Romantic Violence

by Christian Picciolini

  Lisa eventually brought me home to meet her family, and they also began to like me. Her mother had been a hippie in the early ’70s, but somehow me being a racist skinhead didn’t seem to bother her much. Besides, she’d never tell Lisa no to anything. She treated her like a companion, not her daughter. She wouldn’t want to upset her by disagreeing with either one of us.

  Being accepted into Lisa’s home made me feel like I was stable and part of something normal. Her mother had remarried, but her new husband was a bit of a slug, so Lisa and her mom thought it was nice to have a real man in the house who could repair things and help with the yard work. And it wasn’t long before her little brother dressed the skinhead part. I had made my way in and influenced my surroundings like I’d done in every other area of my life.

  Lisa was the first person I totally opened up to. I’d even held back from the High Street Boys, and sure didn’t confide my innermost feelings to any of the skinheads. Leaders don’t do that.

  But Lisa and I had so much in common; we understood each other on a deeper level almost immediately. So we opened up and talked about our innermost feelings.

  Like me, she had been more or less raised by her grandparents, and her parents had played no significant role when she was a child. They were flower children who’d split up when it wasn’t fun being together anymore. Lisa was only three at the time and her brother less than a year old. Her dad never looked back, so Lisa had no recollection of him.

  Once she was on her own, Lisa’s young mother had no choice but to adapt to responsibility. She found her way into a corporate job that meant long hours and little time with her children.

  Like me, Lisa spent most of her time with her grandparents while her mother, like mine, dedicated all her time building a professional career instead of spending it with her family.

  Long before either of us ever thought of having children, we had both promised ourselves we’d never be like that with our own kids.

  “I’ll go to every single sports game they play,” I told Lisa.

  “And I’ll be there for all their events at school. Do you know how embarrassing it is that my friends don’t even know what my mother looks like? I think half of them thought my grandmother was my mother and that I had the oldest mother in town,” Lisa would say.

  “I know exactly what that’s like,” I lamented. “My mom never had time to go grocery shopping, or she would forget to send me to school with lunch altogether, so I’d have to hide from the other kids who made fun of me when she’d remember to bring some fast food later.” I laughed. “Looking back now, I guess my lunches were always better than anyone else’s. I was eating French fries when the other kids had to eat carrot sticks.”

  “Sounds like they were jealous,” she giggled. “My mom thinks we’re girlfriends. I mean, it’s great that she’s easygoing and all, but there’s some details of her life I’d rather she didn’t tell me. Why can’t she just be a mom like other kids have? You know, tell me when to study and normal stuff like that.”

  “Would you listen?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d give it a try. How about you?”

  I shook my head and scoffed. “My parents have been scared to say no to me since I could walk. I’ve never listened to a damn thing they’ve said or told me to do. Why should I? Don’t you have to be present in somebody’s life to earn the privilege of playing role model and making the rules?”

  “Good point.”

  We talked for hours about the mistakes our parents made and how we’d be way smarter than them the day we had kids of our own, although we were speaking in general terms—Lisa hadn’t even graduated from high school yet, and I sure as shit didn’t have any intentions of becoming a father before I’d even reached eighteen.

  Lisa had a stepsister who was ten years younger than her, the same way Buddy was ten years younger than me. Buddy liked Lisa and would spy on us, his full cheeks becoming flushed when we kissed and held hands.

  “Buddy, I saw you kissing that girl,” he said one day, his shy eyes smiling.

  “You did, huh?” I laughed. “Someday you’ll have a girlfriend, too. And you’ll probably want to kiss her like I did.”

  He scrunched up his face. “No way! That’s gross.” He said it was gross, but I knew he just thought it looked funny.

  “And when you meet that girl, you might even marry her and have babies someday,” I joked.

  Buddy’s expression became gloomy. “I heard you tell her that you love her. Does that mean you don’t love me and Mom and Dad anymore?” He stared at the ground nervously.

  “No, of course not, Buddy. Why would you think that?” I crouched down to meet his downcast eyes. “You can love more than one person at once. I love you a lot and I always will. Just don’t love more than one girlfriend at once or you’ll be in big trouble.” We laughed.

  “Can we go outside and play catch?” asked Buddy, raising his eyes to mine. There was so much in this apparently simple question.

  “I can’t right now. I have to go pick up Lisa. But I promise you this weekend we’ll go outside and play.”

  He knew it wouldn’t happen. Another broken promise from his big brother. “Okay, Buddy.”

  What I saw wash over him in that moment made my heart stop. I’d let him down again. He just wanted to belong. I’d make it up to him.

  In addition to being raised by our grandparents, Lisa and I were both smart, had a strong sense of responsibility, and were old for our years.

  In Lisa, these traits led her to a realization that she wanted to become a schoolteacher. “I want to make a difference,” she told me more than once. “You know, be there for kids. Help them learn and make good choices in life.”

  I encouraged her, ignoring the fact that I hadn’t made time for my own kid brother, didn’t trust teachers, and the choices I’d made were anything but good in her book. But the world needed more people like Lisa. Her kind heart couldn’t steer children wrong.

  Even if she wasn’t a racist.

  Or a fighter.

  In fact, she detested prejudice and violence of any sort. She wasn’t crazy about the lyrics I wrote either. She didn’t mind the music that much, but refused to acknowledge the words at all. She did a good job of pretending the things she didn’t like about me didn’t exist. And somehow, they practically didn’t when I was with her.

  When Lisa and I were together, I didn’t want to talk about white power and revolution. It felt out of place. I wanted to discuss personal things, so I confided in her about my feelings of loneliness when I was younger, how I’d basically spent the first twelve years of my life drawing and daydreaming alone in my grandparents’ coat closet; how I’d blamed my parents for abandoning me; how hard it was to straddle two completely different worlds like I had to do when I was bounced back and forth between the contradictory cultures of Oak Forest and Blue Island. How I hated being bored and felt called to do something special. Important. Noble, even.

  Lisa found it odd that I had opted not to go to college. “You’re so smart. What are you going to do with your life without a college degree?”

  “I plan to start a business,” I told her. “You can’t learn what you need to know about being your own man in college. I’ve been figuring out ways to make things work since I was a little kid. I don’t need a worthless piece of paper to prove that I can.”

  “You could get a degree in business, though.”

  “It’s not my path.”

  “What is?”

  “This is,” I said, leaning in and kissing her tenderly on the lips.

  We spent as much time as we could together. Day and night.

  It didn’t take me long to get comfortable with that. Aside from the joy of falling asleep with her in my arms and seeing her first thing every morning, it made all the other goals I’d set for myself seem trivial.

  For the first time since my brother’s birth, I felt totally aligned with one single pers
on.

  We built a world of two where nothing and nobody could reach us. Touching her cheek, feeling her hand in mine, her head on my shoulder, making love to her every night filled me with a sense of completeness and peace I’d never known. I knew her every look, knew what she was feeling before she verbalized it by catching the way her lip curled when she had something on her mind. No words were necessary to tell me what she was thinking. Our time together was beautiful. Vulnerable.

  And she knew me—my lonesomeness, my longing to leave my mark on the world. She respected that, which is why, I think, she didn’t try to stop my skinhead activities even though she was wholly opposed to the racist world in which I was living. Without compromising her own beliefs, she still found ways to support mine. And I began to fall deeply in love with her.

  Lisa had been the ingredient to happiness I hadn’t even known was missing. I couldn’t mess that up.

  Shortly after Labor Day of ’91, that spineless Anti Hector Diaz had his Jew lawyer petition the court to have my suspended judgment revoked and the assault charge against me reinstated. Claimed I’d threatened him during my period of court supervision. Goddamn fucking liar. That meant possible jail time if they could convince the judge I’d defaulted. I’d own up to it if I had, I wasn’t scared, but I hadn’t even seen the scumbag, let alone threatened him.

  The cops took me into custody when I pulled into the EZ–Go gas station on Western Avenue to buy cigarettes. Towed my truck into the impound lot. I spent the night in the Blue Island lockup, next to a cell with a drunken nigger bum who kept me awake all night snoring like a jackhammer, and was released on my own recognizance at daybreak. Not even a crumb of food or a smoke for twelve hours. I was on edge, to say the least. Another court date was set.

  I dressed respectfully again, acted polite and humble, bit my tongue until it bled, and clearly stated my innocence. Judge didn’t believe me. Or, maybe he did, but knew I was bad news and so decided to sentence me anyway.

  Lucky for me it wasn’t a harsh sentence, though, still avoiding jail time so far. One hundred hours of community service. Five days a week, Monday through Friday, I had to report to the county courthouse at eight in the morning. Other guys sentenced to community service would be there too, mainly for driving drunk, misdemeanors, skipping out on child support, major traffic violations—that kind of stuff. There were ten of us altogether. We did janitorial work around the courthouse or were hauled off in a prison transport van with two county sheriffs to pick up garbage along the roadway or pull up weeds in empty city lots. Painted a couple of fences. I did this every weekday for a month for six to eight hours a pop to work off the time. Made pizzas in the evening. No big deal. Annoying more than anything.

  I was concerned with how Lisa would take this brush with the law and was relieved that she took having an archcriminal for a boyfriend in stride. She believed I hadn’t done anything wrong. At least as far as threatening Hector Diaz.

  As the fall months came and went, I looked back on them as an affirmation of progress despite the legal speed bumps. I’d been to a bunch of skinhead festivals throughout the South, my band had made a name for itself in our home region and even beyond, I’d thrown my share of knockdown punches, had proven to the Antis my crew wouldn’t take their shit, and had met the girl I knew I’d someday marry.

  Concerts and rallies would slow down once the weather grew colder, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d spend the long days missing Lisa while she was back in school.

  Of course I found a way.

  Rock-O-Rama offer letter, 1991

  17

  HAPPY DEATH

  I spent the next month lining up interviews for WAY in a couple of skinhead newsletters, “zines” as we called them. The publications themselves were crude—badly made photocopies on poor-quality copiers—but that didn’t matter. Skinheads were used to getting information that way and read everything they could from the few printed things remotely resembling magazines.

  When interviewed about who influenced me politically I didn’t hesitate to answer. “Politically we are influenced by the National Socialist German Workers’ Party of the 1930s, and by contemporary English political organizations such as the National Front and Ian Stuart’s Rock Against Communism. In America I support former Klansman and politician David Duke.”

  I answered questions about my views on specific subjects with earnestness, not remotely reluctant to have them known. Blind Justice, a British skinhead zine, had printed some of these views in its newsletter the previous year. At the top of the interview, an image of a Hitler Youth eagle with a swastika emblazoned on its breast and sword and hammer clutched in its talons accented the page. Wings spread wide open, ready for attack. Perfect symbol for me, if not everyone who supported WAY. Here’s what I had to say in the article on various topics:

  Gays: I think all queers should be sent to Mexico and blown to bits along with the Mexicans.

  Jews: I despise Jews for one simple reason. They corrupt society with their evil lies. The Jewish parasites manipulate us and control our government, the banking system, and the media. I dislike Jews for the same reason that every civilization over the last three millennia have hated and banished them. They infect and kill every healthy thing they touch.

  Race Mixing: I think race mixing is possibly the worst, most sub-human act against Mother Nature. We will soon see an end to this disease, because the Day of the Rope is returning.

  Drugs: Drugs are for weak people who feel insecure about themselves, therefore they need the drugs to numb their feelings and enter an alternate reality. I am proud of who I am and don’t need the false self-confidence that drugs provide.

  Religion: I’m an agnostic and tend not to trust organized religions because they are as money-hungry as the Jews. If anything, I’d consider aligning myself with the Norse Odinist beliefs of warfare and reward. The principle of Victory or Valhalla resonates with me.

  Zionism: The Zionist Jews stole the Holy Land, enslaved its people, slapped a Star of David on it and called it Israel. In spite of that, I’d be satisfied if every Jew just moved there and stayed out of America.

  Capitalism: Capitalists can all rot in hell with their dirty blood money.

  The press we’d been receiving put us in the spotlight overseas and in America, but it was just the tip of the iceberg.

  Something much larger was brewing.

  During my last week of community service for the phony Diaz beef, I assembled my WAY band mates and we cut a demo tape of six of our original songs. Very crude. Raw. I set up a microphone on a table during band rehearsal and we laid down a few tunes in one live take.

  The next morning I rushed to the post office and mailed copies to the famous French white power record company Rebelles Européens and Rock-O-Rama Records, the legendary German label that handled all the prominent European skinhead bands, including Skrewdriver.

  The French label offered us a record deal almost immediately, but I was gunning for Rock-O-Rama. So confident was I that when Gaël Bodilis, the owner of Rebelles Européens, called me to follow up on the offer he’d sent us in the mail, I politely turned him down without having heard from the other.

  I tried following up by calling the Rock-O-Rama office in Germany repeatedly for the next two weeks to see if they’d received my package. After more than a dozen attempts, staying up late at night to call because of the seven-hour time difference, I finally got through and managed to talk to Herbert Egoldt, the owner of Rock-O-Rama. He was jovial. Lighthearted. Said he’d gotten our tape and continued to speak the sweetest words I’d heard since Lisa first told me she loved me. He promised to fax over a recording contract within a few days.

  Luckily I’d lifted a fax machine a few weeks back from a neighbor who was being evicted from his apartment. The sheriff’s deputies who displaced him had piled up all his stuff in the parking lot behind the building. Nothing else was worth taking, but I spotted the fax machine and thought it could come
in handy. Turns out it did.

  The contract arrived as promised a few days later. In German. None of us in the band could follow a single word of it, but what the fuck did we care? It meant we could make a record. Exactly what I’d hoped for. We had a deal on the table in early October and I got the band to sign immediately on the dotted line and faxed it back.

  Within a month, I arranged to record our first album in a studio called Square Bear Sounds in Alsip, a suburb just outside of Blue Island. The owner, Doc Beringer, grew marijuana plants in the back room and was always stoned. He mainly recorded ghetto rap acts, although he looked like a mundane white guy who you’d never expect to be hanging around gangsta street thugs. He got a kick out of our blatantly racist music even though he wasn’t particularly bigoted himself. I think he thought the band was an over-the-top gag. Like a vulgar version of Weird Al Yankovic or something. He even made suggestions for sound bites that we could sample and add in to our songs to make them even more vitriolic.

  In the studio we cranked through song after song—thirteen in all—including a rousing rendition of Skrewdriver’s anthem, “White Power.” We altered the words slightly to make more geographic sense for our American and hometown Chicago fans.

  Multiracial society is a mess

  We ain’t gonna take much more of this

  What do we need?

  White Power! For America

  White Power! Today

  White Power! For Chicago

  Before it gets too late.

  As more “accomplished” musicians, Larry and Rick may have liked being in the studio, but I loved it. Despite the embedded pot stench in every piece of broken-down furniture and the lack of toilet paper in the grimy, roach-infested bathrooms, the process of recording all the different instruments onto separate tracks fascinated me.

  Mixing the individual sounds independently, tweaking the levels just right, achieving the exact tones the songs deserved. The spinning sound of the giant wheels of recording tape—where the music magically lived—flapping when the reel-to-reel console hit the end of the tape was a joy to my ears. The glowing vacuum tubes, bulbs, and meters, reminded me of bright city lights. Inspired me. Everything waiting to be mixed together like a giant art puzzle without a reference picture—piece by piece—was like solving a foreign spy mystery. Piecing together the various bits into complete songs with mighty anthems that thousands would sing along to were the end result.