The Spoils of War

      

                       Had an interesting experience today. While at a coffeeshop- two skinheads arrived out of nowhere. I saw the tattoos and knew what they meant.  One had a SS thunderbolt, and not a subtle one- on his head.  I don’t know if I had seen anyone with this many tattoos in my life. OK, maybe one guy at a Volksfront beach campout like 5 years ago, who had tats on his face. This was not close to home, this was in an unlikely spot- I thought.  I had been at this cafe for a while, enjoying the quiet and the fact the place was not blasting an endless loop of Aretha and Sinatra. In fact, I don’t think there was any music at all. Although I was thrown by their arrival, I wasn’t going to be afraid- not of them- but what People Might Think. I wasn’t going to allow myself to melt into the land of lemming-population and hide-not when there was so little chance to meet WN where I am from. I went outside and asked one of them for a light ,took a seat a few chairs away, and puffed and thought about how I was going to go about this. At this point there was only one of them outside. The other emerged from some surrounding trees- he must have gone out the back door of the coffeeshop as I thought he was still somewhere inside- I asked  if they could feel the altitude, as I was getting a slight head rush from a cigarette and thinking they were probably not from around here either. They said they had lived up in the mountainous area for some time and didn’t feel it. Then I told them where I was from and said I was glad to get away from the bay area for a while. 

It wasn’t long before we were discussing racial matters and I passed them a card from an organization I had in my purse and gave them my blog address. The second one passed the card to the first, and then from what we spoke of, it was clear to them I was not merely striking up a conversation out of curiosity. As one of them worked on his laptop outside, I talked to them for probably the better part of an hour.One of them spoke of ordering books from NV books, and we spoke a little about the NA split, movement trauma, and the Christian/Newsom case.  I got the impression at least the more talkative one had been through some hard things in life. It was clear I  lived a different life than they did, and I wasn’t about to make up stories to try to impress them, ‘fit in’ or act as if  I ‘used to be a skin’- but we both had the same struggle in trying to talk to people about racial isssues, though I said it might be easier for me because I look a little less threatening.  When they spoke of the tenderloin in San Francisco, I told them I wouldn’t go there, although they thought it was entertaining, apparently they weren’t afraid, but I told them I sure was.

They told me about the skin scene in Southern California, Pismo Beach,  Orange County and Long Beach . One told me about being locked up and how miserable it was, telling me about the jail/prison skin subculture that exists inside that is rife with drugs, meth in particular, and the contempt he felt for whites who had degraded themselves and had no aspirations to get away from that- the drug/jail subculture-whether they made claims to 14/88 or not. We discussed our backgrounds, and we spoke of Euro unity versus  the ‘who is whitEST?’ silliness while we get murdered and invaded by every other non-Euro group- he was telling me about how even in jail  there are hierarchies and silly movement snobberies, like being asked if he knew how to spell his name in runes and some kind of power system based on what one’s last name was.  We agreed that things like this were childish, and it was too late in the day for such nonsense.  He told me how he had gotten off hard drugs and I was very happy to hear that, especially because he had a five year old child that was with the mother.

As I waved to them in their truck and  drove back to where I was staying I knew I would probably would not run into them again,  unless they show up at the same place and the same time tomorrow-  a place where I can find a reliable , free and steady unsecured wireless connection-if they do, I will buy them a beer if I can find one nearby- but I am hoping  at the least they will  find my blog and maybe leave a comment (just scroll down to the end of whatever article one wants to comment on, and click comment- I will get it via email first).  They said they were glad to meet someone else so suprisingly and unexpectedly-and that there just aren’t many women in their age group that either have an interest in natonalism, or seem to care or even understand it. I told them about the local groups in the bay, about Volksfront- but I don’t think they were familiar with that group. The one guy had just gotten out (from jail or whatever) only four days previously, and felt like a big sister or a mother as I told him I hoped he wasn’t going back there, that we needed him on the outside, and needed him to be clean and strong.  

We spoke of how hard it is to talk to people about racial issues to begin with, that people are afraid to be called names, afraid of losing their social standing. I said that other people like myself who do not identify as skins per se looked at them as the fighters when things might get very bad down the road. They are convinced the holy war is coming, and I said I thought it was already here. I told them people in the movement looked upon them like the SA- and that they would  be the first to die. They seemed quite aware of that fact and almost seemed to look forward to it with a sense of both pride and resignation. We spoke of racial memory, and although I am pretty sure they were not familiar with the stuff I have put up here in previous posts about Jung and the collective unconscious being racial- they spoke of wanting to connect with their own roots- the more talkative one spoke of Odinism , of  wanting to return to the old ways, of feeling a pull towards the ways of his people, of Wotan and David Lane.

 I almost felt an envy that they could actually live out this soldier-like existence outwardly and authentically, while this part of myself was usually misunderstood by lemmings and non-lemmings alike as ‘anti-social’ or a ‘remoteness’ that bordered on the bioengineered. Inside I was anything but these things, but had become more and more like this to survive my own battles. With them, people knew what they were getting and didn’t expect something else.They didn’t have to pretend to be happy, friendly and nice. There wouldn’t be head-shaking disapproval for these things with them, there would either be stares, fear or judgement- as they said they regularly endured taunts for their various markings “You racist! POS!” .  When it was time to go, the one who had spoken most shook my hand warmly and asked my name- I called to them as they got in their truck  to keep up the fight.  After a week of ups and downs, I almost didn’t come up here at all, but after today, as they smiled and gave me the Roman salute as they drove away in the opposite direction towards town- I once again had the inner sense of purpose , another  rare moment of  synchroncity that links us together in the greater chain.