I hadn't thought what it was like living on the edge of an all-black neighborhood much since I left there. But this week I started hearing black people complaining about how much white people want to kill them all the time. At first, I remembered the black people trying to shoot me through the window while I was in bed sleeping, which is why I suddenly left with nothing but an overnight bag. then today, suddenly, the beginning of it all came back in a flood.
When I moved to Oak Park in Sacramento, I had not known it was the original home of the militant 'black panther' movement in the 1960s. I certainly did not think its heritage would still be as viciously anti-white as it was 50 years ago. So when I first moved to live under the rule of the STILL SUPREME BLACK RACE in Oak Park, the first thing that I noticed was the amount of putrid trash everywhere.
I started to clean it up, first on my own street, and then gradually, across all of Oak Park, whenever I walked to buy some groceries. I started carrying brushes and gloves and garbage bags in my grocery bag, to clean up the worse of it: the broken glass scattered on the corners to stop bicycles going near the street pushers; the heroine needles stuck in the primary school fences; the condoms thrown at the walls of the bread factory; and so on. the grocery stores were run by Vietnamese, who liked what I was doing and helped me dispose of the trash around their stores.
But as I was picking up litter, the SUPREME BLACK RACE would drive by, shouting 'work harder you white fuckhead!' at me while throwing fast-food wrappers behind me where I had just picked up, and occasionally hitting me with beer bottles. Sometimes the black parents laughed appreciatively at their children's antics, giving me a knuckle 'fuck you' sign if I dared to look at them.
Once a neighbor saw me returning from a longer cleanup foray, and shouted, "here, I save this for you," and threw a dead bird at me. At first I tried ignoring it, but after I got inside, I thought I better go back and pick it up before a car ran it over. But it was too late, and while I was scraping the splattered carcass off the asphalt from the middle of the street with a shovel, another car drove by at 40mph and opened its door just before getting to where I was standing, knocking me over and bruising me badly.
Such were the games enjoyed by the SUPERIOR BLACK RACE I was permitted to live with, as they'd remind me frequently, pushing me off the sidewalk into the gutter if I didn't get out of their way fast enough when they walked in battalions down the sidewalks they owned.
After the dead bird incident, I took to going to the market at odd hours, or between 10am and 11.30am when it was most likely the schoolchildren would not be there. But they often skipped school, the younger ones shooting air guns at squirrels for fun, until about 12years old, when their parents thought them old enough to have old revolvers to play with. I never had to pick up ammunition rounds, they were hoarded more than money. Sometimes the Mexican gardeners would throw a dime into a pile of dogshit, and the kids wouldn't touch that--Anything less than a dollar was below their dignity--And the Mexicans would smile generously as I scraped the dogshit up with their money, thinking I was poorer than their children and needed to be gifted that way. I had already learned, by then, not even to let them know if I spoke English or Spanish.
Any place I cleaned up would be instantly trashed again once, but if I cleaned it up again right away, it stayed cleaned up, and gradually, the air no longer smelled of rotting food, urine-soaked clothes, dog shit, and condom spunk. It took about six months.
After I had cleaned it all up, people wrote to the city asking if they could get my job, and the city wrote back they hadn't hired anyone. A few perplexed people asked me why I was working if I wasn't being paid for it. I said "I wasn't working." More perplexity. The following July, the headmaster of the local black school proudly took credit for the clean streets. I had no idea whom he was before, but I got a letter sent to all people in the neighborhood that children would be required to continue the work he had started and to clean up the streets under his school's supervision from then on.
That was the real beginning of the end for me, because now children all across the neighborhood were starting to hate me for cleaning up their streets, which now the headmaster was making them keep clean, and they knew I had been doing it, and when they left school, they had their eyes well fixed on making me hurt for what I had done to them.
It did raise the value of the houses, which I thought people would like; but I didn't know that most of the houses were rented, not owned, off the official market, and when their landlords wanted more money, they'd bang on my door, sometimes after midnight, shouting how I was a stupid white asshole who didnt appreciate who awful their life was, blame me for their rent increase because I hadn't left the streets full of rotting crap and shit, and always demanding I give them some money.
They were always demanding money from me for one reason or another, because, well, I'm white, and I lived there, so of course, they expected it to be natural I give them money for the privilege of them not attacking me in some way, which of course they did, if I refused to give them anything. After a few months of that, I started offering them work, and they'd run away almost immediately instead.
Also I learned not to eat in public. Once I was eating a cookie outside, and a guy walked up and indignantly demanded the cookie I had in my mouth, deeply insulted that I had the gall to eat something he wanted. The master black race loved doing that particularly. If I was holding anything, they'd walk up and tell me they needed it, and if I didn't think their behavior charming, I would have a stone hit me after they had started walking away, as if it had been thrown by someone else who wasn't there.
That was pretty much my first lesson, in fact, of what it means to live right next to the epicenter of the master black race in Sacramento, California.