One of our new probates asked me if I would post up a testimonial she has written on why she decided to join the American Guard. I think she thought it might help other people who come from backgrounds not traditionally associated with being right wing or nationalist.
Let’s be frank. She is a black woman, joining a group that the media says is full of closet white supremacists. It takes courage. She also spends her off time in a sport that is overwhelmingly full of far-left peers. That probably takes even more courage. This is a very courageous woman. Here is her story. Unedited as she sent it to me.
With careful consideration, I have decided to write this article. I feel since I have become a probate with the American Guard, there needs to be at least a half witted attempt on “What Does This Country Mean to Me” by Leon Armstrong. Probably a five paragraph essay due by Monday in Mrs. Johnson’s class. While I am kidding about it being due to an imaginary teacher I never had, the serious note is, I think that this should be done. A decent written article on how my life and values lead me to make the decision to take an oath, which changed my life should almost become required in a personal sense less than a professional level. I have many points I am eager to make, but I will limit one of those points on being Black with American pride and being Black and Heathen.
I grew up as a military brat living off and on military bases ranging from Germany to South Carolina with my father being the one that served and my mother who was often a stay at home parent teaching us Christian values. My older brother, unable to serve due to a disability never really had much to worry about far as serving and myself who disqualified later on always grew up with the pride that I am going to serve my country. That somehow I will grow tall like my Dad’s 6’1” stature and fill his size 10 boots. Although I am still waiting on my last growth spurt at 30 and sitting at 5’4 1⁄2 with an 8 shoe, the American Guard has helped me find my way to serve as with some underlying health issues took all of my dreams away.
One of my first memories of seeing power, glory, and honor was my Father’s return from Desert Storm in Hinesville, Georgia. I was only a toddler, but I knew something about the reds, whites, and blues splattered everywhere, cupcakes of the same color with beautiful sprinkles glistening in the sun. Flags waving and I had to peer into the sky to make out the small stars on the flag. I wanted to be apart of this. I also wanted to fill my mouth with the sugary substances, but that was also neither here nor there. I was surrounded by something almost ethereal and it’s as if all the air was held in the lungs of the people who began to grow impatient- waiting….waiting. My mother searched for me and gripped my hand.
Looking across the field she said, “Look. They are coming. They are here!” She smiled so big the corners of her mouth nearly touched her cheekbones. My brother who sported a box and colorful outfit also was happy. I knew I had to be happy as well. I looked at many faces. Tearful eyes, clutched hands, anxiousness, some almost depressed that the seconds were killing and aching, and then there were a myriad of smiles and internal anticipation. I looked and peered and we all starting marching towards them. Forward, forward, faster, faster until little paces became big paces and a trot became a gallop. The cheers, cries, gasps, screams as if the band wasn’t enough. We made our own music. We made our own sounds. A blur of camo heaved into the mix of patriotic colors and bodies slammed, collided and hugs kisses smeared across faces.
-“I missed you, oh how I have missed you!”
– “I’m never letting you go!” -”I’m so glad you’re safe!”
I looked around filled with joy and confusion. The camo was overwhelming and finally I see a large camo covered leg and I gripped it so tight.
“Daddy! I missed you so much! I love you Daddy!”
I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing and I looked up to see his face. It was white, as equally confused and most certainly not my father. I released him and began to panic searching and searching for the right leg to grab and then I felt these large hands grip me by my waist and turn me around. It was him! My father! He really was here and he finally was home. I held him and hoped that he never had to go away again. Of course you and I both know that was a pipe dream and Father would often have to leave for work and I had to deeply understand that it was his “duty” and he was doing work for “God and Country”. I could always go back and tell my Father’s story as the little boy from Archer who clawed his way out of poverty to upper middle class, but this is not his story. It’s mine. So here we are you now know I am Black, Army brat, grew up Christian, probably sheltered (ultra sheltered), goals to enlist in the Army didn’t work out, I have at least an older sibling (there are others), and this person is not the same as the one you all are getting to know (some better than others).
Childhood Leon was a devout protestant as devout as you can possibly get. Church all the time, reading my bible, acolyte, and I used these believes in my everyday life. Christian bible camp, Vacation Bible school. In each of these situations growing up on Fort Jackson the symbol of perfect Christian, perfect Patriot was blonde hair, blue eyes, all American girl (change pronouns if you want). She was not having that. Often rotating us out for plays or events, every child was seen as an American child as a perfect American Christian. I still felt hollow and slowly as I kept trying to cling. I had this pull that I was living in the wrong house and the wrong ways. Once I had a dream, a dream that never made sense. I was standing in an open field surrounded by water. It was dark and bright at the same time. An angel came to me a blur of long blue hair, dark clothes, started to speak to an eight year old me. I started to ask her questions. Who was she? What did she want? Could she tell me my future? Will I find true love? (yes I was a Disney freak), and Will I be a great person? She never told me who she was, she told me she didn’t understand why she was there, but that I am going to live a painful, but great life. She said that I will find true love, appreciate it. I will be so much better than I ever thought and never stop being who I am. Never let anyone take my power away. I became obsessed with this colored hair angel. I found weaves, strings, and anything to decorate my hair with tints of color. I wanted to be more free like her and less living by the book. After all my father said he serves so we can be free, so why can’t I be free to express myself? It was a push and pull with my parents to let me live with expressions outside of
Christian norms. I started to become more “chaotic, confused, rebellious, and questioned everything” In my own way, I think this was my way of showing my pride.
When I approached young teen I had an experience that shook me from the innocent brace faced, pig tailed, Sketchers wearing, union bay shirt sporting, Chris Rice listening baby doll faced smiling preteen. My peers often found me “weird, strange, the white black girl” Fellow Black people shunned me as I did not fit their social norms or their religious norms.
-“Don’t you believe in Christ?”
-(Laughs) “I often laugh at prayer.” My favorite rendition of a quote from “The Crucible”.
Sitting with groups of white people often led to me also being teased as “Sha Nay Nay, or Preppy Black chick, or Oreo” If guys shown an interest in me it was rarely ever a Black guy and usually white guys who often said, “I have never been with a Black chick, you are nothing like the other ones, Can I touch your hair” types. I really was uninterested in anyone as I still felt like a child. I eventually found home to a group of kids of all races, shapes, and forms underneath the steps of my high school. I remember thinking if this isn’t the start of the Melting Pot theory then what is. I lived innocently enough, picked out my first combat boots so I matched more like my father, dance classes after school to stay fit, weight lifting, kickboxing, discovering my love for black, shifting music towards Nirvana to John Mayer blaring in my ears. Then trauma occurred that shifted me. I ran into the woods being chased for my life, not understanding why everything hurts, to finally seeing how the world really was. There was dangers and hate out there. It was contagious and I had caught it too. Someone took my right away to choose and I did not like it very much. Someone temporarily took my freedom from me and I hated it him for it. I was unable to tell my family anything who grew suspicious because of the mood changes and the behavioral changes and finally four months later I broke down to my father. He, full of rage, thought to handle things himself, but left it to the hands of the police. Glimpses of conversations stemming from, “Young black male”, “Well you have to understand”, “Here are the social facts”, “Nearly unbelievable young black virgin female”. My Father with all of his decorations, all of his abilities, all that he had worked for was unable to get his daughter proper justice. Hearing over and over “PTSD isn’t just for soldiers and seek forgiveness or be a sinner as well.” Well fuck sin, fuck him, and fuck you became my attitude. If he has the right to do what he wants, then so do I. I stepped away from Christianity. I didn’t see how the beliefs of seeking forgiveness and redemption for someone else’s sin was also my way of showing my love of “God and Country”. That I was singing and praying to dead ears. The damage was done to my family for someone else’s choice. My parents shattered decided to lock me down further for “my own safety”. Eventually homeschooling me, then allowing me to return with strict curfews, chaperones, and a screening of nearly anyone or anything close to me.
By the time I was 18, several underlying health issues had revealed themselves disqualifying me from the military. I was broken hearted, but determined to find my way. Deciding to err on the side of adventure and enter the life my father shielded me from, I needed to see this country that I was raised to love so much. I have hitchhiked, drank, fought, fought for my life, fought for my freedom (let’s skip Oklahoma 2007), broke my bones, swallowed drugs, helped homeless families, became homeless myself, smoked with teenagers, and sat with old men with wise wisdom. I have discovered one key thing out of these entire experiences. Damn, it feels good to be free. Had I lived in countries that have women’s rights less than the rights of an animal. I would have had my head taken for general heathenry and debauchery and that is just putting it lightly.
When I reached 19, I was pregnant with my son, 22 I had birthed twins, 23 I had birthed another son. I put my heathenry on hold and became a wife and mother. I was a wife to a beta male, who joined the army for his free college and found myself raising our babies solely by myself while he enjoyed pleasures in Germany. I still felt so hollow. I returned home to my parents broken hearted and mending. I tried again to live the way they had taught me, but it felt like I was wilting and dying. Moving on my own, I met my second husband in 2013. By Christian law I was an adulterer and my family treated me as such. It didn’t matter if my kids were on a schedule, we celebrated holidays, ate out for dinner, read books to them every night. I was an adulterer. I didn’t care. I had already accepted myself as Pagan. Ultimate sin to my family was when I conceived lost our first daughter, Salem, conceived again and birthed my last child. This point, I met fellow Heathen, Ryan Ramsey. Reading through his posts I saw that even my political views were also eschewed and became active in the Libertarian party. I found there were other ways to serve my country. After a difficult time, I ended up stepping away always keeping my friendship with him and hiding with shame what my marriage had become. I shoved down the lump in my throat and the fire brewing inside of my heart to do more, work more, try more, and continued to be a wife and mom. Relocated to Washington State with my husband and five children. I saw the beautiful mountains, plateaus, and listening to Buzzfeed youtube videos of American history and unsolved mysteries. During one of these endeauvors I dreamed I was floating down the Ichetucknee river in Florida. I screamed and called for my husband and children but they were nowhere to be found. I could touch the coolness of the water. Confused because I should have been somewhere in Montana riding in our van. The boat disenigrated and ground formed underneath me. The water turned to fluid mirrors and I saw myself in different phases missing an eye in each reflection. The one ahead of me was my own reflection. I heard a strong booming voice.
-“You’ve fought hard.”
– “Yes, I have.” I nodded.
– “You have suffered.”
– “Yes, I have.” I replied.
– “You will suffer more and you have been deemed worthy.”
Tears flooded my eyes as I crouched down and feeling the ground. My tears dripping on the back of my hands and axe formed in front of me.
“Pick up your axe and follow me”
He spoke with almost a sarcastic tone to him.
It was spoken lightly. As if he was jokingly, yet mocking my previous Christian ties of “Pick up the cross and follow me”. When I had awaken, my husband was still driving and I felt somewhat more whole. I at least know half of me had work to do and I didn’t have to be Christian to do it. So here we are Black, Pagan, and called by Odin himself. Viking. My husband was supportive and we began to build a life in Washington State. It was liberal cuckland, but reached out to the Libertarians in the area, settled cozy and felt whole in my beliefs. I woke up grateful thanking the Gods that I have life and it was worth living. Then my husband died December 8th, 2018 after five years of fighting with him his mental illness and his abusive tendencies due to lack of medical care. He took his own life and I took him down from his makeshift noose, I prayed over him kissing his forehead, hands, and his feet, zipped him up in the bag before watching the medical examiner take him away. I grew angry and due to circumstances right back here, in Florida, with my parents and children fighting complex PTSD.
Then it finally made sense. I fell into a deep sleep. I saw my husband face to face. Asking him why did he do this? How could he do this? Same field, same waters. I felt dead and I think I was dying. He told me to speak to her. Don’t tell her who I am. Give her hope and love to keep moving. I approached a child, half my height. I could barely see her, but she had wide eyes and so innocent. She asked so many questions and was awestruck at my blue long locks my husband and dread artist help decide and design. I couldn’t tell her that the love of her life would die in an angry, sad way. She needed hope, she needed to live and thrive. She …was me. You see grief does many things to you and for me I thought maybe it killed a person who was determined to live her version of the American dream. Wife, mom, child, Christian, and homemaker. Instead….I think it took me back to who I was. By February next year, I became Chairman of Fundraising for the Libertarian Party. My classmate pulled me out of my world of chickens and depression and introduced me to the Derby World (Lion hArmstrong #114, derby is ultra liberal). I met back with Ryan Ramsey, who introduced me to many people who also had similar stories and found home. Out of all the people including my blood family, he sparked me again.
“Hey, Leon, you aren’t thinking of doing that are you?” “No, I’m not.”
“Good. I’m proud of you.” with a big boastful laugh. If anyone reading this knows Ryan Ramsey, you’ll understand how much these words can mean to a person. Also why this article is ridiculously long.
He introduced me to brothers and sisters who never once judged me for my struggles, most have suffered far more than I am. Also most of you should know by the The American Guard has a reputation of being a white supremacist group. I would like to refute that not based on my color, but based on how I have come to know these other fine siblings of mine. One I like to focus on in particular. He, I would like to say, would be the all American bad boy with a baby face. Gorgeous dark locks, pale skin, rosy full beautiful lips, and from as North as I think you can nearly get. Also filled with patriotism also filled with his own set of beliefs, also a royal pain my ass. Sharing my experience of being Black and being patriotic in a country where my people feel is damaging to them. How many of my people are kneeling on our flag or wanting to go back to a country we weren’t born from. They fail to realize that this is the best country we can possibly be. He also shares viewpoints from an opposing side where my people have done their fair share of damage and both of us, black, white, blue eyed, brown eyed, Christian, Norse Pagan, have come to the conclusion, both of us in the American Guard can still heal this country. Well I thought burn the bitch to the ground, but apparently saying things like that is a great way to end up on a terrorist list. (NOT just the two of us, ahhh you get what I’m saying), but from different worlds. I did some thinking, if my people knew how bad other countries really are, if they knew that mouthiness and our cultural ways of showing off our beautiful hips and slick moves would get our women raped, killed, tortured, would they really want that? If they knew that wanting a communist society would essentially end all of our culture and pride would they want that? Most importantly, if we have slave ancestors that died here, many served in the war here, my Father going overseas and nearly dying there, if we have all this black blood bleeding for this country, then why disrespect it? We have earned our place here, shouldn’t we continue to work and make it a home? These conversations with my people often end with me called, a “race betrayer, white boy lover (okay that is not exactly innacurate), and I have been called a Nazi”. If that’s what it’s going to take for this country to mend I will gladly wear those titles. Here we are, Norse Pagan, Black (my Dad is 35% Native American and my mom is half white), Widow, Mom, Derby Girl, American Guard. This country has moved passed the 1920s blonde haired blue eyed poster woman. It is the brown eyed ,freckle faced, leather coat wearing, blue dread haired woman. It’s the Black, Gay, ex muslim Man, it’s The blonde haired, Blue eyed Heathen, it’s the thick lipped, innocent doe eyed, Boston Nut, it’s all of us. We are all the poster child for this country. It is all of ours. It is us taking what our forefathers worked hard for and owning it.It is South and it is North. It is life, it is liberty, and it is death do us part. It is all of us or it is none of us. Here we are and here we stay.
This is why I took my oath. I took my oath because if I can’t protect all of what we are and who we are meant to be. Then what is the point of all of this. I have picked up my axe. Maybe more will and follow me.