Romantic Violence

by Christian Picciolini

  I found myself meandering lost inside the solitary world I’d built for myself. I trusted no one and avoided most. Only my own sadness offered me exile. A self-imposed death sentence. I couldn’t begin to understand what I was feeling—so I let it prevail over me.

  In the end, the only way I knew how to destroy the convoluted world I had created for myself was to suffer under the weight of it.

  I needed sustenance. Both physical and spiritual. I was a father with children. I had a life to rebuild. A soul to repair. So when an acquaintance told me about a temp job with IBM in late 1999, I saw no other choice but to leap at it. Never mind I didn’t know a damn thing about technology or computers or software. I had confidence in my ability to fake it until I made it. I needed to stand on my own two feet, and I had two young kids who still depended on me to be their father.

  I’d blown it with them so far, but I was determined to make up for it. I’d be sure they never lacked for anything. I resolved to be the parent to them I’d always wanted mine to be for me. I’d spend time with them. As much time as I possibly could. Every weekend. I’d find out what interested them and do everything I could to encourage their dreams. If they played sports, I’d never miss a game and I’d be there to encourage them to get up when they fell down. I’d make time to coach them. If they liked science, I’d buy them chemistry sets and microscopes and computers and telescopes and we’d visit the best science museums so they could see what amazing things are possible if only they have the courage to dream them.

  If they liked history, I’d take them to every historically significant site in the world and expose them to cultures as ancient as the dirt upon the earth. If it was music that inspired them, I’d get them instruments and lessons. If they were passionate about art, I’d encourage them to paint or sketch and expose them to the world’s most important artists. They would never again lack for my love and support, my belief in them, my unswerving interest in all that was vital for them to lead productive, caring lives. Just as I had discussed with Lisa all those years ago when we first fell in love, when we’d made a promise to each other that we’d do better for our children than our parents had done with us.

  I landed the job with IBM.

  My first assignment was working as the project manager’s assistant on a computer rollout job at Illinois School District 218. Ironically—or by some divine intervention—the same school district that Eisenhower and PIE belonged to. And who should I run into on my first week on the job but Mr. Taylor, the black security guard I had spewed all my racist bitterness to on the day I was escorted out in handcuffs.

  “Damn,” I said when I saw him, ducking around a corner. “What the hell…”

  My IBM co-worker gave me a curious look. “What? You know the chief of police?”

  I almost swallowed my tongue. “Chief of police? He’s the security guard.”

  “Hardly. He’s the top cop now and runs the security team for the district.” My co-worker looked me over. “So, you in trouble with him or what?”

  “I made his life hell when I was a so-called student here,” I said. “We almost came to blows once. I was an ignorant…racist…asshole and caused all kinds of problems for him.”

  “Racist?” she asked, surprised. “You?”

  Her disbelief washed over me like a cleansing rain. For years during my involvement in the white power movement, nothing made me prouder than my racist reputation, and now here was someone who was incredulous to hear that word associated with me. It had been five years since I’d left it all behind, though I had still not publicly confronted my past. Ashamed and scared, I had run from it, struggling to stay ahead of its grasp.

  I had been living in fear for the last five years, hoping that my past wouldn’t catch up with me and prevent me from moving forward professionally and socially, and terrified that the hundreds, maybe even thousands, of violent people that I helped create would seek me out and hurt me or my children. During my time in the movement, it was a standard and encouraged practice to vilify anyone who left the movement as a “race traitor.” Leaving was also an open invitation for a brutal assault or murder. A case in point was Martell’s 1987 vicious attack on Angie Streckler, the former skinhead whose near-lifeless body was left battered and beaten beneath a swastika that was drawn on her wall with her own blood.

  In that moment, I felt as though the heavens had split and embraced me in beams of redemptive light, and I immediately knew what I had to do.

  I tore after my former nemesis. I spotted him as he was leaving the building. For the first time, I ran toward something in these school halls instead of away from it. “Mr. Taylor!” I cried. “Hold on, please.”

  He turned, his smile abruptly fading as he recognized me.

  “Excuse me. Do you remember me, Mr. Taylor?”

  “You’re hard to forget,” he said, his voice holding back any emotion.

  “I want to tell you…tell you I’m sorry,” I said, catching my breath. “All those terrible things I said. What I did. My hatred. I made your life miserable when I attended school here. I’d take it back if I could. I’m not going to make excuses for myself. But I want you to know I’m not that person anymore.”

  He met my gaze, studying me, looking so deeply into my eyes I felt like he saw my soul. After a short time, with a slight nod, he held out his hand. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Picciolini.” And in a brief moment, his words deciphered what my eyes had been too blind to see: “True freedom from our demons requires great amounts of sacrifice and pain. I believe you know what I’m talking about. It’s your responsibility now to tell the world what healed you. Welcome back.”

  Tears stung my eyes as our hands connected, and I looked down to see hands that were once squeezed into fists longing to lash out now locked in mutual respect.

  The concept was pure. Simple. True. I had to deal with my own pain before I could begin to repair the damage I’d done to others. I had to fully expose myself to the light so that the evil I’d once paid tribute to could be washed away once and for all.

  In ancient Norse mythology—something Hitler and the Nazis borrowed heavily from and bastardized to justify their corrupt concept of the ultimate “white warrior”—there existed the idea of a symbolic series of apocalyptic events referred to as Ragnarök, a great battle amongst the warring Viking gods that would ultimately result in the violent destruction of the tainted world they lived in, so that a new and fertile one might resurface in its place. How fitting that this same concept could help heal me. Scorch the infested earth where my roots had once lain rotting so that new life could be fertilized and grow from its ashes.

  The notion to reflect and repair myself from the inside, so that I could destroy the demons that had haunted me for so long, inspired me—lit a fire.

  At eighteen, I’d stood on stage in a cathedral in Germany, cries of “Heil Hitler!” punctuating the roar of thousands of European skinheads shouting the name of my band.

  At that very moment, I was responsible for the electricity in the air, the adrenaline coursing through throbbing veins, the sweat pouring down shaved heads.

  Absolute devotion to white power pulsated through the crowd on that misty March evening in 1992. I imagined then it must have been how Hitler felt when he led his armies on his mission to dominate the world.

  I’d talked about how laws favoring blacks were taking white jobs, and how we were overburdened with taxes used to support welfare programs. I believed that neighborhoods of law-abiding, hardworking white families were being overrun with minorities and their drugs. Gays—a threat to the propagation of our species—were demanding special rights. Our women were being conned into relationships by minorities. Clearly the white race was in peril.

  Or so I was taught to believe.

  It began with a benign intention. I yearned to feel something more, to do something noble, and I came up with a convenient plan to fulfill those needs. Oftentimes, the results were mundane, non-toxic. S
ometimes even glorious. Other times, things went terribly wrong.

  When I took thoughtless actions to “protect the ones I loved,” selfish justice collided with social justice. I tried to absolve myself from my own pain, ingesting any medicine I believed could rid myself of that burden. My bloated ego clouded my judgment. And with that choice to circumvent my pain, rather than to deal with it in a more rational manner, came daunting consequences and responsibilities. Some people choose to abstain from the choice altogether and run, only to have it chase them forever, others cave under the weight of it, and the remaining few abuse the momentum that sometimes results from their decisions. I believe that an enlightened person finds the balance between the passion in his heart and the reason in his mind. Not the destructive decision to redefine the reality you’re facing as something suiting you but also toxic to those around you.

  The truth was my parents never lost jobs to any minorities. They struggled by the skin of their teeth to make good like most Americans do. To own their own businesses and support their families through hard work. To settle down in suburbia and claim their slice of the American pie. And when I chose to foolishly venture out into the darkness on my own, on a mission to demand respect rather than earn it, I was running from something. I didn’t know it then, but I recognize now that I was running from my own fear of failure.

  I was convinced being a warrior meant destroying the “enemy,” battling anyone unlike me at any given moment, and spreading fear throughout the community. When in truth, it’s weakness that carries a bloody sword, and real strength comes from being willing to fail. Repeatedly. To learn from your mistakes. To be vulnerable and honest and accept that you just don’t know. To be human.

  From that stage in Weimar, swastika flags littered the old German cathedral everywhere I looked. Crooked crosses glistened on skin, covered clothes, hung on banners.

  I was up on stage to make sure nobody forgot who I was.

  What power.

  What ignorance.

  When I look back on that time, I can barely breathe. How could I have been so stupid? So unfeeling about the pain I so readily inflicted on innocent people? All in the name of belonging and acceptance.

  Sure, some of my irrational behavior was nothing more than the natural rebellious nature of an insecure teenager looking for a way to be heard. I looked around me and saw people like my parents working hard and not enjoying life. I didn’t want that to be me some day. I didn’t want to be ordinary. I was sure I was destined for something greater. Like weakness, failure wasn’t an option. So when an opportunity to become more presented itself to me, I grabbed it without thinking of the consequences of that decision.

  After tasting that success, I became ravenous for power and recognition. I wanted something that made me feel my hot blood coursing through my veins.

  Music had that effect. And through white power music I met people who I thought cared about me, who I thought were like me. I was no longer a kid without a place to belong. Instead, I believed I was leading others on a valiant mission.

  I confused hate and intimidation with passion, fear with respect.

  Our words to each other were about honor. But when we spoke to the outside world, it was all deception. A bait-and-switch. A flimflam. Lies were our defense—our truth. To survive this Orwellian mindset, we had to constantly close our eyes and master the art of perjury. The lie and the truth had to taste the same.

  The French have a saying called l’appel du vide, “the call of the void.” It describes that tiny voice in your head that even the most rational people might hear, that taunts you to jerk the steering wheel into oncoming traffic, or the feeling when you look over the edge of a steep precipice and become gripped with the fear of falling, but the terrifying impulse to throw yourself off the edge still beckons. In the five years after I left the movement, I heard that nagging little voice constantly, always whispering in my ear to find a way to kill what I’d helped create. But I was frightened of the consequences and I didn’t know how or where to start. It wasn’t until I began to realize that the road to recovery started with me that I no longer wanted to silence that urge, hoping that my own figurative demise would somehow kill all the literal evil I’d helped create.

  This stark realization was the beginning of a new life for me. Once I’d reached the point of finally letting go completely, that’s when change began to take hold. So, when I finally felt the pavement end and I reached the edge of that cliff, I had no interest in stopping to evaluate. I wasn’t scared anymore. After seven years of not being honest with myself, I grew too tired to juggle the lies and hide the fears. I’d been committing suicide in daily increments. It was time to face the truth. I stepped hard on the gas and drove off that metaphorical cliff. I floored it, content that the demons inside of me were falling to their death. And only then, when I’d allowed that painful, symbolic death to occur—the rusted hunk of my former self burning on the sharp rocks below—only then could I stand and watch the renascent phoenix raise itself up from the wreckage and spread its wings.

  With a more positive view of life, my depression quickly began to fade. The next few years flew by in a flash. IBM hired me on full-time and I had a successful career in marketing and operations. While employed there, I jumped at an opportunity to take advantage of their educational assistance. In 2001, I enrolled at DePaul University, one of two colleges I’d originally been denied entrance to while still in alternative school, and once again found myself a student. But this time, I welcomed it. I threw myself into my studies. While school had once been the bane of my existence, I now cherished every moment of it. I met students from all walks of life and bonded with them on levels I’d never let myself believe existed. Professors opened my mind with new ideas and theories. An endless world awakened. I embraced the diversity and graduated not only as a student of life, but with a nearly perfect 3.98 grade point average and a double major in international business and international relations.

  The high point of my college education came when I visited the United Nations as part of a global conference focused on the Millennium Development Goals. I learned about the horrific, all-too-common exploitation and trafficking of women and children, worldwide hunger, the AIDS pandemic, and the ravages of poverty and social class discrimination. The whole experience made me realize how much work there was to be done all over the world to make life fair for people of all races, religious beliefs, genders, and sexual preferences.

  Despite our tumultuous relationship, Lisa and I are once again friends. I am so fortunate to have had her as a partner in raising our children. She is an incredibly dedicated mother and a caring human being. Together we have raised two respectful and precious young men with many talents to share with the world.

  Through all of this, I honored my pledge to myself to be there for my kids. I seldom dated because I reserved my free time for them. I accompanied my boys to all their school functions and parent-teacher conferences, helped them with homework and school projects, and was there when they kicked their first soccer ball.

  The only thing that filled me with as much joy as my time with my children was meeting Britton. The love of my life. Like me, she worked for IBM, but halfway across the country in a Dallas sales center. We communicated with each other about work regularly before meeting in person. It wasn’t a case of love at first sight. It was love before first sight as we got to know each other through emails and phone calls. My main concern was she would take one look at the old tattoos I’d been covering up with long sleeves, see the evidence of my past, and run. I knew hatred and prejudice were alien concepts to her and I didn’t believe she could ever love anyone with a history like mine.

  But she is an amazing woman and saw beyond the mistakes I’d made as a misguided youth to the man I had become. When we finally met in person after months of getting to know each other long distance, it was better than any Hollywood meeting ever filmed. We ran into each other’s arms and kissed before saying
a single word. We will never stop kissing, stop loving, stop growing, and experiencing life together.

  Within eight months of that first embrace, Britton moved to Chicago, insisting on living in her own place so we could properly introduce her into the boys’ lives over time, and both be sure that it was the best situation for all of us. We married three years later. This time it wasn’t a teenage marriage. We weren’t playing at being grown-ups. This was the real thing. Two souls working together to support, honor, and cherish one another.

  I reconciled with my parents. I know having me as their son was not easy. I tested them to their limits and now that I am a parent myself, I understand why they made the sacrifices they did. I was an obnoxiously arrogant, selfish, spoiled brat and never appreciated all the supportive and selfless acts of sacrifice they made for me until I was faced with those same challenges myself. They loved me and did what they believed was right at the time to provide a better life for me and my brother, and I respect them for that.

  After all I had done, all the pain and misery I caused, the hate I spread, the downright evil I perpetrated across the U.S. and even into Canada and Europe, I felt so incredibly fortunate to have a college education, an incredible wife, two terrific sons, a good relationship with my parents at last, and a life I could be proud of.

  But in one second, everything changed.

  Christian and Buddy, 1985

  25

  SINS OF THE BROTHER

  My brother Alex. Buddy.

  Sweetest guy you’ll ever meet. And he loved me. I was his cool older brother. When he was little, he’d wait for me to get home from school. He’d follow me around the house, singing when I sang, dancing when I danced. He’d beg to come down to my apartment when I was fifteen and he was five so he could hang out with me. He wanted to go everyplace I went, do everything I did. But he was too young and I was too selfish.