When I Came Out Of The Closet

Let me guess: You probably clicked on the headline expecting a story of homosexuality or something, didn’t you?

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.

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.

…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.

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.

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?