Wilmot Robertson’s epic and masterful tome, The Dispossessed Majority, ends with a chapter entitled “Northern European Ingathering” which calls for just that, a kind of “Pax Euramerica.” According to the late Mr. Robertson, only a sense of race-consciousness on that level would be enough to save Whites worldwide against all the forces aligned against them — or rather — us.
I, and presumably most readers, agree with this; the trouble, of course, lies in praxis. For those of you rolling your eyes, do not worry; I am not here going to recycle the issue of getting our ideas heard amongst the political class or inside academia. Those problems concern people dwelling towards the top of society, while I am currently much more in touch and concerned with those at the bottom. My trouble is best illustrated with the anecdote below.
I am currently living in a ghetto that is a mix of Mexicans, Somalis, Blacks, and Whites. It is dangerous, but not unlivable, particularly for someone like me who grew used to environments like it from going to public schools and always taking public transit. I still use public transit almost everyday, being too poor to own a vehicle of my own, and the other day as I was walking to the nearest train station, I made a mistake.
The mistake was getting involved, because as anyone who has ever lived in the ghetto knows, the first rule is to never get involved. Never make eye contact, never give a dollar, never let someone use your phone, etc. I must have been only fifty feet from my train stop when I noticed a group of about ten or so young Black males running from a fallen figure. As I got closer I noticed the figure was a White woman and I could hear her crying. Keeping my eyes to the pavement, I kept heading towards the train; after all, I was going to meet a friend on the other side of town that I do not get to see very often. Then I heard her cry out to me, asking if she could use my phone. Knowing it was a bad idea as I was doing it, I caved and started walking over to her with my phone outreached.
I did this against better judgment because she was White, and I am White, and a Black mob had clearly just attacked her. Had she been of another race, I would have gone by the advice everyone knows but John Derbyshire fatefully wrote down, and kept moving.
Later on when I was retelling this story to another friend, he commented, “All that AmRen is getting to your head, and making you dumb.” Again, as I was walking towards her I knew it was dumb, and I also remember thinking to myself that this was perhaps the first time I was acting on ideology, not instinct or experience. If Whites are to survive, we have to stick together, so go help this poor woman, I thought.
After that self-aggrandizing sentiment, things went decidedly downhill. As I passed her my phone, she began babbling on about what had happened and it became very apparent that she was high on crank. She got ahold of someone on my phone and alternated between talking to him, talking to me, and deeply inhaling from a half-crushed cigarette. Somewhere in all of this I learned that she was pregnant, which, looking her over, seemed possible. I also soon learned that she was calling several different Hell’s Angels, a gang which she said she was a part of, to come get her. She said that when they arrived, they would take me to a notorious biker bar and reward me for protecting her with many free drinks. Then, she said, we would go driving and find the perpetrators of the assault. I assured her that none of those things were really necessary, that I just wanted to help her, and that I really had to get going and meet a friend – but she insisted.
One thing led to another and we wound up on the train together, heading the direction I had intended to go anyway. It became clear that she was too high to really know what was going on, and that whoever she was talking with on the phone probably was as well. After I realized I had dedicated about 45 minutes of my time to this junky, I took my phone back and caught a bus — leaving her to fend for herself.
As I mentioned, not one of my (all White) friends expressed an iota of sympathy for anyone or any part of this story. They also made me take note of the fact that I probably did not help at all. I found her at a train station, and I left her at one. I did not have a medical kit with me to try and clean her cuts and scratches; and I did not find a safe place to leave her. Her friends were as worthless as she, and she certainly did not want me to call the police (how would a two-year stint for possession help her anyway?).
In short, as the saying goes, you can’t help those who can’t help themselves. The trouble is, in the area I am living in, that saying would apply to most of the Whites I encounter. A few months ago, I was walking along and saw a Black man with a White woman, and when I noticed that they were smoking, I approached them to see if they could spare a cigarette. They gave me one, then the man tried to sell me marijuana. Then he tried to sell me crack. Then she tried to sell me her body. I politely declined all three offers, thanked them for the cigarette, and they went on their way. What was I supposed to do?
This is “The Identitarian Dilemma.” I believe in White racial consciousness, and I believe that as a race, Whites need to stand together against Mestizo immigration, Chinese economic aggression, Black crime, etc. But most Whites I see on a daily basis have been so corrupted by our degenerate culture and violent urban jungles that it is difficult to imagine where I could even start in trying to helping them—victims, ultimately, of the decline of the culture generally (see “The Dissolution of the Family among Non-Elite Whites“). Giving them a book or two is a laughable idea. They do not even possess enough education to read Breitbart. Additionally, many White identitarian talking points are lost on them because they have been so influenced by the Black underclass. They like the welfare they are receiving, and they hated school, so they see no point in improving themselves; they listen to rap music, etc.
However, even if we wanted to, White numbers are too low to callously toss them aside, and if we are not in this to save people at the bottom, then what are we in it for? I do not dream about a White ethno-state because within it, Peter Brimelow would finally get the professional respect he deserves. I dream about it because it would mean my mom could live in a safe neighborhood — and because people raised in it would have a sense of self-worth strong enough to keep them off drugs when pregnant.
So what is a White identitarian to do?