While studying philosophy in college, I developed an interest in Eastern thought as expressed through Confucianism and especially religions such as Buddhism and Hinduism. For a few years, I took every course offered that had anything to do with India. I read the Mahabharata, the Bhagavad Gita, and to this day, I still listen to Indian classical music.

Eventually, my interest in ancient India was replaced by a fascination with Japan. By chance, I took a summer course called “Arts of Japan” taught by a retired professor turned university administrator who had lived in Japan from the 1960s–1980s.

While the professor’s professional interests lay mainly in ukiyo-e (woodblock printing) and yakimono (ceramics), his lectures consisted mostly of nostalgic remembrances of his life in Tokyo as a young man, illustrated with old photos shown on a slide projector. I found his stories utterly captivating, and something about the simple-yet-complex elegance of Japanese art touched me deep inside. The impact this course had on me was so profound that I decided to take Japanese to fulfill my foreign language requirement. Little did I know that less than a year later, I would actually be going to Japan myself.

I visited this professor in his office one day to tell him how much I enjoyed his class and that I was going to learn Japanese (I really just wanted to hear more of his stories). At the end of our visit, he searched his shelves for a book he wanted me to have. It was Bachelor’s Japan by Boye De Mente. With chapters like “Why Foreigners Like Japanese Women,” “In Japan You’re Never Too Old” and “How To Be a Gigolo,” the book is basically a guide for single men traveling to Japan who are looking for love, or at least some uncommitted lust. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why he would give me this book in particular, but I sure did appreciate it. Unfortunately, the book was written more than 30 years before I arrived in Japan, making it inaccurate and almost completely impractical. As would be the case so many times throughout my life, my dreams were dashed by reality.

Thus, I spent the first half of my twenties focused on Asia, looking for meaning and personal growth in Buddhist and Hindu teachings, aspiring to rise to the level of Japanese aesthetics in my daily activities. Like many young people, I was searching for myself and where I fit in the scheme of things. I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that looking outside my own culture and traditions in an effort to “find myself” would be a road to nowhere.

At the same time, I never had any interest in Europe or Western culture outside of philosophy. Growing up in the United States, I was bombarded with anti-European programming in film and on television. It was quite common to hear Europeans referred to as “Euro-trash” and “gay” (both in the sense of “uncool” and “homosexual”). According to the anti-European propaganda, British were effeminate and had poor oral hygiene, Germans were humorless Nazis and the French, well, they were the worst of all, in every way, and for no reason in particular. So, it is really no surprise that I never looked to Europe as being meaningful or relevant to my life in any way.

I knew I had some Irish and Italian heritage, but for the most part, I grew up never knowing much of anything about my family history, like who came from where, and when. I figured I was like most Americans—a mix of different people from different places—none of which mattered, since we were all American, an “experimental” nation founded on principles and ideas rather than blood and culture. My education taught me that White men committed genocide against the Indians and enslaved Africans, who were then endlessly persecuted even after they were freed. With this kind of programming, it is not hard to understand why some Americans believe that “America was never great.” And, in all honesty, it is hard to feel proud about who you are when you are portrayed as a villain in your own history books. I retrospect, I can see why I would look outside my own history and culture for meaning and identity.

I did eventually make it to Europe about 10 years ago on an extended business trip. I visited England, Scotland, France, Switzerland, Italy, Holland and Germany. Walking around the streets of Edinburgh, I was struck by how similar everyone looked to me. I don’t mean similar simply because I am a White American. I mean similar in the way extended family members look similar. I felt I had more in common physically with people in Edinburgh than I did with other Americans, who tend to be fairly mixed in terms of their European heritage. I didn’t feel that way in Holland, for example, where people looked quite different from me.

When I arrived in France, I was met by staff from a logistics company that had arranged all the transportation and accommodations for the business trip. As soon as we got in the car at the airport, a British woman (of Irish descent) in the front seat turned around and asked “so what part of Ireland is your family from?”

I responded with a question of my own: “Are you asking that because my name sounds Irish?”

She replied “No, I am asking because you have the look—you have Irish features. Have you never been to Ireland? You look just like my brother.”

I was caught off guard by these comments, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere, like I was part of something—a tribe, if you will. This was a major turning point in my life. As I have written about in another essay, I have lived much of my life feeling like an outsider.

Having spent most of my adult life in Asia, living in Japan and traveling to places like Singapore, Taiwan, The Philippines and Hong Kong, I was blown away by what I saw in Europe. Compared to what I was used to, it was beautiful, clean, organized and comfortable. The people were well-dressed and polite And the food was amazing! I can honestly say I have never had real bread until I went to France. Paris was one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen. I really don’t understand why America is so anti-France.

The only shock I experienced was in London. I was totally unprepared to see streets full of Muslims and other immigrants from the Middle East and Africa. I remember thinking that, if New York streets looked like this, Americans would definitely feel as through “the terrorists” had won. It would be almost 10 years before I finally became aware of the forced mass immigration that threatens to make Europeans a minority in their own homelands, but I saw it with my own eyes while on that trip.

Like many foreigners, I have had a love-hate relationship with Japan. In the beginning, I tried my best to learn the language, observe local customs and etiquette and assimilate myself into Japanese society. I went out of my way to avoid other Americans, choosing instead to immerse myself in Japanese language and culture. Like many foreigners, I probably became more Japanese than the Japanese themselves. Although I knew full well that, as a foreigner, I would never be accepted in Japan, for many years I clung to the absurd belief that I was going to be an exception to that rule. This was probably the single biggest factor in my unhappiness, the main reason I fell permanently out of love with Japan.

Foreigners in Japan are faced with a catch 22 scenario: We must follow rules that don’t apply to us. When we do as the Japanese do, we are labeled “weird.” When we act naturally (i.e. like foreigners), we are labeled “rude.” Japanese get upset with some foreigners who don’t bother to learn the language, while other Japanese get upset with some foreigners because they speak Japanese too fluently. My point here is that you can’t win. To a certain extent, the game is rigged against you if you are a foreigner.

The first time I went on a business trip to America with Japanese colleagues, I was enraged by the fact that they kept referring to my fellow Americans as “gaijin” (foreigners). After all, we were in my country, and it was they who were the foreigners. That is when I realized that, no matter where they go, most Japanese never leave their cultural bubble. They see the world through Japanese lenses no matter where they are. Yet, when Japanese immigrate to the United States, they can become Americans. They are accepted, and for the most part, treated no differently than any other Americans. This is never the case for foreigners in Japan.

If anybody can become an American by simply filling out paperwork and paying some fees, what does being an American even mean?

Having had enough of Japan, I moved to Hawaii, where I noticed striking similarities to Japan. Perhaps it is the nature of island people, but like Japan, Hawaii is comprised of insular communities that are mostly closed to outsiders. Many people who move to Hawaii develop a love-hate relationship, and like foreigners who go to Japan, they either leave within six months or stay forever. Often times this has more to do with financial concerns and employment opportunities than the social ostracizing typical in Japan. Local people in Hawaii are extremely friendly, but they do not let outsiders in so easily. In Japan, you are kept on the outside permanently.

After my experience in Japan and having done a fair amount of reading and research, I knew what I was in for when I arrived in Hawaii. Make no mistake—Hawaii is a U.S. state, but it is Polynesia, not America. It is totally different from the mainland. Nevertheless, I once again believed that, if I made an effort to adopt local customs, respect the local culture and get involved in my local community, I would be accepted and could assimilate into their lifestyle. As with Japan, I was hoping that I could be the exception to the rule, the haole (outsider; white person) who gained acceptance and became a local. After a few years, I had to admit that there were some aspects of the local culture I did not feel comfortable with, and moreover, it had also become apparent that, no matter how hard I tried, some people would always look down on me as a transplant, a mainland haole. My efforts were not in vain, though. I never had a bad experience or any trouble with local people, which shows how much further effort and attitude will take you in Hawaii as opposed to Japan.

Looking back, I have spent most of my adult life living as an outsider, trying to fit in places where I was not welcome, attempting to “find myself” among incompatible cultures in foreign lands. Growing up American, I never thought White people had customs and traditions. I thought the word “tribal” only applied to Native Americans and Africans. I never considered that, although I was born in the United States, my ancestors’ bones are buried in Europe. I never learned about traditional Europe, the Europe before Christianity. I don’t know the ancient myths, legends and rituals, but I have been seeking them my entire life. Like the cowboy in that country song, I’ve been “looking for love in all the wrong places…”

In Japan, it didn’t matter how well I spoke Japanese, or the degree to which I assimilated myself into the Japanese lifestyle. As soon as I walked outside, I was just another gaijin. Most people I encountered took one look at me and assumed I spoke no Japanese and knew nothing about Japan. Everyone I met asked the same basic questions: Can you use chopsticks? Can you eat raw fish? Do you drink green tea? And most pointedly: Where are you from, how long have you been here and when are you going back?

Hawaii was no different. People who didn’t know me just saw me as a haole, usually a tourist, due to my perpetual pallor (thanks to my Irish skin). They had no idea I was involved in my community, that I knew Hawaiian songs and chants, that I made an effort to travel all over the island to learn about local history, or that I had a sincere respect for the customs, beliefs and traditions of the local people. At any time, in any place, I could have just as easily caught a beating from a local bruddah simply for being a haole.

In my experience, assimilation into different cultures involves stress and frustration. This is because it does not come naturally. This also explains why, for example, there are Chinatowns all across the United States. The Chinese recreate China everywhere they go so they don’t have to assimilate. When cultures are so different, values so conflicting and worldviews so at odds, assimilation simply isn’t possible. Peaceful coexistence is a pipe dream. It is naïve to assume that so-called “immigrants” from Middle Eastern and African countries will simply choose to become Americans or Swedes or Australians just because they are living in those countries. And it is totally unreasonable to insist that Americans and Europeans change their culture and way of life to accommodate these unwanted outsiders, regardless of whether they call themselves immigrants, refugees or asylum seekers.

Watching the anti-Trump protests last weekend, it occurred to me that White people who virtue signal must think that, by doing so, they will be seen as exceptions to the rule—the Good White People (as opposed to the ubiquitous “racist” variety). These virtue signalers must think that, when the race war kicks off, they will be spared because they wear Black Lives Matter T-shirts or hold signs that read “Make America Mexico Again.”

When race relations in America finally devolve to the point that White people are openly targeted with violence simply for being White, all the virtue signaling by the weaklings and beta-cucks will have been in vain. BLM and La Raza terrorists will only see them as another privileged White oppressor who deserves to die. The virtue signalers will be especially easy targets since they won’t fight back. They’ll be too busy denigrating their race and bending over backwards to accommodate the invaders to stand up for themselves.

For me, it’s late in the game. I’m nearing the half century mark, but my eyes are finally open and focused in the right direction. I cannot be happy or fulfilled or find true meaning unless I am with my people. I cannot know who I am and where I come from until I connect with my tribal homelands. For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be of European stock, and why it is so important that Europe remains the homeland of White people. Without a homeland we are lost. Everything our ancestors built and fought for over the millennia will be destroyed and our culture will disappear forever. We will be erased from the pages of history.

When I see how many White people have been duped by the lie of diversity and the false utopia of multiculturalism, White people who are unwittingly or consciously facilitating White genocide, I realize that I am not the only one who has been adrift all these years.