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Letter from a lifetime of black abuse.
Dear Mr. Flaherty,
I commented on one of your videos regarded attacks on white children in school by blacks. Another gentleman replied to my comment that he experienced similar attacks and suggested I email you because you were gathering stories for your next book. I, unfortunately, have endured many negative experiences dealing with blacks, in my lifetime.
I am 57 years old and the memory is not what it used to be, so I may not have the year exactly correct. While I was in middle school, maybe 13 yrs. old or so, around 1972, I believe, I attended Lake Worth Middle School in Lake Worth, Florida. I was a bit overweight and my mother dressed me appropriately in dresses that came to my knee. The white children never gave me a second look, but I was a bit of a loner, keeping mostly to myself.
I waited after school for my Mom to pick me up each day. It wasn’t long before a group of black kids noticed I walked the halls alone and waited for my ride at the end of a hallway near the parking area each day. At first they would follow me, a group numbering anywhere from 6 to 8. It began with them heckling me, calling me fat white b*tch, fat cracker, fat trailer trash, ugly cracker, ugly white b*tch, always accompanied by much laughter.
Funny thing was that 2 of the most memorable girls in the group outweighed me by at least 75+ lbs! This went on every single day. I dreaded going to school and dreaded the end of the day even more.
I was so stressed that I was physically ill almost every day. I couldn’t concentrate on school work, I was constantly worrying about how bad this would get and I was always in fear of being beaten or worse. I spent a good part of my days in the bathroom crying.
After a while, heckling wasn’t enough and they began to throw rocks at me during the heckling. I constantly searched for different routes thru the halls to avoid them but one of them was always on the lookout for me and would call the others.
This all happened in the midst of the big de-segregation program, so these were kids all bused in from out of the area. There had been weapons found on some black students and there had even been some stabbings in school and on the buses. So I was genuinely in fear of my life. I dared not say anything back to them, I wasn’t stupid… one of me and a group of them. They never attacked individually. I was even afraid to tell my mother, she was raising my sister and I alone after a divorce and was already overworked and stressed herself, I didn’t want to burden her any more than she already was.
I had no other options. It was either be a target for an hour after school while waiting for her, until they tired and left, or ride a bus filled with them! After many weeks of rock throwing and covering up bruises I couldn’t bear it anymore and told my mom. The next day we were at the principal’s office. I bet you couldn’t imagine the outcome. Absolutely nothing!
After hearing what was happening, his only response was, “perhaps if you dressed her in a more stylish fashion, she would FIT IN better!” And the black students were never approached or reprimanded.
Fast forward to 1980. I was 21 and working as a clerk at Daisy Fresh Amoco service station convenience store located on North Military Trail in West Palm Beach, Florida. I worked 2nd shift alone and was readying to close, it was 10:40 pm. A black man walked in a picked up a snack cake to purchase, he came to the counter wearing a hoodie with a wool cap under it with the hood pulled up, but it was winter so I didn’t think anything of it.
The counter was approximately 18″ wide that was the distance between us. He handed me a dollar, the cash register was to my right, so I would twist at the waist right, then as I twisted back left to hand him change, I saw he pulled a 38 revolver from his waist and shot me in the chest before I could even hand him the change. I was in shock, I couldn’t believe I had been shot. I had to an actually touch the bullet hole and see the blood before I realized, yes, I’ve been shot.
He reached over and grabbed a stack of 50 singles I had just counted and banded. I said “why did you shoot me? I would have given you whatever you wanted, even my car” He turned as calm as could be and just strolled out the door.
I spent the next 45 minutes waiting for help. You see, our alarm, activated by a button at foot level, was not working correctly and the alarm company dispatched the wrong police department, in a town 30 miles away. While they were trying to figure out where this address was in their town, I was bleeding out. The bullet had torn through my right lung and liver. I never hit the floor. I kept telling myself if I go down I’ll never get up again. I tried phoning for help but the alarm kept dialing thru the phone, such was the system back then.
I had to wait until the line gave me a dial tone. By that time my vision was going and I had to dial by feel. I called my mother and said I’ve been shot. I then knew help was coming and I had to stay conscious. I stood there for what seemed like forever. No one came. Finally, some teens pulled up at the gas pumps but they weren’t coming in. I decided I had to walk around the counter and try to get to the door. I held on and inched my way around the 7 or so feet of counter, out and maybe 10 feet to the door.
When I got there and struggled to push the door open, I tried to yell but nothing would come out! I think someone looked up and saw the blood and they came running. After they tried calling for help, they got a chair, trying to make me sit down. I refused, all I could think was I had to keep standing. Finally, everyone arrived all at once, my family, state troopers, police, sheriff’s department and ambulance. I could finally relax on the stretcher, but then all I remember is someone slapping my face telling me to stay with them.
After arriving at the hospital, that was an entirely new horror story as there was no surgeon available to operate. They basically left me to die on a stretcher in the emergency room. Obviously I survived but it was quite a remarkable story involving a surgeon who had just flown into town with his wife and decided to stop at the hospital where he was to be on staff. I’ll give you that story as well, if you should want it. The man who shot me was never caught. I have since wondered how many other lives this monster had taken since.
Fast forward yet again. It was 1993, I was 34 and forced to run from a physically abusive husband (who by the way was black so my feelings were and are not racially biased), with a 9 month old, a 2 yr. old, a 3 yr. old and my 16 yr. old from my 1st marriage. I struggled to get on my feet, as we had to run with nothing but the clothes on our backs. In fact, I donated plasma twice a week for months, without his knowledge, while he was at work and hid the money in a flour jar, just to get away.
I had given birth to my son in March 1993 and was not even allowed to donate for 6 months after childbirth, so I was even forced to lie in order to donate. I had to get us out because I was in fear of I and my children’s lives. I was able to find work, and arrange child care but could not find a place to rent that I could afford.
An organization that helps displaced homemakers/mothers start over, assisted in finding an apartment for us to rent. It was in an apartment community that consisted of income based rentals. The name was Wedgewood Plaza Apartments in Riviera Beach, FL. Out of about 150 rental units, I was one of maybe 3 white families. I thought, ok, we’ll be ok, my younger children are bi-racial. I was a bit scared and anxious, but the management assured me it was a quiet community. Very, very wrong. I later found most of the single mother residents did not work and there were parties and music all hours of the night, in the hallways and parking lot.
We took to staying indoors at all times unless I was going and coming from work and daycare. We lived in a rear, 1st floor unit, which required a walk thru an enclosed breezeway, to our apartment door. The black woman who lived in the front apartment, spent most of her day, sitting with a (key word here) group of adults, all drinking alcohol, playing loud music and being loud and obnoxious. She obviously didn’t work and as I learned, most residents were single black women with multiple children and most lived on a section 8 housing voucher paying almost nothing for rent. Info given me by a security guard.
My 16 yr. old rode the school bus and would have to walk through this group each day. It began with them making nasty remarks and of course laughter and heckling. She would keep her head down and ignore them. Well, that didn’t go over so well with them.
Not eliciting any reaction to them, they began to shove her as she passed and call her cracker trash, white bitch, so on and so on. They would tell her she has no business being here and if her cracker Mama knew what was good for her she would move. Telling her, nobody wants your cracker asses here. A repeat of my childhood as I watched her come in the door crying and run into her room. I complained to the management, told them we were the object of racial discrimination and attacks and the only thing they did was to “ask” this woman if this was true.
She of course said the report was a lie and we were the racists and she wasn’t going to stand for it! The next day it continued, my daughter running in the door crying, I was so done at this point. I went to the woman’s door, I asked her what the problem was and that we have never done or said anything to her. Why did she feel the need to continue to attack my daughter. Her response was “no one wants your cracker asseres here, you need to leave before I get my knife and cut you and her”. I officially lost it, I told her, “How about I wait right here while you get your knife, and then I am going to shove it so far up you’re a**, that you’ll be chipping your teeth on that blade… go on, because I am not scared of you or your thug friends” She never came back to the door. But needless to say, after opening my mouth in anger, I was forced to move because at that point I feared for our safety.
You know, if I speak about this, I am deemed a racist. Living through all of this firsthand, I believe that generation after generation are just taught to hate the white race. I can find no other explanation, as I have NEVER done or said anything even remotely racist or ever treated anyone of color any way other than I expect to be treated. You don’t have to be a racist, you are automatically targeted because you are white. It infuriates me when people say that there is no such thing as reverse racism, I lived it.
I feel that blacks are taught to take what they want because it is “owed” to them. They are raised in violence by parents who are violent and the cycle keeps continuing. White privilege? Really, what a crock! They are the ones who are privileged, they are given almost free housing, welfare benefits, etc., and have come to view it as something that is for them alone and they are entitled to it. I used the help I was offered as a foot up to begin a new life and continued to work to support my children and raise them. Any time they are called out because of their behavior it’s automatically time to play the race card. I could go on and on.
I am so sick of black violence and crime. I am sick of using their race to justify their actions. And I have the utmost respect for all law enforcement and I want to scream every time an officer is justified using force because of a non-compliant, beligerant, disrespectful or violent action by a black person, and then everyone comes out of the woodwork… Al Sharpton, Benjamin Crimp, Jesse Jackson, ACLU, NAACP. How is this whole narrative of the “poor black race” being persecuted, even continuing? It’s total insanity. Wow, I should have just written a book?
But, it does feel good to vent to someone who actually sees the truth! Feel free to ask me any questions you have about anything I’ve written. I am glad to help, and please, keep up the good work!! Love your videos and I plan to get your books when I am able!
xx
About the Author
Colin Flaherty is an award winning reporter and author of the #1 best selling book White Girl Bleed a Lot: The Return of Racial Violence to America and How the Media Ignore it.
His new book is Knockout Game a Lie? Aww, Hell No.
Both books are about black mob violence, black on white crime and the Knockout Game.
His work has appeared in more than 1000 news sites around the world, including the New York Times, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Time Magazine. His story about how a black man was unjustly convicted of trying to kill his white girlfriend resulted in his release from state prison and was featured on Court TV, NPR, The Los Angeles Times and San Diego Union-Tribune.
Thomas Sowell: ”Reading Colin Flaherty’s book made painfully clear to me that the magnitude of this problem is greater than I had discovered from my own research. He documents both the race riots and the media and political evasions in dozens of cities.” – National Review.
Sean Hannity: White Girl Bleed a Lot “has gone viral.”
Allen West: “At least author Colin Flaherty is tackling this issue (of racial violence and black on white crime) in his new book, White Girl Bleed a Lot: The Return of Racial Violence to America and How the Media Ignore it.“
Los Angeles Times: “a favorite of conservative voices.”
Daily Caller: “As the brutal “knockout” game sweeps across the U.S., one author isn’t surprised by the attacks or the media reaction. Colin Flaherty, author of the book “White Girl Bleed A Lot: The Return of Racial Violence to America and How The Media Ignore It,” began chronicling the new wave of violence nearly a year ago — revealing disturbing racial motivations behind the attacks and a pattern of media denial.”
Alex Jones: “Brilliant. Could not put it down.”
Neal Boortz: “Colin Flaherty has become Public Enemy No.1 to the leftist media because of his research on black culture of violence.”
From the Bill Cunningham show. It is official: “Colin Flaherty is a great American.A wonderful book.”
Breitbart.com: “Prescient. Ahead of the News. Garnering attention and sparking important discussions.”
David Horowitz: “A determined reporter, Colin Flaherty, broke ranks to document these rampages in a book titled, White Girl Bleed A Lot”
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