American Swastika

A UNO professor's study of the White Power Movement

 

By Assistant Professor Pete Simi  

Illustrations by UNO student Joe Pankowski

 

Editor's Note: See an explanation of Professor Simi's work in Studying Hate.

 

American Swastika

It was a warm summer night in Orange County, Calif. — just the kind of idyllic, top-down, wind-blowing-through-your-hair evening mythologized in so many songs and stories about Southern California. I was driving Seth home after an Aryan house party we'd been to that night. We had just dropped his friend Paul off at his apartment and were heading across town to Seth's crashpad when he turned to me and spoke. "We only wish you were one of us," Seth said. "I mean, it's cool what you're doing, trying to get it from our perspective. But we want you to be one of us. We've never given anyone access like this."

I tried to deflect this clear invitation. "Didn't you guys take the people from American History X all around?" I asked him.

"Yeah, but not like this," Seth replied. "We never took them to parties and over to people's houses for get togethers."

I felt strangely flattered. I also wondered about the cost for this unprecedented access. I soon had my answer. After a pause, Seth's tone changed, a quirk of his to which I was becoming accustomed.

"Just keep in mind if it turns out you're a cop I'll personally hunt you down and slit your f------ throat," he said, "after I kill your family."

Death threats also were something I was becoming accustomed to. I told Seth, as I always had, that I was a sociologist, not a cop. Then I tried to convince myself that he was just posturing as part of his skinhead bravado. Still, I knew that some Aryans weren't content with words alone.

 

Party in Costa Mesa

Seth's threat capped a long and interesting night. The party in Costa Mesa was filled with Aryans. I'd been to plenty of small Aryan parties, gatherings of about a dozen white power friends who hang out, drink beer and commiserate about race problems. But this was the first large white power house party I'd been able to get into, and I wasn't sure what to expect.

My "guides" were White Aryan Resistance (WAR) Skins. I knew Seth the best. He'd always been the most open to me about who he was, inviting me to meet his family, stay in his home and accompany him when he visited other Aryans. His friends and bandmates, Paul and Jay, had been cordial to me the few times we'd met, but I was not as familiar with them.

We got to the party early because the guys were playing and wanted to set up their music equipment before others arrived. They called themselves Hate Train. The party was to give them some practice before they began a run of bar shows in the SoCal white power music scene.  

We pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch-style stucco house with a small single-car garage. It was on a corner lot, which was a little bigger than most others in the neighborhood. A small picket fence separated the backyard from the sidewalk.

 

Warm welcome

Paul knocked and the front door swung open. Donny, beer in hand, welcomed us in with a big smile. He was in his mid-30s and his style seemed more Rock-a-Billy than racist skinhead. His medium-length brown hair was slicked back, accentuating his lamb-chop sideburns. Donny was a punk rocker as an adolescent and eventually turned to Nazism in his rebellion against some of the left-wing elements in the punk scene. In his spare time he promoted white power music and ran a web-based company that trafficked in hate rock, but he also worked full time as a manager at a telephone company. Though he concealed his Nazism at work, he did so as part of what he described as "infiltrating the system."

The house was plain from the outside, but once we stepped inside there was no doubting that this was a headquarters for white power activism. National Alliance and Klan leaflets were piled on the dinning table. Photos of Don posing with skins and other Aryans at music shows were hanging around the house. The refrigerator was covered with Aryan photos and promotional posters for white power music shows. One prominent display was of Don and WAR leader Tom Metzger shaking hands and embracing. There were also lots of photos of pretty female activists dressed in revealing clothes marked with Aryan symbols.

Aryans soon began trickling in. Within an hour, between 40 and 50 people packed the house, the bulk of them appearing to be in their late-20s or early-30s. A few others were teenagers. About a third were females, most dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Most of the men wore jeans, dickies, or cargo shorts and t-shirts. Swastika, SS and German Iron Cross tattoos on their arms clearly marked many of them as devoted Nazis.

 

Hate Train

Hate Train began to play. Partiers focused their attention on the band. The living room where the band played was packed. Only a couple of feet separated the front row of people from Seth and the band. People stood shoulder to shoulder and I grew claustrophobic. No one else seemed to mind, though. They sang along to the choruses while saluting with "Seig Heils" ("Victory Hail") and periodically chanting "white power." Some of the women moved in unison to the beat as the men bobbed their heads. At times the "white power" chants were almost deafening. Anyone passing by would have been able to make out the words. I didn't want to go outside to see; they would think I was one of the Aryans.

No matter, I was stuck in the middle of the room with nowhere to go. As the songs continued and the drinking increased some of the men became more animated, clasping hands and shoulders. Those who could not fit into the room craned their necks from the kitchen and bedroom hall to see the band and the crowd.

Hate Train's songs covered themes of white unity and the racial struggle against "white genocide." While the band played, it was almost impossible to make out their lyrics, the hard rock sound of distorted guitar and heavy drums overshadowing their vocals. Some words were clear, though — "Nigger," "white power" and "Aryan pride" were easy to make out.

Most of the songs were not that explicit, though. Instead, they celebrated Nordic themes and notions of "Aryan heritage" telling about battles of ancient warriors as metaphors for today's Aryan struggles. I moved to the edge of crowd at the back of the room as the music went on, almost non-stop, for about an hour. Conversation was almost impossible. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, but I did recognize a few from some smaller get-togethers I had attended with Seth. I tried standing near Donny and a couple of his friends whom I had met before the band started, but I was very uncomfortable. The band members were my closest informants and my "protection" if someone questioned my presence. It seemed I was accepted, since only those "in the know" were invited. I presumed that they thought I was one of them though I had none of the markings other than my white skin and a Hate Train baseball cap Seth had given me. Still, I worried word might spread that an outsider was in their midst.

 

Veiled threat?

My mind flashed back to the story Paul had told me earlier in the day about a newspaper reporter who was invited to a Hammerskin party in Texas. By the end of the night, though, he was no longer welcome. A group of Hammers took him from the house and beat him nearly to death, leaving him in a drainage ditch. I took Paul's tale as a warning and felt on edge during the night. At one moment I caught the eye of a skinhead I didn't know. Dressed in full-on skinhead garb and close to drunk, he just stared at me while leaning over to one of his friends and mouthing the words, "That's the guy who wants to study us."

"Not good," I thought.

When Hate Train finished its set, I had my guides back. I hoped they would buffer any hostilities that might come my way. I listened to the Aryans talk about the worldwide Jewish conspiracy they referred to as "ZOG" (Zionist Occupational Government), the "mud problem" (non-white), and small victories for the movement (like organizing this party). In fact, the party felt like a private mini-rally. The emotion in their talk was clear.

In the backyard, several young skins had gathered around Craig, a skinhead tattoo artist lamenting the injustices Aryans faced.

"Everyone else is able to play a music show, but when we try and create our music and find a place where we can get together, drink a few beers and actually listen to the music, we're committing a federal offense," he said. "Hell, these rappers can go around talking about killing cops and that's OK. We just want the simple rights that everyone else is able to exercise."

While making my way to the beer keg, Paul introduced me to Ray, a veteran Hammerskin in his late-30s from Florida. He surprised me when he quickly and politely extended his hand and said, "It's good to meet you." I watched as Ray and Paul started a conversation with two young skins they did not recognize.

"We are the warriors," Ray said. "That's our God-given racially-determined destiny. We have to remain strong. We have to keep healthy. That's why I love hanging out with my brothers because that's what this does. It keeps me proud. It keeps me strong."

The youngsters listened intently, nodding in approval.