Romantic Violence

by Christian Picciolini

  And then, right there on national television, for all the country to witness, Cox stood up from his seat in the audience and said it was a proven fact that blacks came from monkeys. Oprah went crazy, pushing Cox’s arm down when he shoved it forward in a Nazi salute. I couldn’t believe my ears. It happened in a split second, but he’d called her a monkey to her face in front of millions. The segment aired repeatedly on news stations across the United States. And I knew beyond a doubt, from that moment on, the white power skinhead movement was going to be staggering. Oprah, the capitalist media lackey that she is, had done our work for us. These older guys were ready to take on a celebrity like Oprah. And they knew how to get under her skin for the entire world to see.

  The American public knotted up with fear. Skinheads weren’t a passing curiosity anymore. Antis and black skinheads began to fear that white power “boneheads,” as they called us, would ruin the music scene in their cities with their violence, and made it their mission to eliminate racist skinheads. What the fuck? White power skinheads were the real deal, Antis nothing more than posers. Into fashion and partying, nothing more.

  I stepped up my efforts to be noticed. I dressed the part, talked the talk, and brought up my new ideologies whenever I found the chance.

  The High Street Boys weren’t into it, and we started to drift apart, but I knew something big was coming down.

  I checked the post office box religiously and delivered the mail to Carmine. In return, Carmine began supplying me with stacks of photocopied pamphlets blasting everything non-white. I would use these to recruit new skins like I’d seen Clark do. White power music was now the only thing I listened to. I let the messages within the lyrics and leaflets root deep into my soul. They spoke to me. I listened.

  Christian, 1988

  6

  FOURTEEN WORDS

  Skinhead rallies, get-togethers in shabby, moldy basements, were better than hanging out in the St. Donatus parking lot with the High Street Boys, as far as I was concerned. Swastikas and racist slogans crudely painted on crumbling cement walls. Driving music. Skrewdriver. Talk of blood and honor and loyalty. Skinhead girls in plaid miniskirts and fishnet stockings. Beer. Lots of beer, flowing from cans, bottles, and kegs when we could scrape enough money together.

  But there were always brawls. Rowdy, drunken scraps. Shoves over a crooked glance quickly advancing to fists punching anyone within range. Blood flowing. Stomping and kicking. With heavy steel-toed Doc Martens, the results could be brutal.

  This part puzzled me. What kind of camaraderie was this? Weren’t we all on the same side? We were all on the same team, fighting against massive odds that needed us to operate as a single focused unit.

  Even the High Street Boys and I weren’t perfect, though, and sometimes our propensity to mock authority and break rules got us in trouble, but underlying all of our actions was the sheer joy of discovering life together—not battling against each other with every liquor-fueled impulse.

  When the High Street Boys were together, most of the games we played involved working together as a team—baseball, Wiffle ball, strikeout, Nerf football. Most sprung up spontaneously, teams changing according to who was around at any given moment. Neighborhood dogs barked, strained to join us, chasing us up and down behind chain-link fences as we streaked past them. Some dogs would love to sink their teeth into us when balls fell into their yards, but we had a steadfast rule that whoever hit the ball had to go in after it. Nobody liked the job, but we all took our turn as both retriever and dog decoy. And we all survived because we had each other’s backs.

  As I’d experienced playing sports on High Street, a team can’t beat its opponent if they aren’t operating as a single force under the same directive. But the skinheads didn’t seem to operate this way. It was as if, without a single voice to guide us, everyone was out for himself. We needed Clark Martell. I kept these observations to myself, though. Too early for me to weigh in, but I knew my realization of the situation proved I could be leading this group. Someday.

  I attended every local gathering I heard about. Observing, and being seen. Passing around copies of literature I’d collected from Carmine and Clark. Promoting CASH. The remaining older skinheads, many of whom had begun growing their hair out to avoid attention from the police, showed up now and again, and I felt their eyes on me. They knew I was more than just a kid, even if I was only fourteen. I yearned for an opportunity to show them I was their equal and I wanted to demonstrate it in a big way.

  One Sunday morning, Chase Sargent pulled his rusty Cadillac Seville up alongside me and Scully while we were riding skateboards in the St. Donatus parking lot, and asked if we wanted to go to a meeting with him that afternoon. A rally.

  Fuck yeah! Besides Clark and Carmine, Chase was one of the original CASH skins. He was tall and gangly, but his reputation as a fighter was second to none and he also played guitar, two skills I hoped to acquire myself someday. The cool factor was off the charts. We didn’t hesitate to say yes when he asked.

  Scully and I attended the meeting, held in Mandy Krupp’s ramshackle apartment in Naperville, Illinois, a turn-of-the-century settler’s village turned manufacturing ghost town about an hour’s drive west of Blue Island. We drove up with muscle, Scully behind the wheel of the patchy blue and gray 1971 Camaro he’d recently bought on his sixteenth birthday.

  We were dressed to kill.

  Scully wore his dad’s old army boots. I polished the pair of boots Clark had given me a few months before going to prison, for a job well done. I had flyered three hundred windshields of the cars parked for a demolition derby at Raceway Park. The racetrack was only three blocks from my parents’ apartment and I knew the patrons who flocked to the Sunday derbies were the types of low-hanging marks Clark could easily convert. It had been my idea to target the event and Clark rewarded my initiative with a pair of his old, worn-out Docs. They were a little big, but I’d grow into them. In the meantime, I stuffed some newspaper into the toe area. I tore the white laces out of my gym shoes and straight-laced my new boots with them. Ready to kick ass. Big boots to fill.

  Neither Scully nor I spoke much during the drive up. Instead we cranked the car stereo and sang along loudly to a poorly dubbed copy of Skrewdriver’s White Rider album. Maybe it was nerves that kept us avoiding the obvious conversation. More likely it was because we both knew the road ahead of us was about to swallow us up—and I was thrilled for it to happen.

  Close to thirty skinheads, most of whom were in their early twenties, had packed the cramped apartment by the time we arrived. Newly minted skins from Michigan, Wisconsin, Texas, and Illinois. Carmine. Chase Sargent. Sid and Craig. I was the youngest; Scully and Craig the next youngest at barely sixteen. There was hardly room to stand. Clark had been busier gathering people than I’d thought. It was a shame he couldn’t be there to see the fruits of his labor.

  Somebody handed me a cold can of Miller High Life. I was already high on the thrill of being there, but I wasn’t about to say no to this display of acceptance. Besides, to tell the truth, the whole thing was a little overwhelming, and some alcohol could calm my nerves. Everywhere I looked were shaved heads, tattoos, boots, braces. People had this down. Nazi battle flags doubled as window curtains. Armbands with swastika insignias were plentiful. Some tough-looking skinhead girls hung on to the arms of some of the bigger guys, making it easy to see who the key players were.

  Before I finished my first beer, a large skinhead with a pockmarked face and a thick swastika tattooed on his throat brought the meeting to order. Rising, standing in the corner of the living room, he spoke a simple statement, one I would know by heart by the end of the night. A creed I would live by for the next seven years of my life.

  “Fourteen words!” his voice thundered.

  Immediately, everyone in the room turned to him, stopping mid-conversation to yell in one voice, “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.”

  “Do
you believe in the fourteen words?” he demanded.

  All around the room, arms shot out in Nazi salutes.

  “Heil Hitler!” everyone around me cried in unison.

  I threw my arm out, too, looking sideways at Scully, who appeared unnerved. Not me. This was fantastic.

  For over an hour my heart pounded with purpose, as I stood mesmerized, listening to fiery words I would soon be able to recite in my sleep.

  An upside-down and partially charred American flag hung on the wall beside the speaker as he gripped his beer can firmly and spoke loudly to those gathered. “Our traitorous government would have you believe racial equality is advanced thinking, brothers and sisters. That all races should live in peace and harmony. Bullshit! Take a look around. Open your eyes and refuse to be fooled. What do you see when niggers move into your neighborhoods? You see drugs and crime pour into your streets, not equality. Your gutters fill with trash. The air starts smelling foul because these porch monkeys don’t do anything but sit around and smoke crack and knock up their junkie whores all day. Can’t bother to clean up.

  “Only thing they’re cleaning up on is all that hard-earned money you and I pay in taxes. Living off welfare. Unemployment. First in line for every handout the government can offer. Section 8 housing. Free lunch programs at school. The only reason those little nigger babies go to school is to get those free lunches and welfare checks. All paid for by us white people. By hardworking white Americans who’d never dream of having our kids eat free meals because we take care of ourselves.

  “And while you and me work our fingers to the bone, these niggers are out selling drugs to your little brothers to make them stupid. Selling them junk so their teeth will rot and they’ll look sixty by the time they’re sixteen. Getting caught in gang crossfire and dying at the hands of these criminals.

  “Making them dependent on drugs so our innocent Aryan women will fuck them for a taste of whatever vile substance they’ve hooked them on. You think they’re selling this garbage just to get rich and buy their Cadillacs and gold chains? Get your heads out of your asses, brothers and sisters. They’re selling this poison to make white kids as stupid as their mud kids. They want our people to become so dead inside they’ll smoke and snort everything in sight. Shoot drugs into their arms and between their toes. They want to see our people destroy their brain cells and end up in jails where they’ll get violated by nigger gangbangers who are locked up for murdering and raping innocent young white women.

  “And who is leading these degenerate nigger animals in the destruction of our race? The Jews and their Zionist Occupation Government. That’s who!” The speaker launched into a tirade against Jews and Israel that I’d hear at every rally I attended from that moment on, but never with such fervor. The cords on his neck looked ready to tear, spit foamed in the corners of his mouth. His eyes were ablaze with anger. Self-righteousness. Indignation. Truth.

  Nobody spoke as he reminded us that Jews and their shadowy Zionist Occupation Government—ZOG as the movement referred to it—controlled the media and were lying through their gold-crowned teeth trying to pit whites against blacks, Christians against Muslims, so they would kill each other off, leaving nobody but the Jews, who had the ignorant, pretentious belief they were God’s “Chosen People.” They, of all people, who nailed the goddamn Son of God, Jesus fucking Christ, to the cross. Catholic school had even taught me that.

  He ended as he began. “Fourteen words, my family! Fourteen sacred words.”

  On our feet, we shouted those fourteen words over and over and over.

  “We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children! We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children! We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children!”

  We closed with stiff-armed salutes and ear-splitting chants of “Sieg heil! Sieg heil! Sieg heil!”

  Adrenaline burned through me like fire, nervous sweat extinguishing it, spreading from head to foot as the caustic smoke of racist rhetoric filled the room. I was ready to save my brother, parents, grandparents, friends, and every decent white person on the planet. How could white people not see what absolute and utter despair they were facing? It was going to be up to me and those like me. It was a huge mission, but I had no doubt where my loyalty would be.

  Conviction ran so high that if it could have been channeled into electricity, it would have powered a small country for a month. The dank air was thick with personal stories about losing jobs to illegal aliens willing to work for less than minimum wage so they could send the cash back to Mexico to their families of dozens of little “wetbacks” who would, in turn, use the money to smuggle more illegals into the U.S. to take away more white jobs. There was a graphic firsthand account of a virginal white sister being raped in a school bathroom by ruthless blacks for a gang initiation. These hardened skinheads ripped apart the media, exposing the lies that money-hungry powerbrokers heaped upon the ignorant masses to keep them in line while they plotted our demise.

  I learned “innocent” Jews hadn’t been mass-exterminated during World War II. There had been no Holocaust. Simply necessary casualties of war in a fight against the enemy. Hitler had realized the truth that the Jews were trying to undermine European culture by manipulating its financial systems and polluting its beautiful legacy of fine art. He had tried to save his people by identifying the cancer and cutting it out. Instead, he’d been vilified by the Jewish press and historian spin-doctors for decades, a hero turned monster under a barrage of outrageous lies and distortions.

  Scully stood beside me, tense, scared, and barely breathing when they broke into another round of ear-splitting “Sieg heil” chants, one person after another thrusting out his—or her—arm in solidarity. I joined along with the others, their faith contagious.

  This was what education was all about. Not being handcuffed to our school desks and forced to learn about the Emancipation Proclamation or the Gettysburg Address. This was the American Revolution. The truth. Right here. Right now. We were losing our rights to minorities and Jews, and as a society we were so clueless and self-satisfied, we were letting it happen right under our goddamn noses.

  This meeting was about action. About combining forces and bringing the various scattered skinheads throughout the United States under one unified banner. A drunk from the Confederate Hammer Skinheads crew from Dallas suggested a shortened version of their group’s name as a name for the new collective. Someone else chimed in that proposing a simple logo with two crossed hammers, similar to those used by Pink Floyd in their movie The Wall, could signify strength and the idea of a working-class ethic. The group, eager to move on to the partying, quickly approved the suggestions and the Hammerskin Nation was officially born. Even so, CASH voted to remain separate and operate independently for the time being.

  When the meeting cooled off a little, somebody suggested a beer run. Food and booze were running low. There was a grocery store next door, apparently an easy place to steal from. For the next hour or so, people ventured out in shifts, shoplifting food and liquor and bringing it back to the apartment. Somebody stole a disposable camera and took pictures of people giving Nazi salutes, arms around each other, beers in hand. When it came my turn for the obligatory theft, I bought a bag of chips that was on sale. I couldn’t risk getting caught stealing and have to explain to my parents what the hell I was doing way out in this neck of the woods, but I didn’t want to come back empty-handed and look like a pussy either.

  While that night was the most alien and intense thing I’d ever experienced, I was instantly hooked. The white power skinhead culture appealed to me, even though I knew I wasn’t exactly like the others in the room. I didn’t come from a family down on its luck. I hadn’t been brought up to hate people different than me or with any us-against-them mentality. But my heart beat hard in my chest. More than ever, I wanted to be part of this. It was overwhelming.

  Grown up.


  Real.

  And it was black and white; no middle ground. I couldn’t sit on my hands any longer. I had made my decision and it was this side of the fence where I landed firmly with both feet.

  While I felt I was likely smarter than most of the people I’d met, despite the fact I was the youngest, the others in the room seemed to have the inside truth about what was going on in the world. They understood the imminent danger the white race faced, and took it upon themselves to stand up strong against that threat. They were willing to lay down their lives for their convictions, even though most white people would scorn and reject them, writing them off as little more than racist white trash.

  The politics of race began to pump me up. I was involved in something far more significant than what any other kids my age cared about. I’d become part of a secret brotherhood, an exclusive society so new it scared people to death because they didn’t know much about it. And here I was—all of fourteen years old, in at the ground level of something significant, with a real chance to make an impact, to demonstrate my courage. My dedication. This was my family now.

  Were blacks and Mexicans—excuse me, niggers and spics—all that bad? Well, not by my previous limited accounts, but the skinheads saying this were older, wiser. They’d paid attention longer and understood the problems. They were the ones whose jobs were being taken over. And I wasn’t all that down with minorities moving into my neighborhood. I could help keep Blue Island white. Italian. These skinheads knew their shit. They were here to save the rest of us, and I knew with my eagerness and talent, I would be able to help.

  Looking at Scully’s lily-white face, feeling his anxious urge to leave, I knew he was out. He wasn’t a racist. I’d have to save the world without the help of my friends. Or make new friends. Either way. I was in.