white suburb
by H. Millard (c) 2004
H. Millard index

I drove through part of the ruins of white civilization the other day. It was horrible. Death was all around me. I could see it. I could smell it. I could feel it.

I wasn't driving through once great white cities which are now full of non-white people; this isn't a column about how we would have a mythical land of milk and honey except for the non-whites.

Instead, I was driving through areas that, to those with understanding, give clues as to why our world is the way it is and why white people are facing extinction.

I was driving a winding route that took me through some of the toniest areas of California: Malibu, Beverly Hills, Palos Verdes, Newport Beach. These are overwhelmingly white areas. These are also areas that mostly lack the type of vitality that you can only find whenever there is teeming life of whatever type or kind. Life was not here. It was as though I was driving through a well manicured graveyard and the homes were just big tombstones.

These areas where I was driving were mostly sterile wastelands devoid of genuine, exuberant, rollicking, riotous, screaming, yelling, vital, chaotic life. Instead, they were sanitized and stagnant. The few people I did see were mostly old prune faced white people riding around in their expensive cars. I also saw a few blue haired white ladies and I saw one dried up looking old white real estate lady wearing one of those stupid almost-but-not-quite gaucho hats that she probably thought made her look professional, but which mostly just made her look tacky. I also passed a few flabby white women wearing trendy jogging clothes. Soon, they would probably be going to their Kabala lessons or their yoga classes or whatever else is the newest fad for such empty people who always think that they've just discovered this new thing that they just can't wait to tell their best friends all about it. Every so often I'd pass some skinny old white guys wearing casual clothes that looked too bright, too well pressed, too clean. I was in the land of death.

These were barren wastelands full of hamlets of white wealth and white death. Where were the kids? There were few to be seen. Where was the laughter of children? Not much could be heard. Where was the chaos of teeming life? It wasn't in these orderly places. This wasteland is what passes for upper class white life. It's not life at all. Life isn't orderly and neat. Death is orderly and neat. Life isn't quiet. Death is quiet. Life isn't about not yelling and laughing. Death is about not yelling and laughing.

These places were made to be as they are by the tastes and sensitivities of the people who lived here, just as slums are made to be as they are by the people who live there. Ultimately, it is the genes of people that dictate these things. But, on the way to expressing themselves as actions, genes filter their expression through the times we find ourselves in, and the environment of the area. Thus, in wealthy white areas of California the houses will be made of one type of material that is right for the environment, while in other wealthy white areas around the world, the houses will be made of material that is right for those environments. Although the materials and styles of the houses may be different in such places, the feel of the areas where they are is much the same--sterile. And why is this the case? It is because sterile, lifeless people create sterile, lifeless things and places where death has a larger measure than life. Many of these people seem to have forgotten, if they ever did know this, that the most important thing they can do in life is to have children.

As I drove, I wondered to myself how much of these dead wastelands were a natural result of essential white genes, and how much were a result of cultural norms that have gone wrong as a result of things such as birth control measures, low birthrates, anti-life attitudes disguised as morality, death religions, false world views and other surface influences that do not (At least I hope not), truly go to the essence of a people, and which can (I hope), but only with great struggle, be peeled away like a rotting piece of paper stuck to a solid oak table.

On the other hand, I wondered if it could it be that all these things of death really are from the genes. Could it be that there is no way to peel away the rot, because if we do so we'll just find more rot underneath? Are we, as a people--that is, those of us who still remember that we are a people--subconsciously afraid to peel back the rot for fear that we will, indeed, just find more rot? Or, have we finally reached a stage in our existence when we are starting to awaken and realize that we must peel back the rot lest it destroy us completely? Can we strip away at least two thousand years of cultural, religious and social veneer to find what is real and true and authentic about us? And, if we do so, are we capable of starting anew at that point of authenticity with different decisions than we have made before so that we will go down a different path that will not lead to our extinction as the path we are presently on surely will?

Will we be able to boldly remove the rot of the ages and start fresh from our genes on up and reinvent ourselves and our societies and our religions so that we will be propelled forward through the centuries to come as a new and reinvigorated people full of life and joy? Or, will our genes drive us to make the same mistakes that will lead to our extinction? Are we ready to boldly take our place in the light that is ours for the taking if we but struggle, or are we still fearful of the things of the dark that have haunted us as a people while appearing to be something else? Are we just dried up husks even as we are born? Are we a dead end in evolution because we cannot control our minds to think the right thoughts that are thoughts of life and expansion instead of the thoughts of death and contraction?

I was getting low on gas, so I pulled into a gas station next to a new Lexus.

"Geez, look at that Mexican woman. She's got five kids in that shopping cart and none of them look older than seven," said the old friendly white guy at the pump next to mine, as he pointed at the woman and her kids moving down the sidewalk.

"Got any kids yourself?" I asked in a friendly tone of voice.

"I've got a daughter, but she's all grown up now and married," was his reply.

"Got any grandkids?" I asked.

"No. My daughter and her husband don't want to have children. They say there are too many people already."

"Yeah. Well, take care," I said, as I got back in my car and left the scene of white death that didn't even know it was death. As I drove down the street, I passed the Mexican woman with her five kids. The woman and her kids were all laughing about something or other that had nothing to do with me or the guy at the gas station. Maybe they were just laughing because they were full of life. Maybe white people will wake up and try to find that simple joy in life once more. Maybe not. One thing is certain, if white people don't fill the lands in which they live with their own people, other people will come along and do so with their people. Nature not only abhors a vacuum, but when it causes life to come into existence, it wants to fill every nook and cranny with it. And, it doesn't much care what kind of life. It's up to each type of life to struggle to be the life that fills all the comfortable nooks and crannies of existence. And if this form of life doesn't struggle. Another will.

White extinction isn't really being caused by non-whites, but by whites themselves. Non-whites are just doing what nature tells them to do--make more of themselves. Whites, on the other hand, mostly seem to be deaf to nature these days. It could be a deafness that is fatal and eternal if enough of us don't wake up to reality.

#  #  #


Advance notice: H. Millard’s new book:
should be in book stores and at amazon.com by the end of the summer.
Meanwhile, the following are available right now:


Available at finer bookstores, by phone, or on the net.

Roaming the Wastelands 1. ROAMING THE WASTELANDS
- (ISBN: 0-595-22811-9)
H. Millard’s latest sacred cow toppling book, is now
available at Amazon.com by clicking on this link

or by calling 1-877-823-9235.

“A fun–and sobering–thing to read” - Alamance Independent

The Outsider

2. THE OUTSIDER - (ISBN: 0-595-19424-9)
H. Millard’s underground classic story of alienation is
available at Amazon.com by clicking on the this link
 or by calling 1-877-823-9235:
"Millard is an important writer" New Nation News
"Millard is an original. His books aren't like your typical fiction.
If you don't know where to put his books, try the same shelf with Kerouac, Kafka, Sartre and Nietzsche"
- a reader.


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