Why whites are fleeing California. Portion from Amren's readers comments section:
I live in one of the most diverse communities in the metropolis. I often say that my neighborhood is a mix of Saigon, Mogadishu and Mexico City, with a good portion of Detroit thrown in for flavor.
Last year, the mestizo invaders came to my street. It's not like we needed any more diversity. On one side of me lives an interracial family-white wife and black husband and their two messed up kids. There are at least five households with gay couples, including a lesbian pair who parade around with their new baby. An assortment of older white residents are holding on and trying to keep up appearances, aided by an influx of yuppie newcomers. Then the Mexicans came and moved in on the other side of me.
Within 72 hours of their arrival, I had to call the police. Their housewarming party was like an assault. Expensive trucks were parked in the middle of the street, blaring musica Mexicana into the night. People yelling and shouting at 2:30 A.M. A nice yuppie couple who lived across from me, my anchor of normality on the street, put their house up for sale within days. For me, the nightmare was just beginning.
The Mexicans have no sense of respect for the neighbors. Their parties last all night, always on worknights too. I went a week once without getting a full night of sleep. Finally, I complained. I told them their behavior was unacceptable. Their teenage children looked at me with staring eyes, as if I were talking to cattle. Soon I found used condoms in my vegetable beds. Paper towels full of excrement were left under my fruit trees. They think nothing of assembling furniture and hammering away, always with their doors and windows wide open, as you struggle to sleep for a few hours before rising for work. I once went outside and watched the husband shape blocks and slather concrete as he built a cinder-block wallâ€â€fifteen minutes before midnight. Their beer cans and snack food packages litter the yard and street wherever they impulsively drop them. They're loud, so loud, always loud, their voices grating on the nerves at all hours of the day and night. Of course, the Mexican flag now flies proudly from the porch.
This is happening on every street in all but the most exclusive neighborhoods. It is remarkable how many fellow American citizens can readily share similar ancedotes. Call the police, you suggest? I did. Six times last year. It does no good. Every day is a new day for the mestizo occupiers. The admonishments of law enforcement are forgotten within hours. It all begins anew with the sunrise.
Slowly, perceptibly, you realize that you are always tense. You always feel anxious. You arm yourself. You spend more money on security doors and fencing. It does no good; you've lost your peace of mind and it's destroying your health. If you have children, you decide to move to try and protect them.
This is why millions are leaving California. I wish them well. I'm staying to fight.
I live in one of the most diverse communities in the metropolis. I often say that my neighborhood is a mix of Saigon, Mogadishu and Mexico City, with a good portion of Detroit thrown in for flavor.
Last year, the mestizo invaders came to my street. It's not like we needed any more diversity. On one side of me lives an interracial family-white wife and black husband and their two messed up kids. There are at least five households with gay couples, including a lesbian pair who parade around with their new baby. An assortment of older white residents are holding on and trying to keep up appearances, aided by an influx of yuppie newcomers. Then the Mexicans came and moved in on the other side of me.
Within 72 hours of their arrival, I had to call the police. Their housewarming party was like an assault. Expensive trucks were parked in the middle of the street, blaring musica Mexicana into the night. People yelling and shouting at 2:30 A.M. A nice yuppie couple who lived across from me, my anchor of normality on the street, put their house up for sale within days. For me, the nightmare was just beginning.
The Mexicans have no sense of respect for the neighbors. Their parties last all night, always on worknights too. I went a week once without getting a full night of sleep. Finally, I complained. I told them their behavior was unacceptable. Their teenage children looked at me with staring eyes, as if I were talking to cattle. Soon I found used condoms in my vegetable beds. Paper towels full of excrement were left under my fruit trees. They think nothing of assembling furniture and hammering away, always with their doors and windows wide open, as you struggle to sleep for a few hours before rising for work. I once went outside and watched the husband shape blocks and slather concrete as he built a cinder-block wallâ€â€fifteen minutes before midnight. Their beer cans and snack food packages litter the yard and street wherever they impulsively drop them. They're loud, so loud, always loud, their voices grating on the nerves at all hours of the day and night. Of course, the Mexican flag now flies proudly from the porch.
This is happening on every street in all but the most exclusive neighborhoods. It is remarkable how many fellow American citizens can readily share similar ancedotes. Call the police, you suggest? I did. Six times last year. It does no good. Every day is a new day for the mestizo occupiers. The admonishments of law enforcement are forgotten within hours. It all begins anew with the sunrise.
Slowly, perceptibly, you realize that you are always tense. You always feel anxious. You arm yourself. You spend more money on security doors and fencing. It does no good; you've lost your peace of mind and it's destroying your health. If you have children, you decide to move to try and protect them.
This is why millions are leaving California. I wish them well. I'm staying to fight.
