From January 2020 thru April 2025, this writer has been the winter guest of a remarkable family. It has been my honor to help with chores and converse with James and his family. The people below are accurately represented in the eyes of their black dog, Toby, in the novel American Dog.
On April 4, 2025, I was seated with James when Toki Erik unburdened his harrowed soul, that being one of the handful of unsolicited accounts of racial oppression under The American Lie that inspired this book.
Mamma
This pretty blond lady still cares for her mother at home, a lady nearing a hundred years. She has hauled rocks and ditched with me, and is a true frontier woman, makes her own bread, gardens and is beloved by her four sons and husband. Her family were pushed out of Oklahoma where they picked cotton as share croppers in the 1930s, to northern California. Construction work drew her and her oldest boys with her husband to Washington State. She was pregnant and caring for a toddler, living in a tent in a state park while her husband worked. While not staying dry in the rainy season, she hunted for houses with a real estate agent. After raising and homeschooling four sons, she wanted to help others and went to work as a lunch lady at the public schools. There she was confronted with the myth, that because of her blond hair and pale skin, that her poor, cotton-picking ancestors had managed to oppress tribes of Indians and millions of Africans! Her clearest memory of going to school in California, was of Indian girls chasing her to pull out her yellow hair. “It was frightening—but thank God they can’t run! I always got away.”
Finally, the indoctrination that even though she spent time helping the few children “of color” in the school, that she was yet their evil oppressor, sent her back to house and church, to limit her giving to those who were not being taught to hate her. “It makes me sad that the government must always point us at each other like guns.”
The Geeze
“I hate niցցers—plain and simple,” says her husband. “I’ve worked with them for forty years and they are always scheming to get out of work, stealing, arguing, blaming their problems on whitey. That’s why I call myself “Whitey Massa!” They can’t exist without the government that taxes the shit out of me to maintain them. When I was a teenager, just out in the world, shooting pool with Pap, two of them tried to rob me. The treatment has never improved. They’ve attacked me and my sons. Sure there are good ones. When you work in construction, the Nigerians will pull their weight. But American Groes, forget it! They inhabit security and government positions. I’ve had to explain a simple feature of a building to an inspector who is being followed around by a crowd of lesser government inspectors, all of them Groes. Not one of these Groes knows a thing about the work they inspect, yet things cannot be built without their idiot approval.
Son One
Like his father, the eldest son fights back when attacked by other men. He is not a large man and is very athletic. Despite frequenting predominantly pale establishments, he has been attack twice, thrice actually. Being attacked by dark patrons at a bar, he defended himself, resulting in him being attacked by two black bouncers, who he hospitalized. This resulted in much legal expense. On another occasion he had to fight his way clear of a mob of Tacoma Area blacks, the roughest Negroes on the West Coast. This man now works in an elite U.S. Military Unit in a leadership role. In this capacity he has faced racial animosity from other NCOs. He works well with fellow soldiers of all races yet still has to deal with overt racial hatred in the ranks.
Nutsy and Benny, the two middle sons, have confided no tales of racial friction from their life at school, work and in recreation. They have taken their fathers’ general position, without the flare.
Smooka, the youngest son, is the most intelligent and athletic. In his military training and service he has faced laughably crude racial hatred from superiors of color. Easily outsmarting these men, he has been selected for advancement from beneath their loud mouths and low brows.
Toby, for his part, being a black canine protector of his humans, reserves his most savage growls for delivery men with skins shaded brown. He is, one might say, an Uncle Tom.
This family has experienced working class life in portions of the nation where most crime is committed by people of their own kind. Yet the combination of increased taxes, with increased sightings of Groes, higher crime and the constant media harangue against them and in favor of the new neighbors down in the subsidized subdivision, wearies folks who have worked so hard, moved so far away and yet remain the focus of so much social blame. Toby’s humans live on the last acreage that can be legally inhabited up against the mountains claimed by the city they have fled. The Cedar River and Green River Watersheds are claimed by the coastal government that good people wish so deeply to escape. Other places in the country are being considered for a final escape from the crime, the hate and the increasing tax weight.
Note that American states, facing the sea on either coast, insisted on control of the mountainous interior from their inception. This reflects the deep greed for control intrinsic to The State. This is shared on the national scale by USG. I do suggest for people seeking a new state to live, in search of that land where other races will not be sent in as great numbers to drive up your taxes, reduce family security and bring the HATE, to seek a land-locked state. The mountains of West Virginia, Nevada, Wyoming, Utah and Idaho, beckon for a reason. That reason is that the infrastructure of HATE, that collective emotion that is the lifeblood of USG, is expensive, and that HATE is less efficient when it is not anchored upon the sea, or any port accessible to ocean going freight. For, in the eyes of any Capitalist Nation we, mere humanity, cannot exceed the designation of freight. We are a commodity to the retailers of Nation Hate who wish to have as many branded product lines on their shelves as possible. Like all branded product, our purpose, in a world where every idea, emotion and act are for sale, we the freight, are fated to compete and ultimately be replaced by some lower quality commodity, had for a discount rate.
