Diversity Is Strength! It`s Also…Sleeping With A Mexican (Who Snores)

April 13, 2011

Previously by Simon Krejsa:

Hispanic Sex Offenders Listed As White In Wisconsin.

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,

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
, 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,
). 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

in May 2010.

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
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


and lips and eyebrows; low-life eccentrics,

thugs and


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
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

and/or drug addicts
, usually fresh out of
jail or ejected from homes by their parents or

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

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


exacerbates the miseries of living with
"white trash"
and create others that are distinct to the race and the
nature of underclass blacks,




etc.: more overcrowding, noise, crime, violence;
distinctly black noise, racial enmity and strife that
wouldn`t exist apart from
the vastly disproportionate violence and criminality of
Hispanics and especially

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
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

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

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
from the South with a barrage of 20-25
interlaced with a few "M-F
" and "M-F
—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:
and "jiving",
singing, whistling, blaring hip-hop and rap on their
I-Pods and using
"M-F" in every sub-literate sentence. The
is now passé and has been replaced by the


as a gesture of inner-city cool. Often one hears the


of what one thinks is a ghetto black from Chicago only
to look around and see a young

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
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


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,
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,

s, sexual conquests, crude
misogyny, often with tales or intimations of

rape and murder



callousness, vulgarity, flatulence, bodily emissions,
ad nauseam.

During my stay there has not been a single
resident—i.e., those who used to be called
not even a

although they are

in this area (and

don`t conform


of Asians). There have been only two
, both
and, stereotypically,

and only three
, 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

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

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.

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
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

more than able to defend myself since I was bigger and,
even at age 60, stronger than this young

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

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

forced to live and sleep with Jesus the Mexican and
Mestizo in a
church-run homeless shelter in SmallCity, WI.

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


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
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

pointed out on
that Green Bay, WI now

has a Somali
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


Recently, I saw my first


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

rather than

American black

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

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.