The Nazis Next Door
How I Discovered That White Nationalism Is Alive And Well In The Suburbs
When I was in middle school, I made pocket money by babysitting for the two boys who lived across the street.
Their mother, Carina (not her real name), was petite and elvin, with a wasp waist, platinum blonde hair, and a plunging streak of cleavage no shirt could contain. Part Stevie Nicks, part Marilyn Monroe: a grown-up manic pixie dream girl. She wore silky palazzo pants in neutral shades, and flitted barefoot around her patio, never without a Zima in hand.
Her husband, Jeff, was so handsome it made me uncomfortable. He had a cool-guy goatee (this was 1994) and longish salt-and-pepper hair. No Dad bod; a former college soccer player, Jeff stayed in shape by lifting weights in the garage, where he also smoked pot. His job was nebulous. Sales? Engineering? Sometimes he was “away on business.” Sometimes he had “client dinners.” All anyone in the neighborhood knew was that he could afford a lifestyle that included frequent international travel and didn’t require his wife to work outside the home.
Other families’ living rooms in our nondescript suburban subdivision sported bargain-basement sectionals in shades of beige and burgundy, but Carina’s house was all white. White walls, white hardcover books on Renaissance…
