My Experience at Auburn

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It was Tuesday, the day Richard Spencer was to speak in Auburn, and I was waiting in line at the department store checkout clasping a white Polo. This was a key piece of the Safety Squad uniform. Like a modern Sturmabteilung, we were to guard Spencer and Enoch, ensure things went smoothly, and exchange blows with Antifa if necessary. Auspicious as it was the lady at the counter asked me if I wanted to contribute to an autism charity. Smirking and pausing for a moment, I shifted a decimal, rounded down and said, “I’ll give them $1.48.”

After an hour or so of preparation, I was on my way. I hit the road with five hours to mull over all that might occur that evening. I didn’t know what to expect, there were internal reports that up to two-hundred Antifa might show and they were talking a big “gonna crush the Alt-Right” game on Twitter. I liked our chances but was preparing myself psychologically for an all-out brawl. I was ready to take licks for the cause. I was ready to be arrested for the cause. I was girding myself mentally for a doxing and having my career hopes rendered vain. I even fantasized about what it would feel like to get stabbed or shot.

There was talk of a federal injunction, but as a likelihood it never crossed my mind. I thought that, like Auburn University, the federal government would forgo its legitimacy in refusing Spencer. I saw the Alt Right as the new authority, it was up to us to re-establish our nation’s collective sanity. Things turned out different than I expected. When I read that we had gotten the injunction I felt both victorious and crestfallen. I was elated we had won the case but also defeated knowing we wouldn’t have that special opportunity to prove ourselves. I wouldn’t get a chance to fight and win a bit of glory for myself either in what would no longer be an epic throw down.

I arrived around 4:30 and met with some cohorts from Mississippi and Alabama.  All of us piled into one car, laughing and in good spirits we rolled into campus. We met with some friends of our driver who were a rowdy young crew of Trump supporters. They weren’t affiliated with the movement but were excited by the controversy, thought Spencer had the right to speak and were curious for a good time. We huddled around in a parking lot by a row of brick dormitories. I whipped out a glass pint of vodka and we each took a swig. Whether for good luck, nerves, or just an ole fashioned buzz, all had a share.

As we made our way up to the rabble four or five black clad Antifa trotted past. Initially we weren’t sure they weren’t geeky drama students dressed for some dark uninspiring play. Even I, who should have known better, was surprised at how unintimidating they were. I was amused with myself for having been so anxious.

Looking around while strolling up the police were everywhere, in the courtyard, along the guard rails, glaring from the roof, encircling our guys, encircling theirs. They had the big hand in the situation. There were hordes of students surrounding a hundred or so of our comrades in front of Foy Hall. Our group walked through the crowd and joined them unmolested. We stood together, some of us with uneasy looks on our faces. We were outnumbered, girdled about by gawkers staring at us like beasts in a cage.

We moved closer to Foy and filed in line for the event. The policeman perched on top of the hall sternly peered out of his sunglasses as the setting light shone past. I was thinking it was hot for April when a happening broke outside the fence line. For a moment, it looked like disorder might have its way. The crowd flocked and ran toward the action. The cops put an end to it and in a few moments stillness was restored. Apparently, a fight had broken out between an Antifa and one of our own.

Unsure whether alcohol was legal on campus a fellow Mississippian and I slugged down the remaining vodka before passing security. Stepping along with an intoxicated grin, I made my way to the show. As we found our seats inside the excitement carried with us. A third of the room set in front were friendlies, another third seemed to either be Alt Lite or neutral and the final third in the back were opposed. When Spencer spoke the tension in the room was appreciable. Hostiles were hunkered ready to pounce and rip to shreds any word of his at which they felt moral outrage.

There was a girl just in front of me who looked as if she were taking notes. I thought, possible journalism major. I handed her a quart of milk and said “Would you take this up to my friend in the front row please? He would really get a kick out it.” She looked puzzled and declined. I let her in on the joke and told her how most blacks are lactose intolerant. She wasn’t amused and held an accusing glance so I carted it up to him myself. I came back and sat down, turned to a friend next to me, and exchanged a few observations and jokes. Whenever I had something to say that was hermetic to our movement her ears perked up. I imaged she was trying to get “the inside scoop” back to her professor, maybe swap it for extra credit. Chaos swirled around but never took hold, a more subdued situation than the one at A & M for sure.

When it all ended, Spencer was escorted away. A few belligerents chased after him, the students followed their lead and darted along like boneheaded gazelles. It is a wonder to see a thousand-people running in pandemonium, sprinting like a bomb exploded, or some deranged pupil were behind them with a rifle. Spencer and Enoch were shuttled away safely and scurried off to Atlanta.

My pack leisured its way over to Avondale bar just outside of campus. Inside I overheard a couple of frat types discussing the spectacle. I interjected, told them I was with Spencer and invited one to sit our table. We talked about race, he had objections, but after a bit of posturing was open about his true opinions, “I know what Spencer was saying when he said, ‘We have a black cloud hanging over us.’ I know what they’re like I have to work with them.” I assured him that was not what Spencer meant and that he was referring to our collective White guilt. He insisted on his view and went on to talk how blacks had higher crime rates and lower intelligence. “It’s a fact,” he said triumphantly. Encouraged, I told him sure, but that the real take-away shouldn’t be differing stats, the central theme was identity.

He went on about the good blacks and black doctors. He argued, “We shouldn’t think in terms of race because there are smart ones.” Then he continued, “There are also sorry White people. Shouldn’t we be able to get along with the good ones?” I agreed on his first point but not his second, “Nationhood has been historically determined by identity and not social status.” I said, “Economy is a poor bond for the unity a nation requires. We need to reestablish peoplehood in the traditional sense.” It seemed he was unable to counter and moved on, “Look at where things are headed, there are too many of them. Whites used to dominate the planet but now brown people are out populatin’ us. We can’t win and shouldn’t try, it’s futil’.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The true reason he couldn’t take our side is that he was a “go along to get along” kind of guy. This scene from Alt Right favorite They Live came to mind:

 

 

“We all sell out every day, might as well be on the winning team.” I thought, what a slavish mentality. So many of our people think this way, indeed many Southerners like himself.

The evening was a success but I don’t know how it could have worked without the injunction. That said, there weren’t that many Antifa and we could have easily outmaneuvered them. Reports of their weak nature for me held true. The students of course had us on numbers. Some were antagonistic, others were neutral maybe even interested, but most haven’t read our blogs or listened to our arguments. Southerners mostly get their opinions from the person next to them, it can be a strength or a weakness. Had Spencer tried to speak without the help of the police, we would have almost certainly been shouted down or run off campus.

The cops that day held everyone one in awe. They were the strong man in town. As our adherents grow and gain experience, we will be more effective. Our forces must be able to thwart opposition when the authorities fail us. It will take more men willing to put themselves on the line, willing to risk getting hit, possibly worse. Once we’re battle hardened we will be the ones the nation looks to for security and leadership. When and where the current regime fails, we have to be ready to fill their place.

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