom is a product of patriarchy. Old women transmit their fathers‘ lessons to their granddaughters. The man is a tree, with women as vines wrapped around him, assuming his shape. Where there is nothing upright, the vine creeps along the ground. Woman — like any human being — has agency but she needs a man’s guidance to balance her sometimes conflicting instincts, and without that guidance she flails. This is why as men, we are responsible for directing women toward decisions that do not destroy their lives and snuff out our common future in the literal crib.

Because if we don’t, we are enabling their behavior, letting them forget that a woman’s burden — normally a happy one — is to draw support from the same men whose child she bears. Fucks and bucks from the same men, which is why when they go Black, a natural process kicks in wherein men drive their unfaithful women to exile — literally or into internal exile, starting with hardened eyes on a crowded train.

It can be difficult, such as when you are a father faced with the choice of either the humiliation of being a race-cuckold or the pain of disowning your daughter. Gentlemen, don’t fool yourselves — there is no third way. That’s why to avoid the dilemma, if you have a daughter, raise her right and give her all your love and protection as she’s growing up. And at the right age, let her know that there are things you will not accept. Then if she turns her back on you, you are free to cut her off with a clean conscience. A commenter at Chateau Heartiste offered the words for a hypothetical conversation with one’s mature daughter before it’s too late:

if you betray your people by sharing your love with outsiders, they will reject you. the outsiders will also reject you, because you’re not one of them. you will be totally alone. nobody will want you. ever.

you will have no safety. no protection. no friends. no love.

And maybe tell her that yes, you get it, Black people have become America’s national mascot and you concede that it’s now bad form to criticize them. But then add: “silly girl, it’s Black women who are supposed to have babies with them.”

The Coward and the Mudshark

The Coward. The angel says to the young man: “You have nothing. I can give you a chance to have something. Would you like that?” The man nods his head. The angel says: “This evening at 8:00, be at the intersection you know well. Stand there and wait. Then run into the flames. I will protect you. It will burn but you will save a life.” The man asks: “And if I don’t go?” The angel says: “You have free choice. I know that you are afraid.”

The man looks away to think. The angel is gone. The young man opens a beer, sits down. Restlessly, the hours go by. The noisy television may as well be in orbit. It is 7:50. He gets up and goes to the refrigerator for another beer.

The Mudshark. The angel says to the young woman: “The men you wanted don’t want you, so you go to those other men.” She says: “But DeShawn is fun and he can be really sweet!” The angel’s face clouds over and he says quietly: “Burying your talent is a sin.” He continues: “You can have a baby like you, except with hope. Do you want that?” She nods her head apprehensively. The angel says: “This evening at 8:00, be at the intersection you know well. Stand there and wait. You won’t see me but I will be there.” The angel disappears.

Her cell phone buzzes. Hours later at 7:50 she listens to DeShawn’s video game in the other room, she herself alone on his mattress.



Is the Mulatto the New Superman?

“But what if our child inherits my body and your brains?”
– Attributed to George Bernard Shaw, his riposte to a shapely dancer’s eugenically-flavored proposition.

The title of this post is in jest, but this post’s amicable spirit toward the long-time commenter and occasional pain-in-the-ass whose handle is an anagram of “Trickin” is in earnest. My man Trickin has been both lurking and commenting on the fringes of Alt-Right’s discussions for years and it’s high time to address his contrarian point of view.

To readers unfamiliar with him: Trickin describes himself as a forty-something former rock-n-roll scene journalist, now comfortably settled in the frozen mid-West. Most apropos our interests, he also notes that he is a biracial American man, the son of a Black father and a White mother, an outlier in that he grew up in a happy upper-middle-class home with both parents. So without further ado, let’s meet Trickin:


Not Trickin

No, that’s not him, I just couldn’t resist because this is how I imagine him to appear, his protestations notwithstanding. I actually have no idea what he looks like.

The original impetus behind this post is a meme that society pushes, and one that Trickin himself occasionally advances with varying degrees of seriousness, namely the melding of the European mind with the African body through intermarriage as evolution’s direction toward a superior new man.

There is a time for dialectic on miscegenation that encompasses one’s feelings about it, as well as an objective analysis of its viability. But I am not doing that in this post. Rather, my aim in this post is to acknowledge and try to grok Trickin’s perspective on his biracial identity. He wrote something recently to poignant effect:

there is a sorta purely physical aesthetic imagining that comes back repeatedly; a sorta idealized figure that i’m sure is tied to my id and history —- a halfrican with appealing features that nonetheless cover the vastness of its essential being…. I have some haunts along this line of personal inquiry; such a figure just might not be a pure figment in terms of me and my past.

You may now be wondering about this idealized Halfrican physiognomy. Trickin may have already given us a hint. He has asserted — in earlier denials of the photo at the top of this post — that he looks similar to a former NBA player, pictured here:


Trickin’s doppleganger?

That’s not a bad looking fellow. I have no reason to doubt Trickin’s claim and if true, then it would appear that he has drawn well in genetic card-dealing. In magnanimous detachment, I ventured to accept, as a thought experiment, the Mischling as an integral part of the continuum of our own communities.

But then I saw three things in the real world: a young White woman one evening, she walked lightly. The streetlamp’s glow kissed her flowing hair and caressed her shoulder. A birthday party full of White children playing. Their bright faces were God’s own joy. A White man, his solid face and clear eyes, and I knew that I am looking at the only man in this world whom I can trust.

There is the world of the European man, with its aspirational supremacy, and in that world there is little room for impure blood. And there is also, as confessed by Trickin, an idealized home aligned with his Mulatto identity, implicitly one with its own standards of purity. Like two free men who visit each other’s worlds but then part ways, the European returns home and so does the Halfrican head for his own.

But where does the biracial man go? The one who got the best of both heritages is free to enjoy this moment in history among Whites as an interesting stranger. But once he tires of Circe’s feast and is back at sea, he becomes like Odysseus but with no crew and with no Ithaca, on open water between the unreachable light of Europe and the wild call of Africa.