Our time together was special. We rarely argued, and everything we did was new and exciting. To prove our unity, she let me give her a tattoo. By now tattoos covered my arms and legs, chest and back, and it was only fitting she had one too.
Her trust that I would do a good job, that she would be safe, was absolute. As a way to make a few extra bucks, I’d given my friends dozens of tattoos in the past couple of years. I’d done the first few using a homemade tattoo machine I created using a little motor from Buddy’s remote-control car. I used a guitar string and a hollow plastic pen tube for a needle contraption and bottles of colored India ink for the pigment. I saved my tips and eventually ordered a real tattoo kit from the back of a biker magazine for two hundred bucks. I’d been a decent artist growing up, honing my drawing skills in my grandparents’ coat closet, and now underage friends came to me for their ink. Most of the tattoos were racist, naturally, although my Irish Beverly friends were partial to shamrocks and Celtic crosses.
Lisa opted for a small outline of a daisy on her ankle.
Along with our wedded bliss came my commitment to support my family. The Rock-O-Rama deal had proven to be a bust, with the label refusing to pay sales royalties to any of the bands it signed—besides Skrewdriver. And working in a pizza place may feed the deserving hardworking white masses, but it sure wasn’t going to allow me to earn enough money to care for my family in the style in which I wanted us to live. It was time to look for a real job.
I eventually found work on a road construction crew, with a company making and distributing road barricades and doing traffic control—setting highway lane closures, detours in construction zones, that kind of stuff.
When I started the job, I made a little over four bucks an hour, but with overtime, I knew I could make more than minimum wage. The job suited me. I had the physical strength to do it, and what could be nobler, better to prove myself as a hardworking white man than joining the working-class stiffs doing manual labor?
After about six months of assembling road construction signs and traffic barricades in a warehouse and loading them on trucks, one of the foremen noticed I was a hard worker, so he let me go out on the road to assist one of the drivers with setting lane closures. I’d pull the flashing traffic horses off the truck and set them in place to detour traffic.
I did this well, too, and before long my boss made me the permanent road assistant for a shift supervisor on a long-term highway resurfacing project in the city. This meant putting in long days, but I didn’t complain. Even though I’d become increasingly distant from the Chicago skins since I found out Lisa was pregnant, I knew the job would allow me to lead by example, even if it meant sacrificing time with the group. My crew meant almost everything to me, but not at the expense of my new wife and our family-to-be.
At first I struggled with the separation from my gang, as my leadership role had become my identity and the movement my family. But I justified it knowing I was doing something far nobler for our cause—being a productive white man.
My role in the movement had begun to change over the last year and I couldn’t stop it from happening. What had meant everything to me for the last five years was competing with what had given me renewed life, my family. But I was convinced the two could somehow continue to live simultaneously in harmony.
As a skinhead, I knew that no job was too menial when it came to supporting my wife and child. I would have believed this even if I wasn’t a skinhead, but I might not have taken as much pride in being a blue-collar worker. I knew I had the intelligence to do more than labor, but being a skinhead made it easy to be satisfied with a job that was physically demanding and offered no real reward other than bringing home a decent paycheck to support my family.
So I buried my growing desire to work for myself, to be an entrepreneur like my parents. I stilled the voice inside me that wanted to put my imagination and talents to work, telling myself I had bigger responsibilities now and couldn’t risk our wellbeing by pursuing interests that might not put Top Ramen noodles in a pot.
I threw myself wholeheartedly into my road construction job, being a model to other skins—doing my work with pride and honor, and this dedication caught the attention of my manager. Within a year of starting my construction job, I became a driver, had my own truck, and was entrusted to manage an overnight road shift of my own. In six short months I’d labored my way from a little over four dollars an hour to almost fifteen dollars an hour.
While I didn’t advertise my skinhead activities on the job, I didn’t hide them either. My work boots were Doc Martens, my tattoos clearly visible on my arms. But I worked hard and I was white—two factors that were readily apparent on a construction crew dominated by lesser-paid, unskilled minorities. I toiled away daily with every intention of proving to my bosses that I was more worthy of the work than my counterparts.
Coincidentally, I wasn’t the only racist around. Chuck Johansson—a rotund, older gentleman with a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache—had worked for the company for thirty years and made no secret of his long-standing membership in the American Nazi Party. He sat in the warehouse break room openly reading racist literature and wore white power T-shirts under his overalls, but he never started any trouble at work even though his tenure with the company was bulletproof. We hit it off immediately. He gave me stacks of new books to read, which I devoured during work breaks, even though I knew most of the content already.
Whenever I could spare the time off from work and Lisa was busy with her job, I still traveled to rallies out-of-state and spoke vehemently against our non-white and Jewish enemies. Lisa wanted none of my racist rantings, nor did I want her or the child we would have to be any part of the hostility that surged through the gatherings. It was unthinkable that hate could be any part of our world. Instinctively, I didn’t want the dirtiness of the movement to destroy our family purity. I would wade neck-deep through that mire on my own and carry them on my shoulders so they could benefit from my sacrifice.
I continued to spread my vitriol with a vengeance. While I gave my wife puppy dog eyes full of love and put my head to her stomach and whispered lullabies to our child and the two of us giggled when he kicked so hard we could see her stomach move, I was still a committed racist intent on doing damage to anyone unlike us.
In September of 1992, two months before our child was born, I headed to Pulaski, Tennessee, to attend the Aryan Unity March, a Klan rally held by the Fraternal Order White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. The location was significant—the original KKK had been founded in Pulaski on Christmas Eve in 1865.
This wasn’t my first Klan rally. But it was a rare opportunity for me to spend time with many of the skinheads and fellow white power associates I’d known and been corresponding with from around North America. I drove to Pulaski alone. No one from Chicago had the backbone to go with me. They wouldn’t leave the comfort of their homes to get away for a weekend of white solidarity. I began to doubt my crew’s loyalty. If they truly believed the future of the white race was in jeopardy, it was their responsibility, their duty, to pick up and go. They could lie to their parents or girlfriends or wives or bosses or whoever they were afraid of to take care of important movement business.
If they were intent on being cowards, then I’d represent Blue Island, the birthplace of the American neo-Nazi skinhead movement, at the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan by myself. Together, we were the front-line fighters of the coming revolution, and there was no way in hell I would stay home and be complacent.
The day of the rally was hot. Sticky. The smell of steamy asphalt and thick musty air hung like the hordes of law enforcement officers that lingered on rooftops. Sweat gathered on my forehead and at the base of my neck. I wore a “Rest In Peace Robert Jay Mathews” T-shirt to show my respect for one of my fallen heroes. Mathews had been the leader of The Order, a covert white nationalist militant group—inspired by The Turner Diaries—that successfully staged armored car heists and counterfeited
money to fund the white revolution. Federal government bastards had taken his valiant life on Whidbey Island, Washington, in 1984. Trapped and burned him alive. They’d murdered Mathews for his beliefs. Spawned a martyr. The government who’d taken his life was the enemy and here they were, all over these Tennessee country roads. Watching. Waiting for us. But we would outnumber them. We would demonstrate our unity and make our voices heard.
We didn’t care if they tried to stop us. We were going to stand on the city hall steps and proclaim our faith whether they wanted us to or not. We were here to show the world what white power meant. Gathered from all corners of North America here in bumblefuck Pulaski, Tennessee.
I was dressed for combat. My fourteen-eyelet black Doc Martens shone deep and slick. My jeans were rolled up so the blood that was sure to flow through the streets would not stain them. My head was shaved to a close crop, and I took the thin black braces off my shoulders. They hung at my sides, a statement to my enemies that I was ready to fight and defend my race with my sweaty, balled-up fists. The boots were heavy on my feet and sweat rolled down my back. The humidity was dangerous, and so was the tension in the air. Feds were not-so-subtly stationed all over the streets, taking our photos with cameras bearing lenses as long as their arms.
Hundreds of skinheads, people dressed in Klan robes and Nazi regalia, and racists of a more general ilk congregated at the designated staging area. Men with bullhorns barked orders for us to come together and shouted motivational white power cheers, which were followed by arbitrary stiff-armed salutes.
There were men and women. Children. Hugs and embraces from folks who only saw each other a few times a year, but were kindred spirits in a vast family.
The air was thick with banners. Confederate flags, Nazi battle flags, hand-painted placards with sayings like “God Hates Niggers,” “Join The KKK,” and “Save The White Race. Unite!”
The attacks of September 11th, 2001, hadn’t happened yet, but the American white power movement was in full swing, and people were paranoid about every move we made. We were the most dangerous extremists within our borders, as far as mainstream America was concerned.
And we were ready for action. Eager for battle. Some of us had makeshift wooden shields with swastikas painted on them. Some had God’s cross. There were militiamen in camouflage with riot helmets and Nazi armbands. The Klan leader, the Grand Dragon of the Fraternal Order of White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, was there along with several dozen different Klan factions from across the United States, all of which fell loosely under the purview of the Knights of the KKK.
Despite my enthusiasm for action, I couldn’t help but notice all these organizations had different leaders. The groups were splintered and independent by design. Within the movement, we’d started to teach the concept of leaderless resistance, the idea that small independent cells of activists could inflict much more damage to the system and stay invisible if they weren’t connected to a larger group. Lone wolves. But this gathering was the antithesis of that. These groups were assembled and driven by greed. Too many clusters, too many leaders, too many loose ends and confusion. The rally was a disorganized jumble of people brimming with hate, sweating it from every pore. Barking orders over each other in spite of the goal to come together.
There was no way of knowing who was in charge. Was it the Klansmen or the skinheads? The two groups didn’t even look like we belonged together. Skinheads were militant, natural stormtroopers, like Hitler’s SS. These redneck Klansmen in their white robes spoke of God and the Bible. This was the precipice of war, not a pulpit. And they looked pathetic, downright silly, wearing sheets that looked like dresses and those stupid pointy hats on top of their heads. It may have looked intimidating to people a century and a half ago. But now they looked like clowns. No way anybody could come off as tough, wearing an outfit like that. Who would take you seriously if you looked like a buffoon? But I got a grip on my judgmental attitude.
Despite the chaos, we were all here to fight for the future of our people.
I spotted friends. The guys from Bound For Glory were there, as were some skinhead pals from Toronto and Dallas and Pennsylvania. We rushed toward each other, exchanged bear hugs, and felt comfort in each other’s presence.
“These Klan guys look ridiculous,” I said.
“Tell me about it,” one of my Canadian friends replied. “Whose brilliant idea was this? It’s not like skinheads and the Klan have a good history with each other.”
True enough. They thought we were thugs, and we pegged them as dumb hillbillies.
We were prepared for war and all they could do was recite bastardized Bible passages to prove their claim that God hated fags.
“We have to put our differences aside,” I said. “It doesn’t matter right now. Today we show the world our unity.”
Everybody agreed, and off we marched through the streets of this backwoods town.
We responded to chants led by the Grand Dragon of the local Klan chapter:
“What do we want?”
“White power!”
“When do we want it?”
“Right now!”
Rebel flags and Nazi swastikas waved furiously in the air. As we turned the corner of our gathering place, nervous energy crackled around us. A wall of thick, humid air pounded us in the face like the pressure from a blast furnace.
So did the chants and protests from hundreds of people who had gathered to oppose us. Black and white. Old and young. Male and female. United by their commitment to stop us from marching. They were clamoring for us, only held back by a thin blue line of Pulaski policeman and Tennessee state troopers. We hated these cops, these ZOG marionettes. It wouldn’t take much for one of them to “accidentally” let a protester through to attack us.
How’s that for quintessential irony? The very people we despised and distrusted were there protecting our civil liberties. The mob of counter-demonstrators grew by the second. They were loud. Far louder than us, and we had a bullhorn.
Our mighty flags unfurled and our white power chants grew to meet their opposition. They held up peace fingers, and we flipped them off, taunting them with racist epithets and a barrage of “die, race traitor” and “faggot cocksucker” obscenities.
Several of the skinheads engaged with groups of rowdy protesters that were more intent on confrontation than others.
They carried peace signs.
We carried the weight of the world.
They were wrong.
How could they be so gullible to think peace and love could be achieved with the muds burning down our cities and the Jews controlling our government, the media, destroying our lives?
Not a chance. More than anything we wanted a white society.
Didn’t we?
And then it dawned on me: I missed Lisa more than anything. More than I wanted a white homeland. For a brief moment I became lost in love and I didn’t care if the blacks and Jews still existed or were rounded up and killed like the rest of my comrades wanted. I’d probably even be satisfied if whites just peacefully lived separately from other races. We could have our own territory. Maybe we could inhabit the Pacific Northwest and isolate ourselves like my hero Bob Mathews prophesized. Let the others keep their inner cities.
But what would it really matter if some blacks and gays lived around us? I wasn’t gay and knew I wouldn’t magically become gay. From my experience, gays seemed pretty clean and kept mostly to themselves. They didn’t bother me much.
As for blacks, the ones I knew from school didn’t want to be around whites. Most of them were as racist as we were.
Jews? I’d never actually met one. To me, it seemed like they numbered in the hundreds and a powerful few secretly sat in rooms, rubbing their greedy Zionist hands, trying to figure out how to play a perverse game of chess where we were their pawns. What match were they for us anyway?
And goddamn, I hated the Klan. Why would I want to live with them as my neighbors?
They were white trash. Straight up unintelligent Southern rednecks that couldn’t string together a sentence without the words “dumb ass nigger” in it. The thoughts and words from the last five years of my life suddenly tasted foul.
Why was I here and not at home with my pregnant wife who I adored? With my ear against her belly, taking in every beat of our unborn child’s heart? I suddenly felt guilty and out of sorts. I didn’t respect these people, the Klansmen, the racist clergyman wearing a priest’s collar around his neck and a KKK patch over his heart, the mother carrying her infant baby with a tiny Klan hood on, the inbred hick with missing teeth and a beer-stained “Niggers Suck” T-shirt.
But there were skinheads here, too. Brothers. And sisters. I related to them. They came from neighborhoods like I did. Urban jungles, not Southern swamps. They knew what this struggle was about.
It was about…well…I didn’t really feel certain anymore. It was about pride, I guess. Being proud of our white culture and standing up against those who wanted to take that away from us. That’s not hate, that’s love. Right?
Doubt rushed in and my thoughts drifted back to my earliest memory of holding Lisa in my arms, her pleading eyes searching deep inside me for my truth. “Why do you have so much hate inside of you?” she’d questioned. “You are so caring and gentle. Which one is the real you?” Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
But one thing I was damn sure about was that when I was pushed, I pushed back. We marched onto the steps of the city hall in small-town, humid, hot-as-hell Pulaski, Tennessee. Klan leaders proclaimed this was once again the birthplace of a white revolution. Niggers, queers, and Jews were the enemy.
Yeah, yeah, we all knew that—niggers were raping our women and forcing drugs on our youth. It didn’t happen in my town, but maybe it was more prevalent in theirs. Jews controlled our lives and queers destroyed white propagation, or so we believed—who really cared? But maybe the crowd didn’t know it.
Romantic Violence Page 22
