The author at age 15. Photo courtesy Christian Picciolini
Annons
Annons
Annons
Annons
Annons
Annons
Annons
Because I was so blind, too wrapped up in my own bloated ego to pay attention to my own basic emotional needs, I ended up blaming others—blacks, gays, Jews, and anyone else who I thought wasn't like me—for problems in my own life they couldn't possibly have contributed to. My unfounded panic quickly, and unjustly, manifested itself as venomous hatred—I became radicalized by those who saw in me a lonely youngster who was ripe to be molded. And because I was so desperately searching for meaning—to rise above the mundane—I devoured any crumbs I was fed that resembled greatness, made them my identity, overshadowing my own character. The same one that I'd grown weary of as a kid. Through my misguided animosity, I'd become a big, fat, racist bully—morbidly obese from the countless lies I'd been fed by those who took advantage of my youth, naïveté, and loneliness.For one-third of my life, almost every single one of my formative teen years, I chewed and swallowed gristly bits of each one of those twisted beliefs. And when I finally found the balls to realize that every single "truth" I'd been fed—and, in turn, force-fed to others—was a complete and fucked-up lie, all I felt like doing is jamming my fingers down my throat and vomiting them all up into the nearest toilet.Even now, 20 years after I left the hate movement I helped create, memories of those seven dark years still flash through my mind and they make me angry. When I look at old photographs of my former self, I see a hollow shell of a man—a stranger—filled with all of those same noxious elements, staring back at me. But because infected weeds are still sprouting from the many toxic seeds that I planted all those years ago, I've made it my duty to yank 'em as I see them begin to germinate.When I look at old photographs of my former self, I see a hollow shell of a man—a stranger—filled with all of those same noxious elements, staring back at me.