Diversity Is Strength! It's Also…Sleeping With A Mexican (Who Snores)
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Previously by Simon Krejsa: Hispanic Sex Offenders Listed As White In Wisconsin. Why?

How does one end up in a homeless shelter at age 60 when one is not a violent and/or habitual felon, petty criminal, drug addict, alcoholic, high-school drop-out, psychopath, schizophrenic, low-IQ low-life—or all of the above?

To answer that question, I would have to tell you the story of my strange life, and I don't have the space, much less the desire. I'll just say that I've written four books, and not one has been published. And given the first three "failures", I was forced to live for all but 3-4 years of my adult working life in a hamlet of 2800 people in Northern Wisconsin, indigent and isolated, with no chance of finding a decent job and no educational opportunities.

Then, at age 55, my life improved. In May of 2005, I inherited a small fortune by my humble standards, enough money to live on for 4-5 years if I didn't suffer a grave and costly misfortune. I immediately moved to a small city (which I will call SmallCity) to write full-time. I also inherited an old car with over 125,000 miles. For a few months, for the first time since my late 20s, I had fun and took many trips (Chicago, Minneapolis-St. Paul). Then I junked the car and began to write articles and my fourth book.

I wasn't optimistic, but I thought I had a good chance, at least a much better chance than before, of finding a publisher. I was wrong. And, unable to find a publisher, I began to look for a job when my savings dropped to around $15,000—just about the time the economy collapsed.

Given my age and work history, I knew that no one would hire me. But I was so desperate not to be homeless and living in a hell-hole with sundry offal and carrion that I applied at dozens and scores of businesses.

I got one interview.

Unable to find a job, any job, in the worst economy since the Great Depression, I eventually ran out of money to pay the rent and had to move into a homeless shelter in May 2010.

The "house-father" smilingly told me that I'd be treated like a 14-year-old adolescent. Ominously, I was given a large room with two beds—a cause of worry from the beginning, since I might be forced to share the room with who knows what.

The stories I could tell after nearly a year here: e.g. defecating and urinating on beds and floors for sport and/or vengeance; weekly if not daily acts of theft, major and minor: laptop computers, radios, alarm clocks, shoes, clothes, letters, money, etc. (Not only are the inmates enjoined from locking their doors when they leave in the morning—they must also leave them wide open.) Life at the bottom with the canaille of SmallCity, Wisconsin—and, curiously, many other states: Minnesota, Illinois (nearly all from Chicago), Utah, Colorado, Washington, North Carolina, etc. How?

Even if this were the SmallCity, WI of the 1970s or 1980s, and nearly all the residents white, life in the shelter would be always unpleasant and often miserable. For whatever reasons—a relatively low cost of living, a plethora of old and cheap housing, college-town tolerance—SmallCity is a magnet for the people that our elites deride as "white trash": sundry criminals, junkies, alcoholics, dry drunks; freaks and crazies with rings and studs in their ears and noses and lips and eyebrows; low-life eccentrics, thugs and misfits with tattoos on their arms, legs, shoulders, faces, necks—possibly their entire bodies; brain-addled zombies who lurch with stiff legs and arms like B-rate movie Frankensteins.

And, of course, the pariahs and riffraff most people think of as "the homeless": stereotypically grizzled and usually grisly wrecks in their 60s, 50s and even 40s with Gabby Hayes/Thomas Fleming beards and unshaved necks, their faces leathery, wrinkled, spotty and freckled, prematurely aged by drugs, alcohol, smoking and a paucity of exercise and nutritious food, with rotting teeth and gums, often toothless or near toothless. They include an amiable and innocuous geezer who smiles impishly and waves at everyone and who has a coarse white hair over an inch long and slightly curled growing out of his nose—not his nostrils, but the front and top of a ruddy nose adorned with other white hairs of various shorter lengths.

Inevitably, many of them end up at the shelter.

But however malodorous, imbecilic, deranged, grotesque, obnoxious, repulsive, etc, the older men, including those in their 30s and 40s, are usually harmless. The worst vermin by far are the young punks, most of them criminals and/or drug addicts, usually fresh out of jail or ejected from homes by their parents or girlfriends.

Arguably the worst of many: a freak from Ogden, Utah with a head shaved except for a tuft of hair on the top of his scalp dyed red and blue and shaped like the tail-feathers of a small bird. Penniless, he and two friends came to SmallCity, of all places, by "hopping" freight trains like the fabled Depression-era "hobos". He did little but make noise and cause trouble from 5 A.M.-8 P.M., with respites for eating and his half-hour walk, constantly hectoring and insulting and grabbing and pushing and hitting the other two punks and many other inmates, frequently howling with rage and exuberance. He was expelled in less than a week and "hopped" a freight train back to Utah, or Hades, or wherever.

No honest man could spend a day and two nights in this place and be a "white supremacist". (White advocacy is an entirely different matter.) But for our elites, the answer to a surfeit of "white trash" and the evils they cause has been a massive infusion of nonwhite trash. Thus SmallCity and hundreds of similar towns have seen an invasion of hordes of blacks and Latinos, who as groups are far worse than the "white trash" they augment and often supplant. This is called "diversity", "multiculturalism", "enrichment".

"Diversity" exacerbates the miseries of living with "white trash" and create others that are distinct to the race and the nature of underclass blacks, Africans, Mestizos, pure Amerindians, Arabs, etc.: more overcrowding, noise, crime, violence; distinctly black noise, racial enmity and strife that wouldn't exist apart from "diversity"; the vastly disproportionate violence and criminality of Hispanics and especially "African-Americans," including several Latino, black and Asian gangs that were obviously not a plague and source of terror when SmallCity was lily-white.

And since SmallCity is now "enriched", so is the shelter. With nonwhites, most of them inner-city blacks from Chicago, life is even more unpleasant, miserable, hellish, dangerous, frightening, etc. (I've never read about this specifically, but there must be government programs intended to alleviate crime and poverty in black inner-cities by relocating blacks to hundreds of little places like SmallCity. How many of these blacks suddenly moved to SmallCity of their own volition and without any government assistance? How many of them had even heard of SmallCity, which is now their "home"?

Once again, the stories I could tell. A few months before I arrived, an African-American criminal assaulted a white resident who allegedly insulted him, smashing him so forcefully on the head with a chair that he was rendered unconscious. I doubt if he was arrested—possibly not even expelled. Another black, allegedly a student at a university, excoriated an old "cracker" from the South with a barrage of 20-25 "mother-Fs" interlaced with a few "M-F pussies" and "M-F bitches"—all because he, that day's cook, patted him on the shoulder to wake him up for supper. He wasn't expelled either.

Many young white males fawn upon the ghetto blacks, aping their words, dress, conduct: "trash-talking" and "jiving", singing, whistling, blaring hip-hop and rap on their I-Pods and using "M-F" in every sub-literate sentence. The "high-five" is now passé and has been replaced by the fist-tap as a gesture of inner-city cool. Often one hears the voice of what one thinks is a ghetto black from Chicago only to look around and see a young "wigger" with green or blue eyes and brown or blonde hair. Everyone, including me, is addressed as "man" or "dude" or "bro". Many wear their pants in ghetto-thug style, half-way down the crack of their buttocks, their belts noosed so tightly that it cuts into their skin. Otherwise, just to keep them from falling down would take a constant and vigilant effort while running (e.g., after prey or from the police), walking, or even standing.

Every Sunday, with no bus service, I walk 7-8 miles, round-trip, to the university. Life in the shelter is so miserable and maddening, at least for anyone of even normal sensibility, that I did so even on a Sunday in early December, in a blizzard with gusts of 35-40 MPH, over a bridge and through drifts of snow as deep as a foot in the morning and then two feet high as I walked "home" in the late afternoon. But this enabled me to enjoy 8-9 hours of peace and sanity, writing and reading in the library.

Two or three hours of extreme discomfort was preferable to 10-11 hours of endless, often hellish noise in the shelter—with 35-40 inmates screaming, howling, yelling, joking, cackling, guffawing, singing, whistling, dancing, playing rap, hip-hop and other junk on iPods and puerile games on two computers; pounding glasses and their fists, rapping pens and such on tables and their feet, chairs, pool sticks, etc., on the floor; hitting cue balls so violently that it sounds like the cracking of rifle shots; watching cartoons, crime dramas, "reality-TV" and other junk on television; bullying, joking, ridiculing, rough-housing and crowing about their crimes, violence and cruelty and sadism—the beating and abuse of men and women, binge drinking, drug abuse, jailbird experiences, sexual conquests, crude misogyny, often with tales or intimations of rape and murder and "domestic violence"; callousness, vulgarity, flatulence, bodily emissions, ad nauseam.

During my stay there has not been a single "Asian" resident—i.e., those who used to be called "Orientals", not even a Hmong, although they are common in this area (and don't conform to stereotypes of Asians). There have been only two "Native Americans", both "half-breeds" and, stereotypically, alcoholics; and only three "Hispanics", all Mexicans.

This is not surprising. Significantly fewer Hispanics than blacks live in SmallCity, WI. Plus Mexicans and other Latinos are used to sharing houses with ten or more people and they "take care of their own" whether because of "family values" or racial/nationalistic solidarity. And they're far more likely to have jobs than blacks.

Of the Hispanic residents, the longest staying was a mestizo from Mexico named Jesus (Hay-Soos). He first stayed for 3-4 weeks in June and/or July, then left for a few weeks, then returned in late August. Even with high unemployment, I'm amazed he couldn't find a job that "Americans won't do". Since he spoke only a few words of English and I could understand virtually nothing he said other than 3-5 word sentences with simple words (e.g., "I clean room") he obviously wasn't a citizen, and probably an illegal alien.

For my first four months, I had my own room and usually got 4-6 hours of sleep -which is all I need to function. Then one night, a knock on the door: because of overcrowding, I had to share my room with Jesus.

Before then, Jesus occasionally talked to me, usually in the library, where he sat in a chair and stared at me and other people, expecting a reply. But how could I reply to what he said when I didn't know what he said? I nodded as if in agreement, otherwise feigned comprehension, and then looked away, hoping that he'd say nothing else. But, usually, he kept talking. And he typically got angry if he realized you were trying to ignore him—or didn't understand.

Now I was forced to share a room with him. Day after day, week after week, I went to my room at 8 P.M., or shortly thereafter, to brush my teeth and to shave and shower; then I'd go downstairs to watch TV or read until 10 P.M. What else could I do? Invariably, at 8 P.M., he was on the bed with the lights out, usually sleeping or trying to sleep, or awake and staring at the ceiling.

But the stress of having to ignore and avoid someone with whom you are forced to share a dorm-like room, not being able to read, the lack of privacy, etc., was not the worst of it.

I was afraid to fall asleep with this primitive illiterate in the room. What did he do in Mexico? Was he a criminal, a gangster, a drug-dealer? Did he commit acts of violence? Would he slit my throat with a switch-blade? Did he see Machete? He didn't seem violent, dangerous, or even criminal. But who can be sure? And diseases? We'd be sharing a shower and toilet and sink.

But the paramount hell: Jesus snored all night and made loud bizarre noises. If he tried to kill or assault me, I told myself, half jokingly, at least I'd be awake!—and, if he wasn't armed with a knife, more than able to defend myself since I was bigger and, even at age 60, stronger than this young mestizo.

Almost every night, usually all night long, Jesus slept like a hibernating bear and his snoring, when largely rhythmic and not interrupted by animal-like groans and ululations, resembled a vibrating and poorly-oiled factory machine, much louder and far more jarring and discordant than the whirring and rumbling of traffic on the freeway less than 150 yards from the open window. It was like being forced to listen to rap and hip hop with jazz and show-tunes and classical music in the background.

I endured this for almost a month. Even with foam plugs jammed deep into my ears, often painfully, the noise was so loud that it was difficult to fall asleep unless I was numbingly exhausted from lack of sleep the previous interminable night. On the days following those nights, I struggled to stay awake while reading, riding the bus, watching TV. I couldn't write well, or comprehend or recall much of what I read.

Some 35-40 inmates, including blacks, and I'm the one who was forced to share a room with a Mexican immigrant? The decision might have been driven by malice in that I was the resident most likely to find such an arrangement insufferable. Or, conversely and ironically, perhaps they thought I would be the most amenable and tolerant?

In some ways I guess it's not only ironic but also funny: an immigration restrictionist/ race realist/ atheist forced to live and sleep with Jesus the Mexican and Mestizo in a church-run homeless shelter in SmallCity, WI.

But since the joke was on me, I wasn't laughing. Could any screenwriter or novelist or playwright invent this?

In late September, probably a result of lack of sleep, I had a seizure on a city bus and was taken to a hospital by ambulance. I was unconscious for 15-20 minutes, possibly longer. All I remember is being dizzy and disoriented and having indescribably bizarre thoughts and sensations. I had cuts and bruises on my forehead and upper-right cheek and a black eye. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) they could find nothing seriously wrong with me. The results of an EEG were negative. And, yes, Jesus was on the bus and saw me collapse, fall out of my seat and hit my head on the seat across the aisle, convulse and thrash on the floor, etc. I wonder if he enjoyed the show?

What is the unemployment rate in SmallCity—7.9% or 8.2% or 8.4%, slightly below the national figure? But who cares about the exact numbers, since the actual jobless rate is surely closer to 15-16%. Thousands of people are unemployed and "underemployed". Most have lived in SmallCity all or most of their lives. And yet throngs of blacks and Hispanics keep pouring in from Milwaukee, Chicago, Mexico, Africa. Almost every day I see blacks I haven't seen before. Every week I see Hispanics I haven't seen before. Many are hired almost as soon as they arrive because of quotas, preferences and affirmative action— and with Latino immigrants, legal and illegal, the insatiable desire for cheap and cheaper labor.

Brenda Walker recently pointed out on VDARE.com that Green Bay, WI now has a Somali "community" in addition to thousands of American blacks and some 15,000 Hispanics. The crime rate has tripled as a result of this invasion—and now they have to worry about Islamic terrorism.

Recently, I saw my first Somalis in SmallCity, a mother and her two young children. And a few weeks earlier, I saw another mother and her two young children, exotics who were not Somali but clearly Africans rather than American blacks.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to share a room with a ghetto black, an African immigrant, or even a Somali. I'll be so enriched!

In twenty, perhaps even ten years, half or more of the residents of the SmallCity Homeless Shelter will probably be black at any given time, and most will be nonwhite.

If I were 50 or even 55, rather than 61 and eligible for Social Security in less than a year, I'd seriously think of suicide for the first time in my life.



Simon Krejsa (email him) is a free-lance writer living in Wisconsin.

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