Because, in this gothic woman? I see my mother.

Technically, this goth girl is not a prostitute...

...but she *kind* of is. (Hence, how and why I'm torn.)

We all know damn well the kind of character Drake is: This goth girl won his contest as his "wife," and now he's buying her mother a brand new house at her request.

"Wife" or not, let's just call it what it is: All three of those contestants were more or less prostitutes (especially Lena the Plug). I didn't even watch the show, but I watched a couple of clips that popped into my feed, and I have seen more of the outrage on social media against this girl for not being truly goth than I have of the show itself.

That said, this is just a legal form of prostitution. 🤦‍♂️ She basically competed and sold herself to get her mother a new house. (Notice how no mention is made of her father...)

The sad thing about me is this: My mother did similar things with powerful men. In her prime as an 80s and early 90s international model for companies like Johnson & Johnson (before the age of Instagram and OnlyFans), my mom dated guys like Michael Buffer (the "Let's get ready to rumbleeee!" guy, Harvey Specter-esque lawyers, different financial suit types, and so forth...

...she capitalized on her beauty for as long as she could, and that *did* keep me fed and from dying during key moments of familial struggle. It *did* pay for an immense amount of my (white) grandmother's medical care.

It was shameful; yet, no one in the family really said much about it but my grandmother, who wanted her to settle down as the mistress/side-chick of a financial analyst I got along with, because it paid the bills!

It really put food on the table.

Meanwhile, I agreed with the men that my grandmother endorsed. They were good to me.

As my mother was not at fault for my father's murder and the harsh nature of her declining sexual market value, my mother's deepest mistakes were in not following my grandmother's warnings pertaining to her situation.

I suffered because she couldn't stand being bored, resigning herself to simply being a concubine to a rich "nice guy."

She just *had* to have the bad boys.

My grandmother would say stuff like, "If you *must* date the black ones? Get one of the good ones. What the hell are you doing with [this one]? You can do so much better...and it's not just about you. It's about Michael!" (Me.)

But if we subtract all of that, if we set all of that aside, I was not harmed so much by my mother becoming some dude's side-chick. I was harmed by her wanting to be #1 in an abusive and poor dude's life. *That's* when things got really bad for us.

Due to her ego, she just couldn't stand being #2 to a powerful man, no matter how well he could provide and father me otherwise. And would rather suffer in the street with an ex-gangster.

So, with all that in mind, Drake and this goth girl are consenting adults, and her wish was to take care of her mother.

This is a woman, not terribly unlike the archetype of my mother, doing what she's got to do to take care of her loved ones.

I find that *very* difficult to shame, to lack empathy and sympathy for...even as I advocate for the eradication of the market demand that powers the industry, that keeps it alive.

Kill the industry...but have compassion for the people just doing what they've got to do for their loved ones at the same time.

After what I experienced growing up? I would *always* encourage a woman in a bad situation to swallow her pride to be some rich dude's #2 who at least is generally kind to her and hers...

...than to make everyone else suffer just because of ego and fear of judgment.

If so, then, well…sorry to disappoint you.

This is neither a “heroic” tale of uhh… “sword dueling.”

…nor is it an “empowering” tale of uhh… “sharpening scissors.”

Ha!

This is, instead, a psychoanalytical breakdown of how I healed my Freudian and Jungian mother wound and thus fell passionately in love with, while developing unbreakable devotion to, the kind of women who gave birth to and raised me…

…despite extreme cultural pressure not to: European women.

While there are thousands of types of European women, as an aggregate collective, I believe that they have no equal—though, it took me two and a half decades of living to be able to not hide what I really think about them, how grateful I am to have been raised by them, and why I would choose them again and again despite having other international options as I’ve traveled around the world…

…as well as why I risked my life in China to protect the one who eventually became my wife.

My feelings for European women ran deep, but I wasn’t allowed to express them.

It took me overcoming nearly 25 years of sexual repression, healing the trauma that caused a temporary and shallow fetish for Asian women, to reason my way through developing the inner strength and security necessary to just go for what I really wanted in my one life, since I was a young boy, as a part of fully self-actualizing.

On Hiding “In The Closet”

I loved my mother as any boy would, just as a product of my own nature. No child is born hating their mother; something environmental has to induce that hatred within him.

I was born during an era (the late 1980s) when there was no Internet, no clear bird’s-eye view of double standards throughout society via social media. There were just unspoken, unwritten rules in society that everyone seemed to abide by.

These unofficial rules were the culturally evolutionary result of the Jim Crow era (stemming from the years 1877 to 1965), when whites and blacks were legally segregated.

As depicted in movies like Sinners (2025), sexual relations absolutely occurred between the two peoples regardless—it was just highly taboo. It was generally something that happened between slaves and slave masters, or occasionally a star-crossed romance with a tragic ending.

…but it did occur.

To some extent, even today it is still taboo, but back then, it was far more so than it is now.

During the Jim Crow era, the offspring of those forbidden unions were legally considered black, in accordance with what was called the “One-Drop Rule.” The One-Drop Rule basically means that if a person had “one drop” of black in their blood, just a tiny bit of African genetics, they were not accepted into white society.

This was primarily a form of control, so that the mixed-breed offspring of white slave masters taking the breeding route to increase their workforce weren’t entitled to any of the master’s assets as a form of inheritance.

It was also a way of ensuring that black people born benefiting from hybrid vigor involving white genetics (such as higher intelligence than their purer-blooded black contemporaries) wouldn’t become the light-skinned leaders of a dark-skinned rebellion against white people, Spartacus-style.

After the Jim Crow era, however, those laws were banned, with interracial marriages becoming legally protected—albeit with a systematic caveat interwoven into the process of integration: generally only the top, exceptional blacks ended up in romances with whites, leading to their generational genetic absorption into the white population over approximately two generations of time.

…meanwhile, less desirable blacks generally found themselves caught up in what they called “the struggle,” an arguably eugenic, systematic process of mass incarceration involving the CIA’s (Central Intelligence Agency’s) broad interference and scaled abortion programs like Planned Parenthood.

Flash forward to 1988: the year of my birth.

Jim Crow laws had been gone for 23 years by that point, but understand how, from the bird’s-eye view of evolutionary psychology…

…that is not a long time, whatsoever.

Even now, in the year 2026 nearly 60 years later, there are people who are still alive who saw that era with their own eyes.

So, a century of those laws in place, along with the tumultuous century leading up to their writing, left a long-lasting societal ripple effect in how kids born in between each of the races were raised and treated.

…as well as what white women who bred with black men would generally have to do for social survival.

All of this sets the stage for my sexual repression to occur: Put simply, I am mixed-race. My mother was classifiably white; my father was classifiably black.

Skipping over years of details: At first, my mother raised me to be white: Eurocentric in character, from the music she exposed me to, to the only peers she allowed me to connect with.

This means that, from the womb (despite what I look like), I was designed to love white women, as no child is born hating their mother. And from the hospital bed, the mother is the first person in the entire world to imprint upon the child’s subconscious mind. And she reinforced that during the earliest years of my life, most critical for my development.

But after my father was murdered when I was four, she struggled to provide for me as a single mother, essentially mutating her personality over time as a survival mechanism to keep men that would have otherwise not valued her enough to stay.

To fit in with black people, she started marketing herself as light-skinned black, in accordance with a “drop” of black she could trace from some random ancestor.

This led to her being rejected from most truly black social circles, while getting strange side-eyes from white ones as she overcompensated her “blackness” against her deeper, inner character in efforts to secure a strong black man that would vaguely remind her of my deceased father.

Her being black became a lie that was repeated over and over again in the house, until only a family blasphemer would call it untrue.

Throughout that mutational process, she began shaming me for being Eurocentric—part of appealing to the black man she eventually settled with after one bad decision after another in the dating world, as she struggled to adapt to my father’s absence over the years.

But by then, I was already about nine years old—the most critical years for the development of my personality, as well as my foundational sexuality, had already passed.

Upon reaching puberty, I was pre-programmed to fall head over heels for a pretty white girl…but this was now considered taboo in my home, against how I was originally raised…

…and I faced dire punishment if I showed any liking toward white women.

My step-father wanted me to be pro-black, and he hated white people.

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…making him a walking mass of contradictions, as he certainly lusted after my mother.

There was once when I was brought to a department store, in which I was given the option of choosing a pin-up girl to place on my wall.

The store had every shade and flavor of woman to choose from, but I didn’t have the freedom of choice I was initially led to believe.

It was my step-father’s test: Which woman would I choose if left to my own devices?

…Britney Spears.

My picking that poster led to an embarrassing and degrading lecture right in the middle of the store, in public. I was lambasted for my taste in women, shamed for not showing more attraction to black women, and forced to choose someone perceived to have more melanin while enduring over a week of punishment after getting home.

He called white women pure evil. Right in front of my mother, who internalized his hatred for white women into her own identity, forcing her to try even harder in her overcompensation of blackness for his approval.

I eventually chose “Ali Landry,” who is also technically white, but in the particular photo I chose of her, she had golden-tan skin and jet-black hair.

…and because she was named “Ali” my step-father mistook her for a vaguely acceptable Middle Eastern or perhaps a Latina Muslim.

And since many Latinas have some percentage of black in them somewhere in their lines, my step-father begrudgingly accepted this as a compromise.

This explains why, later in my teenhood, I was allowed to at least date a local Latina as my first serious girlfriend.

Over the years, though, continual shame, punishments, and beatings didn’t “cure” me of my love for white women; it just forced me to repress it for my survival.

Nor did it make me fall in love with black women; in fact, it only imprinted a feeling of being forced against my will associated with the thought of them.

Thus, I had to bury my deepest, truest, pre-programmed desire for European women in the closet.

On The Nature Of Fetishes

Meanwhile, during my adolescence and teenhood, Japanese anime became popular.

I would have had a higher chance of ending up with a black woman if my parent(s) had simply left me alone while I developed, without trying to force me.

So, if I simply wasn’t going to become attracted to black women, but was severely punished for being attracted to white women, while Japanese anime teased my teenhood eyes with softcore images in steamy scenes…

…I fell down the hormonal rabbit hole to Asian women.

And it was Asian women that I became hyper-fixated on. Obsessed with.

I began to fetishize them. For years, at least until my early-to-mid twenties.

But, truly, the emotional charge I had for Asian women was simply a misplaced, traumatized, and pent-up natural desire for white women.

What I Owe European Women

Throughout this time, I was enduring various abuses from both my mother and my step-father, unrelated to my sexuality.

I lived in an environment so domestically turbulent that the police knew all of us on a first-name basis due to how often they’d be called.

With that in mind, I seized any opportunity I could to visit other people’s houses.

…and it just so happened that where I felt the most at home was in the white households that would accept me.

For example, from the time I was 8 years old, there was an Irish woman named Ms. McGinnis who took me in for sometimes days or weeks at a time, depending on what season of the year it was.

…while she had me, she raised me like I was one of her own.

Her kindness. Her forgiveness. Her food.

And I became best friends with her son, named Doug.

Doug, to this day, is still my dear friend. 30 years later and he just sent me an email a few weeks ago.

He is a lifelong friend.

There were other times when I was struggling with my self-image due to the consequences of having gone homeless.

When I went homeless as a child, I was infected with flesh-eating fungal bacteria that mutilated my appearance for some years.

Children made fun of me. I was taken out of school for nine months straight, both to avoid being bullied and to prevent the spread of infection to other children.

Yet, here came the “evil” white women…all gathering around to “hatefully” raise funds that my mother and stepfather couldn’t afford…

…to get me both the proper medical care I needed, the food, and the private tutoring I needed to stay on track with my classes.

I graduated and recovered my health due to those so-called “evil” white women.

…and I never forgot them. Ever.

Not them. Not my “white devil” female tutor who didn’t fear infection to help me with my courses. Nor the “demonic” white neighbors who “schemed” for me to receive food and proper medical care.

…Nor the “horrible and demented” Ms. McGinnis, who did absolutely everything she could for me to have a home away from home, nor any of the other white families who took me throughout teenhood when times were rough at my house.

I forgot no one. Forever grateful.

So, one day, years later, I find myself in China. Teaching English.

I’m skipping over so many details to get to this point. You’ll have to read my other articles for the rest.

…but I see this white woman in China. A fellow English teacher.

She is about to be kidnapped into prostitution by the Chinese Triads.

And I had to make a choice: Either truly love her and thus become willing to sacrifice my life for hers to save her—which meant confronting all of that trauma to do so.

…or just leave her to her fate.

Which choice do you think I made?

And to gain the courage and inner strength to make that choice, the emotional charge I had to do so was gratitude.

For all of the white women who helped me along the way, I broke the levee of my repressed sexuality, as necessary to become the man that woman needed me to be to protect her.

…and when that levee of sexual energy finally broke?

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...and they become *very* possessive (in a loving way), as though to say: "Wait...he really is one of ours, isn't he? That's *our* son. Of course, he is."

You won't see them comment out in the open like that, but the back-end is different. That's what they're thinking, the ones that do support me.

But if I focused on simply making cash, if I was a true grifter, I would at least parrot opinions that white liberals and pro-black people love to hear—manipulating them like Chess pieces by the racist biases they don't see as racist...into giving me money and votes of confidence the way my father did.

...The way Obama did. 🤷‍♂️

Instead, I would dare say that I am actually one of the realest people on social media. You may seldom see me on video in real-time, but rest-assurred: I stand by what I say. I am the same person in private that I am in public, just perhaps with deeper layers.

I wouldn't be able to maintain my wife's respect the way that I do if I wasn't.

The hardest thing for people to believe about me is neither my intelligence, my polymathic range of knowledge, nor my backstory...

...but how much I really care. About key things. Like how I care more about Europe than many Europeans do.

So, I view my writing and speaking as though I was a busker playing the fiddle in the middle of a Dublin city street: Do you enjoy the music? The case is open; you can throw some coins in if you'd like, but it's not required.

I would have come to Ireland simply to play, because the *real* payment is the sincere smile of a passerby, or someone who returned simply because they loved the music and could tell that it came from my heart.

And then, at the end of the day, I pack up my gear and go to my real job.

That said, women are used to vague compliments and attention from men they view as their equal or lesser.

They *love*, however, sincere, well-thought-out, poignant honorings from men they look up to, whom they view as above them in some way, shape, or form.

So, when a Norwegian woman sends me a private message about how much she likes my content but simply cannot pay, please know that it's not even really about that with me.

You were moved. You took me seriously. You have internalized that, despite whatever you're going through, *somebody* you respect truly adores you.

And that's enough for me.

…And then there are women for whom he would build the room.

Not because she would demand a palace; indeed, she was the one who dreamed of a cottage.

…A humble abode behind pine trees, perhaps, where the road would narrow before the gate. A place with a garden to grow a patch of vegetables and some flowers for enjoyment’s sake.

Perhaps this is because she spent so long proving herself to others, to whom she had become conditioned to apologize. Life had taught her that whatever softness she retained deep within would have to be stifled out or shielded.

That she would need to become sharper. Harder. Tougher.

She was accustomed to walking into rooms in which no one intended to make space for her—she became so excellent that they were forced to.

Yet, upon walking through the front door, may she, with a click of the door’s lock, lean her back against the corridor’s wall to hang the day’s weight from her shoulders.

From where she may feel the warmth of the hearth’s fire, casting a ballet of shadows upon her face, a face more exhausted than her years—under which she may loosen her armored smile…

…just a little.

This poem is for the kind of woman for whom I have built a home:

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He holds his thumb to the same kinds of faces on his smartphone. The same kinds of bodies.

The same features appear in the jokes he makes, the women he follows, the pornography he hides, or the compliments he gives too freely to strangers while rationing them at home.

Individually, each moment can be explained away. Together, they form a category that holds his attention.

A category that you don’t fit in.

A man’s appetite for any other kind of woman does not make her archetype your rival, nor does it make him worthy of either of you.

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He may never say those exact words. Most men are not so honest with either their wives or themselves. Instead, the message arrives by accumulation: the women he stares at, the bodies he praises, the category he returns to, the comparisons disguised as jokes, the private appetites that gradually become public facts inside the home.

Eventually, a woman begins to see herself through his eyes, and out of the many red flags she begins to see throughout the process, among the most glaring is how the women do not look like her.

She studies her face as though it were evidence. She measures her body against fetishized strangers who have never heard her name. She wonders whether a different color of hair, a different shape, a different age, or an entirely different ancestry would have made him look at her with the hunger he seems to reserve for women unlike her.

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Someone once asked what I love about European women, and why I chose a European wife—out of the many women I otherwise could have chosen while traveling the world.

And I am fearless when it comes to celebrating my choice, as well as proud to belong to them.

At first glance, it sounds like a question about women.

In truth, though, it is a question about me.

I have never struggled to recognize beauty beyond one race or culture. I spent years in China, studied Chinese and Japanese, and met women throughout the world whom I found beautiful.

So, this was never about believing that only European women are attractive.

Beauty may inspire a man to do many things, but beauty alone cannot tell him whether he should build a house with her.

Marriage asks something heavier:

Before asking what kind of woman you want, forget women for a moment.

• What kind of man do you intend to become?

• What kind of father will you be?

• What kind of house will you lead?

• What ancestral skills will you place into the hands of your children?

I know my answers.

I am the kind of man who will take his children into the Alaskan wilderness and teach them survival, hunting, martial arts, horsemanship, and respect for a natural world that does not care about their feelings.

I want my children to inherit more than money. I want them to inherit competence, courage, culture, and the ability to remain useful when comfort disappears.

…and the life I live is as a part of building that legacy is absolutely not for every woman.

Nor should it be.

Some women admire the idea of a rugged man in the abstract, as one might admire a wolf through glass. The admiration changes, however, when the wolf comes home carrying the scent of blood, saltwater, and woodsmoke. When she discovers the difference between a cute weekend in the mountains and actually living that life.

A woman may find such a man exciting from a distance and exhausting from across the dinner table.

That does not make her inferior.

It makes her incompatible.

A woman suited to an urban life may look at the frozen, Alaskan mountains I call home and see only hardship. Another sees the same mountains and understands why a man might need them.

Race alone cannot explain that difference. “European woman” is far too broad. A rural Latvian woman and a metropolitan socialite may share a continent and a certain phenotypical aesthetic while possessing entirely different temperaments, goals, philosophies, and life expectations.

Culture divides into subculture. Subculture divides into families. Families divide into individuals.

Eventually, there is only the man and woman asking whether they can live honestly in the same home.

My years in the Chinese wilderness changed me.

Or, perhaps more accurately, they uncovered me.

There were parts of my personality sleeping beneath civilization’s noise—ancestral instincts and psychological capacities I had not yet needed. The mountains did not place them inside me. They merely gave them reason to awaken.

One may explain that through Jung, Joseph Campbell, inherited temperament, or dormant genes I unlocked.

What matters more, however, is the outcome of how I emerged as a different man once enduring four years in the military, and then another four years in the Chinese wilderness.

Then came the question: Around what kind of woman could that man remove his armor?

If a man must defend his nature inside his own home—if he must explain every instinct, soften every ambition, and apologize for every ancestral impulse—then he has not built a home.

He has constructed another battlefield.

What I love about my wife is not that she is Latvian alone, as an isolated, fetishized fact. I love that, through her particular character and culture, she understands much of me without requiring endless translation.

She helps create the peace in which I can continue becoming the man I am meant to be.

Behind closed doors, I can lower the gates.

I can remove my armor.

That vulnerability is not weakness. It is the reward a worthy woman receives from a man who trusts her not to strike the places he no longer protects.

However, admiration creates responsibility.

My approach was never to chase women indiscriminately, but to build value within myself and notice which women naturally responded to it. When a woman admires a man, she may grant him unusual influence over her emotions.

A corrupt man exploits that opening.

A worthy man guards it.

A man who cannot master his own shadow will eventually use a woman’s vulnerability against her.

Therefore, the goal is not to become powerful enough to dominate a woman. It is to become disciplined, strong, and powerful enough in my own actualization that the right woman can safely soften around you.

Some will insist my marriage must come from self-hatred, racial insecurity, colorism, or trophyism…but they are dead wrong.

I did not choose my wife by rejecting myself; I chose her by finally accepting the whole of myself—biologically, culturally, psychologically, and spiritually.

Accepting who I truly am as a part of the Jungian process of discovering which kind of “sleeping princess” that would awaken.

I did not select a race as though choosing a symbol.

I selected the woman most receptive to the man wrought from my actual life; the woman with whom I could build a strong house, raise capable children, preserve what is sacred to us, and experience peace with the fewest words needing to be spoken.

For another man, the correct woman may be different.

That is precisely the point.

Know thyself first.

Then pay attention to which woman awakens in the presence of that truth.

Other articles from me that you may find highly invigorating and thought-provoking:

• The Importance Of A Muse For Growing Boys

• How I Have Mastered My Masculine, Sexual Energy

• A Stream-Of-Consciousness On How Women Claim Men, Collectively

• Coming To Terms With The Socioeconomic Vortex Of Sexual Selection In A Free Society

• What It Means To Choose A Wife

• This Is When A Man Is Ready To Be A Father

• How I Proposed To My Wife

• What Is Love?

• Why Women Crave Strong Men

• What Does It Really Mean To Respect A Woman

I'll click away for a long time, but eventually fall weak after enough subliminal exposure in the off-corner of my screen or right when a page loads or something, or when I'm browsing Substack or something.

But then what happens? I end up *buying* that same (or similar) lingerie for my actual wife and actually living out what I liked about that fantasy...in reality.

...which then simply leads to me taking charge in initiating more sex with my wife. (And trust me... *she doesn't mind* lololol)

And there it is. Problem hollistically solved. An authentic aspect of my shadow, healthily, well-integrated. I'll end up having so much actual sex that I legitimately won't even *think* about porn. For a long time. Because I'd be *drained* at that point, it becomes easy to just click away or something.

A man becomes hyper-efficient with strong conscious reasoning if his woman keeps him in a state of suspended post-nut clarity.

However, if they do *not* look like you...that opens a whole other can of psychoanalytical worms: A man should be attracted to his wife.

If there is no resemblance whatsoever, it *immediately* begs the question why. Where was his self-esteem, where were his personal standards, in committing himself to a woman who doesn't really do it for him?

Do with that what you will.

But, in summation, every problem is secretly an opportunity *if* you choose to look at it that way. Don't shame. Don't repress.

...*understand* and healthily integrate. That's the cure.

Because it's actually the shame-based platitudes that keep Jungian shadows unindividuated, which keeps the demand for such content in existence, which keeps the porn industry alive.

It only exists because there is demand there for it; so the solution is to eliminate the demand.

If all the world took this stance, the entire porn industry would virtually disappear.

I just learned about the murder and assault case of Liana Friedenbach. It happened a while ago, but of course I would have a reaction to it.

If you are a man who is with your woman when you find yourself attacked by multiple armed men who threaten to kill you while they force themselves upon her, of course you are unlikely to succeed in defending her.

But understand something: They are probably going to kill you anyway.

And even if they don’t, you will be forever traumatized not by the thought of physical injury, but by the question if you could have somehow protected her after all.

Your chances of beating them are low, not zero.

And I take personal grievance with stories like those partially because of my own African-American history, but in a counter-intuitive way.

“Black” people like me exist not simply because the slave trade existed, but because far more often than not, black men were cowards who didn’t value black women enough to die with their honor in defense of their women. The original cucks of America were black men.

This is why the martial bravery in someone like me rings of European warriorhood, not African. Yes, more recently in lines like mine the love was voluntary, but the intermixing *started* hundreds of years ago due to the *failure* of black masculinity.

Because it should not have mattered if anyone wanted to enslave black people; what should have mattered is black warriorhood. If not with the initial loss of slaves, then at least with a tribal attempt to recover them.

Where was the great African king who launched a thousand ships to save his people?

Obviously, that never happened. So, I *cannot* respect the African side of my lineage as much, because respect is earned, never given. That is a basic principle taught in the worlds of the military, martial arts, business, and any largely masculine domain, cross-culturally.

The concept of generational trauma is real. Not everyone uses it as their excuse for failures in life (don’t get me wrong), but the scientific concept of blood memory is very real.

So, part of the generational tragedy and divine comedy of an individual like me is the weight we bear from that part of our origin stories, depending on which angle you view the bloodline from and at what timestamp in its history: I can redeem the cowardice of my bloodline that failed to serve and protect its women, but I cannot reverse the mutations that have occurred that would define those women as European.

You can see that will to redeem in virtually everything I do: from my technology to what motivates me to fight people like Andrew Tate or protect European women from Indian creeps at networking events. They sense that benevolent will, which is why so many of them follow me: That generational scar I carry behind the will to protect our people’s women.

Choose to die before you let them take her. Because then, at least, in her own trauma should she survive, she will remember that there are indeed good men that exist...and that could actually help her psychologically recover.

Because in her mind, during nights like Liana’s, there are only two types of men...and both are cowards.

Be the one that’s not.

Give her the gift of the memory that there really are men out there in the world who’d rather die for her, both for the sake of his own honor and for the sake of her self-esteem.

For someone like me, it is quite different because I actually do understand to a great extent what it feels like to be white. When I refer to myself as an outsider, I am largely referring to tightly knit cultures like the Latvians, but that is fundamentally different than feeling like an outsider to whites as a whole, especially as I *am* part white. (Someone like Myron is not, and while I think someone like Sneako has a *little* white in him, he was not largely raised around whites.)

From that difference, I understood intuitively that riding waves of white frustration and anger will only get you so far. And to maintain whatever support you do get *requires* you to perpetually parrot talking points of frustration.

You end up branding yourself as hateful and angry with both others and yourself, effectively committing to an existence devoid of inner peace.

So, what to do then?

The question is not whether someone who is not white supporting Western civilization is bad. The *entire* generational push for integration has been so with the hope of countless white people that brown people like me could, indeed, exist.

The real issue is this: Regardless of how one *feels* about Europeans in general...

...even if their heart is in the right place, can they actually carry the same torch?

That's true integration.

Are there non-white people who can genuinely share white burdens?

And when you reflect deeply enough about what that means, to not be white yet carry the torch of whites, you realize how the answer isn't in talking...but in doing.

What technology are you building? What cures are you developing? What philosophical breakthroughs are you making? How many white people depend on you to survive?

Are you a brown person who could actually take us to Mars?

You can be a non-white leader of white people, but to do so, these are the questions you must be able to answer with not mere words but actions and results. Questions like *these* are at the heart of the doubt, and they will never be answered by brown people who choose to remain dancing monkeys.

You could develop a cure for a disease that saves millions of white lives without ever saying a single disrespectful word about black people.

Don't jump through hoops for the approval of people carrying the torch.

...just carry the actual torch.

It is a defense of what women can become when men stop oscillating between blind worship and bitter contempt.

The blue pill man denies danger.
The red pill man dehumanizes it.
The healed man sees clearly, chooses wisely, holds frame, protects what is worthy, and walks away from what is not.

In this video, I discuss European women, marriage, prenups, fatherlessness, civilizational decay, masculine responsibility, and why leadership means taking responsibility for the cycle instead of merely blaming women for the symptoms of it.

Because if our women are broken, damaged, immature, or dangerous, then at some point we must ask what kind of fathers, husbands, brothers, and leaders produced them.

Not to excuse them.

But to understand what must be restored.

It is not women as they are that inspire me to fight.

It is the divine, archetypal manifestation of womanhood—the wife, mother, muse, queen, and civilizational heart—that becomes worthy of protection when unlocked by men strong enough to lead, disciplined enough to walk away, and healed enough to love without surrendering their power.

Discussing the mixed-race experience with my daughter at the dinner table.

Not every quote is exact because it was a lot to remember, but this was the gist.

"I have raised you to think on your own, and to build your own business. To control your ego and emotions. Some would call that 'class.' You have blonde, relatively straight hair, green eyes, and pale skin--"

"My hair's not straight. It's wavy," my daughter interrupted.

"I said *relatively* straight. It's not as straight as Astrid's from How To Train Your Dragon, but it's certainly straight in comparison to the majority of the world. It's certainly not black hair. There are purer-blooded Europeans who have curlier hair than yours."

"True," she conceded.

"But understand the mixed-race experience. That's my point," I told her. "You are part black, yet you have no idea what it feels like to *be* black. You have been fully accepted here. I mean, you wave hello to the police. Your features make you blend in. You wear an Yggdrasil necklace for gods' sake. No one's ever talked to you about it, but trust people think about it as we walk down the street together. And the only black person you have ever really known is *me*. People will claim you to the extent that they can be proud of you. To the extent that they would *want* to consider you a part of their group or some kind of representative of it. But the moment you behave in a dastardly, rambunctious, or loud, or needlessly rebellious way...is the moment you become 'that half-n*%%3r girl.' In fact, that can occur by simply disagreeing with someone on something. You will choose to be either white, or light-skinned black. These are two radically different things. And if you don't, the world will choose it for you."

"Wait, but I'm not half..."

"...Rrright. You're...like...15-20% *tops*, and that's being generous. But...like...you have to be practical when it comes to day-to-day communication. People are *not* going to be like, 'Well...she's technically this with those specific chromosomes and...blah, blah, blah'...when they're angry or frustrated with your behavior or lack respect for you in general. Respect for nuance requires patience and intellect...which the majority of people lack to understand our experience. And the proper response to someone disrespecting you like that is not to explain that nuance, either. You are eventually going to get smacked with that kind of disrespect, and you need to be prepared for it."

"What *is* the proper response?"

"The proper response is holistic. You cannot win the purity game, so don't play it. But you *can* win the character game. Be a person of such value that people want to claim you as their own. Love such people who love you. And simply distance yourself from those who don't. When you win the character game, the racial game as a whole becomes moot on the day-to-day basis, regardless of whether you are mixed or not."

I’ve begun turning your questions about the fight challenge into videos to help spread the message further.

Read the press release in USA Today about the fight challenge: https://www.usatoday.com/.../wolven-industries-founder.../

-- Read more about this challenge here: https://nortonsmind.substack.com/.../would-you-like-to...

-- Watch the original video here:

Contact Adin Ross about it here: https://x.com/adinross

Contact Sneako about it here: https://x.com/sneako

Read more about it here:

Somebody asked me recently if I would fight Andrew Tate.

At first, I brushed it off as one of those internet hypotheticals, something people throw out because it sounds interesting.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized…

It actually makes sense.

Not because of ego. Not because of personal animosity.

But because of what it would symbolically represent, especially in terms of protecting women (especially European women) and the honor of mixed-race people with European heritage.

We come from similar starting points, mixed race, difficult childhoods, forged in pressure. (Read here to discover more about the differences between Tate and I.)

But somewhere along the way, the paths split.

He became a symbol of one version of masculinity.

I became something else entirely.

And now, people are starting to notice that contrast.

This Isn’t About Hate

Let me make something clear.

This isn’t personal.

I don’t know the man personally. There’s no emotional vendetta here.

But there is a real divide in what we represent.

He has been accused of harming the very women I’ve chosen to defend.

That alone creates a tension that doesn’t need to be manufactured.

It already exists.

Why This Fight Would Matter

Most fights are entertainment.

This one wouldn’t be.

Because it wouldn’t just be two men stepping into a ring—it would be two ideologies colliding in real time.

• Power vs. restraint

• Control vs. protection

• Performance vs. responsibility

And people would project their beliefs onto it whether they admit it or not.

That’s what makes it valuable.

That’s what makes it marketable.

The Real Gatekeeper: Demand

Here’s the reality:

Fights like this don’t happen because two people say yes.

They happen because there’s market demand: people like you who would be willing to pay to see it.

Because someone like Adin Ross looks at the numbers and says,
“This will pull attention. This will pull money. This will pull eyes.”

Right now, this idea is just speculation.

But speculation can turn into opportunity if enough people push it.

So Here’s the Question

If you’re reading this…

Would you actually want to see it?

Not as drama.

Not as a spectacle.

But as something real. Something symbolic of a larger conversation happening right now in the world.

If The Answer Is Yes? Act Like It

Don’t just agree quietly.

Go make it visible.

Reach out to Adin Ross.

Comment. Message. Tag him. Whatever you’ve got to do.

Let him see that this isn’t just a random idea. It’s something people would actually show up for. A fight people would tune in to see.

Because that’s how these things move from “what if”…

…to reality.

Click here for Adin Ross’s Twitter. However, certainly there are other ways to contact him.

Also, share this article around to gain it more attention, especially to other YouTubers, increasing the likelihood that we will actually fight.

I will defend European women like my wife to the *death*.

I don't care.

...You can call me any name you want. (And I mean *any*.)

...You can crack all the jokes you want.

You can come at me from any angle...

But there is *nothing*...

...no caffeine pill...

...no energy drink...

...no inspirational speech...

...that will get me out of bed in the morning, willing to work, improve myself, and *conquer* quite like the way the inner mental image of the European woman in her most divine, feminine form will.

Sure, there are some who are wicked, or self-destructive, or just generally dislike men like me, but that archetype exists in every culture. I don't take it personally.

However, in her most divine, feminine form, the European woman is my mother, my sister, my daughter, and my neighbor.

I am not a rape baby. European women voluntarily willed me into existence.

I belong to the European woman. She *designed* me. She is *home* to me.

She is where I begin. And she is where I end.

She is my rise. And she will be my fall.

And I am totally okay with that. Amor fati.

It is perfectly, socially *fine* to say things that defend and uplift women of other cultures and racial groups (and I genuinely agree: it really is perfectly fine to do that. Celebrate women of other phenotypes all you want).

...But the moment we talk about European beauty...all of a sudden, there is a problem?

Not on this page.

There is *zero* way in Hel I am going to sit here and let women of other heritages take free pot shots at white women on this page, on my watch.

Women like the one in this screenshot have it twisted: The fact women like these are even speaking *English* right now, on European land, should be appreciated.

From world conquerors to revolutionary inventors, European women have *repeatedly* given birth to the majority of the most influential men, in every aspect of manhood, since the dawn of recorded history...leading to the rise and fall of the greatest civilizations ever known.

Hands down.

Shame on *any* male with European maternal chromosomes who wouldn't defend our women the same way.

Click here to read more: https://nortonsmind.substack.com/.../help-me-fight...

There are only two days left!

If you are going to send them an email, do it now. And thank you so much to those who have sent in their comments already.

He asked me how to get with European women.

It was a brown dude I met in Riga, Latvia, last week.

It was at a networking after-party. I couldn't quite tell if he was Middle Eastern or Indian. Or perhaps some combination of both, like an Indian Muslim or something.

I asked him what made him think I was a good person to ask.

He said that the women around me seemed kinder and more responsive.

He saw my wedding ring. He asked, if I didn't mind, what color she was. I nodded and said, "Yeah...she's white." (My grizzled tone of voice communicating: And what of it?)

"Oh, well, then there you go, man! What's the secret?"

And suddenly I felt a sense of territory. There was a *tiny* section of my brain that wanted to dropkick him. In my head, I was like "Secret? Wtf are you talking about?"

I felt what white men with any balls left must feel. Because we are, in more ways than one, brothers in that sense...being as though white women gave birth to and/or raised both of us, even though we look different.

Both of our brains register the image of an archetypal "European woman" as "mom" or "wife" or "sister" or "daughter" or general "member of my village."

I thought to myself: Would I want *my* toe-headed daughter with this short, scrawny, musky motherf*cker? Absolutely not.

I wouldn't even want her walking down the street with him.

It's just embedded, neurological, instinctual "circuitry" I inherited even though I know what it looks like from the outside-in.

To me, they are, and have always been, just a normal part of my environment. Often, my everyday annoyance in a "school bus" way.

Yes, I'm very attracted to them, hence why I married one...but I'm attracted to them in the right way. And I think they can sense that.

And it is a totally natural masculine instinct to want to protect them from invaders.

I'm quicker to look at a whiny white woman as a bratty little sister archetype that I just want to get away from me. To him, though, they're idolized objects. They're fetishized status symbols. Tokens of conquest. The appealing "unknown".

It's just ironic in my case because, if one lacks empathy for me, *I* am classified as a kind of invader. Albeit an unintentional and well-meaning one.

So, after taking a moment to square away the disturbed microexpressions in my face in efforts of remaining cordial and professional...

...not wanting to end up on CNN for powerbombing this dude out of the nearest window like I'm Stone Cold Steve Austin in the WWE or something...

...I said to him, darkly, "There is no secret. If there would be a secret, you'd find it in archetypes. In becoming one of the men of European myths, but that's a harder road than you think. So, if you really have to ask that question, you should probably leave them alone."

It was a brisk morning; you could see our breath.

I had joined a group of mostly Slavic and Baltic entrepreneurs and businesspeople, and we were running a 5k near the center of Riga.

We spoke as we passed by monuments where people had been shot.

At one point, the man I was speaking to paused the run to address foreigners who were disrespectful to the markings by sitting on them. Perhaps, they didn’t know what the stones meant.

I paused: “...Wait, are you joking?”

“Partially,” he said. I paraphrase, for I am unable to remember his precise wording. “They may not be whores, but the ones that return don’t bring back migrants or average joes. They bring back people like you. People like you tend to have a lot of kids, which helps our birth rate. You’re bringing talents, money, and experience. We benefit greatly as a country from the women who come back.”

It was a high compliment. And he was correct: One beautiful woman, standing in the right place and the right time, can end up being a pivotal catalyst that can change the fate of entire countries.

He wasn’t talking about mass immigration; he was talking about one-off, highly vetted, exceptionalism that made international marriages like mine make sense even to many nationalists who could think objectively.

My wife wasn’t present, but later on she said that he had the kindest of opinions, because most were mean to her when she left, years ago. But after being on the ground here, actually getting to know the people around me and their general sentiments, I realized that the people who criticized my wife simply didn’t think she would ever come back.

Many don’t.

However, she went through *her own* “hero’s journey” that gradually lifted her spirits, made her healthier, and made her proud to be European (and, in particular, Latvian). And despite what I look like, I didn’t stifle that growth; I encouraged it.

…I would even dare say I catalyzed it.

It’s hard not to gradually feel prouder and prouder to be who you are and where you come from if you have a husband who tells you why you should every day, and leads by that example.

And I think of how marriages have worked historically. That’s exactly how kingdoms functioned, such as with the roles of princesses. “We will strike a treaty to arrange for your son to marry my daughter, in exchange for reinforcements, etc.”

Now, to some extent, women were traded like cattle back then, but the concept of mutual benefit in marriages, even in free-form, still exists.

In fact, I believe that’s exactly how marriages *should* function, which is why my take on marriage is very Alexandrian. Alexander the Great (as well as his generals) married on the basis of uniting and strengthening armies on the basis of who the woman was and where she came from.

Alexander was absolutely correct to do so. He failed to declare or produce a suitable heir, which led to the downfall of his empire, but his approach to uniting peoples and building strong nations was on point.

I think about what *I’d* want as a father if and when a man wants to marry my daughter: What is the man in question bringing to *our* table in exchange for my blessing?

What “reinforcements” can he provide if we need it? How can we form a strategic moat, perhaps a guild, or even a family empire of sorts, forged by the skills and experiences of each home…merged by a marriage treaty?

Modern feminist thinkers will obviously say that the woman should choose whomever she wants while the father be damned, but a woman who also wants a strong family and cares about her nation will not think this way.

Don’t get me wrong: Genuine emotions are critical, and they can only come from a woman choosing whoever she really wants. Yet, at the same time, the concept of combining those emotions with family planning is crucial too.

Both are important for building strong, unified homes that produce strong offspring and thus strong nations.

And my way is a *class* of thinking. My mentality has historically been that of the royal class. The noble class. Just adapted to modern society.

Yet to have this mentality while I fit into no particular ethnic category has presented a unique challenge for me. While proudly American, to be “American” is a rather abstract concept; when looking beyond my own passport, I have struggled with finding peace and a people when it comes to my particular bloodline. That is no secret.

So, while never written or even discussed formally, I believe that’s precisely how our marriage has subconsciously worked: She provides a cultural foundation that I admire. A muse’s beauty that inspires me to work harder and accomplish more while taking care of me in every way the feminine would the masculine, tying into having more and more offspring in a cycle.

…And, with all of that, I gain a sense of purpose and belonging, especially in the sense of finally being “claimed” by a people who are genuinely proud of me, excited and appreciative of my presence…which assuages the majority of the inner pain I’ve felt as I’ve come of age.

In exchange, I am bringing above-average intelligence, rare experiential insights, a reversal of defeatist mentalities that empowers me to inspire others to see the potential in every problem, money, inventions, and innovations that turn into businesses that create jobs for her people that produce technology that literally makes the country stronger in many ways, even militarily, while even potentially attracting more foreign investment through my companies as a medium that directly contributes to Latvian economical growth.

Even to the racist, ultra-nationalistic types, these make for a plethora of redeeming qualities that makes it easier for them to look past the fact that I’m not white.

Meanwhile, our kids *are* white, due to the genetic principles of my recessive genes becoming dominant through hers in our union.

The thing about mixed people like me, Eurasian Negroids, is that we are, in the overview of our makeup, more phenotypically recessive than the Europeans because of the principle that makes recessive genes become dominant when united with other matching recessive genes.

So, if we were to be an enemy to Europe, the way to “defeat” us is rather simple: Step into the Jungian shadow that created us, and we shall disappear or at least be rendered into a genuine, benevolent, evolutionary ally…

…because it is impossible to hate Europeans through the self-actualizational process of simply loving ourselves.

And I am totally okay with that. I *love* being “claimed” so to speak in this way.

The Baltics are involved in at least three treaties with America and it is a member of NATO.

Latvia is a smaller ally…but an ally nonetheless.

There is a lot to do here in the Baltics. Countless ways people like me can provide value.

And if my instincts as a man react so well to Baltic beauty… (but also European in general)

…if that’s what gets me up in the morning and inspires me into becoming my greatest self…

…if that is what *really* stokes my inner fire to become its brightest within me like that…

…then, where is the actual problem? (At least, with people like me, who would channel that fire back into figuratively “warming” her people.)

That’s exactly what femininity is supposed to do.

Me and the fellow businessman nodded at that and kept running.