Former Philly neo-Nazi now fighting white supremacy with empathy

Frank Meeink

At 16, Frank Meeink was a notorious skinhead gang leader. Later, out of prison, a Jewish business owner helped him see things differently.

JOHN KOPP
PhillyVoice Staff
October 18, 2017

Frank Meeink remembers rolling into a Lancaster nightclub with one primary purpose: picking a fight with a group of skaters during a concert.

He was 14 years old and his childhood had been anything but easy. But the South Philadelphia native finally had found acceptance – with a group of skinheads.

A fight indeed broke out during the concert, with Meeink safely perched atop the shoulders of a larger skinhead. Yet, he realized their power when his group verbally threatened another skater as they left the venue.

"I saw the look on his face and I absolutely loved it," Meeink said. "... It felt good to see someone have fear of me. That night, someone asked if I wanted to be a part of it, and I f***ing jumped at it."

Soon, Meeink was hating more than skaters.

Meeink quickly ascended the ranks of the neo-Nazi world, even hosting a cable access talk show, "The Reich," on television. But within three years, he was a teenager serving time in an adult prison in Illinois.

Once again, his world began to change – a bit more slowly. He began questioning his white supremacist ideology, eventually abandoning his fellow neo-Nazis not long after being released from prison.

Today, Meeink serves as a vocal opponent of white supremacy, sharing his recovery story at speaking engagements across the country.

An updated version of his book, "Autobiography of a Recovering Skinhead," was published last month by Hawthorne Books, adding an additional nine chapters to history. The new section details his struggles with addiction, his friendships with celebrities and the deaths of his son and mother.

"I end the book saying, 'I don't know what's going to happen,'" Meeink said. "I just know that it's been a long journey and the book is what I've learned."

But Meeink said he'll never return to a lifestyle based on hate.

"Racism is the greatest bait-and-switch ever pulled in the world," Meeink said. "It's a legendary bait-and-switch. It's done on such a horrendous scale. It's something you have no control of – it's your skin."

White supremacy provides its believers acceptance, a feeling coveted by most of the ideology's recruits, Meeink said. But that acceptance comes at a tremendous cost.

Meeink remembers a conversation he once had with Tony McAleer, a former recruiter for the White Aryan Resistance with whom he co-founded Life After Hate, a nonprofit that helps individuals who want to leave a lifestyle of hatred and violence.

"'Frank, we didn't lose our humanity when we joined this group,'" Meeink recalled McAleer saying. "'We just gave it up for acceptance.'"

'THIS BECAME MY LIFE'

Meeink was introduced to white supremacy when he moved out to the Lancaster area to live with his cousin, who helped him assimilate into a group of neo-Nazis.

And it came at a moment when he was craving acceptance.

His childhood in South Philly had been difficult. His mother mostly raised him on her own until age 9, when she remarried a man whom Meeink says often tried to "beat the Italian out of me."

"I can't say, 'Abracadabra, I'm not the neo-Nazi whisperer here. I'm just a guy who can relate to a guy who has gone down that path." – Frank Meeink, former Philadelphia skinhead

At 13, Meeink moved in with his dad in Southwest Philadelphia, where he attended a mostly-black middle school. He routinely engaged in fights.

Meeink finally found people who took an interest in his life when he went to live with his cousin.

He accompanied the skinheads to Bible studies, where they'd share ideology. Beforehand, they'd shoot guns together.

Most importantly, the skinheads inquired about his life in Philly.

"They couldn't fathom that I had seen black people all the time," Meeink said. "To me, it was someone asking me, 'How is my life?'"

Finally feeling accepted, Meeink eventually bought into their ideology.

He soon was traveling across the country, recruiting others to join the neo-Nazi movement and espousing his views on television. He rolled with neo-Nazi groups notorious for their violence.

"It changed everything in me," Meeink said. "I grew up a huge Philadelphia Flyers fan, a huge Philadelphia Eagles fan. I could tell you who their draft picks were up until 1988. After 1988, until 1994, I can't tell you who was on the team. This became my life."

SEEDS OF CHANGE

One Christmas Eve, Meeink and an accomplice kidnapped a rival skinhead at gunpoint in Springfield, Illinois and spent the evening beating him – all while recording it on videotape. The victim informed the police and, soon enough, Meeink was serving three years in an adult correctional facility.

But that experience provided the seeds for change.

During prison recess, Meeink began playing football with a group of black inmates who welcomed him into their crowd – despite his swastika tattoo.

"Right now, one of their guys is in the White House. They feel empowered by this, definitely." – Frank Meeink

"They let me be a kickoff returner on the first play," Meeink said. "I knew no one was going to block for me. I ran that ball back for a touchdown. After that, they let me play."

And bonds began to form.

"After we were done playing sports with the guys, you talk," Meeink said. "You talk about home life. You talk about girls. I just enjoyed my time with them. ... They were city kids like me."

Upon his prison release, Meeink initially returned to his neo-Nazi crowd in Philadelphia. But a number of experiences, including his time in prison, prompted him to leave.

A Jewish man in Fox Chase not only had given him a job as a furniture assemblyman, but he had treated Meeink with respect. He began cross-referencing his stereotypes with the realities he saw in his life.

But it was empathy that broke him, Meeink said. And it holds the power to do that to others, too.

Today, when he's talking to someone struggling to overcome his or her hateful ideology, that's the tool he uses.

"I can't say, 'Abracadabra,'" Meeink said. "I'm not the neo-Nazi whisperer here. I'm just a guy who can relate to a guy who has gone down that path."

FROM HIDING TO ACTIVISM

For Meeink, the path to advocacy began with the Oklahoma City bombing, carried out by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols in April 1995.

The explosion at the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building killed 168 people. Afterward, investigators found excerpts of "The Turner Diaries" in McVeigh's getaway car. The novel, by neo-Nazi William Pierce, describes the bombing of the FBI headquarters with a homemade bomb.

"That whole event tore me up inside," Meeink said. "When I saw the pictures of that dead little girl in the firefighter's arms, it made me go from a guy in South Philly who was hiding from his past to an activist."

Meeink first went to the FBI – not because he had anything to report, but because he knew they would understand his past. The FBI pointed him to the Anti-Defamation League, which kickstarted the speaking engagements he has continued to this day.

"You can't just not do bad s*** and think you should get a cookie for that," Meeink said. "I started thinking, 'I'm always going to do something positive.'"

Meeink partnered with the Flyers to launch Hockey Through Harmony, a hate prevention program, and later developed a similar program in Des Moines, Iowa, where he now lives.

He also helped launch Life After Hate, where he speaks with people grappling with the same hatred he once fostered.

'THEY FEEL EMPOWERED'

White supremacist groups have gained headlines across the United States during the last year, most prominently during a rally in Charlottesville that left three people dead, including Heather Heyer, who was killed when a car crashed into a crowd of protesters.

Meeink is blunt when addressing the state of white supremacy in America.

"Right now, one of their guys is in the White House," Meeink said. "They feel empowered by this, definitely. "

White supremacist groups also surged after Barack Obama was elected president in 2008, Meeink said. But they lost their momentum when Obama didn't take the myriad actions white supremacists claimed he would. But Trump's campaign awakened them.

Now, many white supremacists groups are identifying as "Alt-Right," an uber-form of conservatism.

"They always have to rebrand themselves from the groups that are before them, because they did really bad s***," Meeink said. "These guys have to change the script a little bit. They have to say, 'We're not the same guys.'

"They're fearful, scared males. It's the same group."

That fear prompts them to resort to violence, as seen in Charlottesville, Meeink said.

"Because you're full of fear, that's what happens," Meeink said. "They lash out violently. What else are you going to get out of the situation?"

That's where Meeink preaches empathy.

Violence by leftist groups won't halt the hateful rhetoric spewed by white supremacists, Meeink said. Nor will accusations.

Instead, Meeink said, it takes someone to show them the love and empathy they seek. And it helps when it comes from someone like him, who once shared the same identity.

"I'm going to tell them why they believe that way," Meeink said. "Here's the truth to that. Or here's the turning point."

It's what led him out of white supremacism. And he's convinced it's the best tool for leading others out, too.

http://www.phillyvoice.com/former-philly-neo-nazi-now-fighting-white-supremacy-empathy/

Life after white supremacy: the former extremists now helping others leave fascism

Lucy Purdy

Positive.News
June 30, 2017

Four former members of right wing extremist groups share their stories of how they overcame their hate-filled pasts and are now helping turn others’ lives around.

Robert Örell: radicalised when barely a teenager, now a bridge from neo-Nazism back to Swedish society.

“I had a lot of trouble at school and was searching for something to explain why I had all these problems. The white power movement had a simple and easily digestible answer: it was due to our multicultural society. I had my first contact when I was 12 or 13 and I started engaging when I was 14. I directed all my rage there.

“Initially it was a lot about being a tough macho man: drinking and fighting a lot. But then I started to read more about the ideology, too. I began exercising lots, trying to become this elite kind of person we were always talking about. But the movement was full of broken souls who drank a lot and got into trouble.

Do we really want to exclude people because they’ve done wrong? Is it because they’re evil, or because of circumstances?

“I started to rethink who I wanted around me. Is this really the ‘Aryan elite’ that’s going to rule the country after the revolution? I think this comes to a lot of the extremist groups: they have utopian ideas but they are never called to reality-test their vision for society. What type of people will you have around? How will you organise society without all of the people you want to exclude?

“We started Exit Sweden in 1998. Because of my own experiences, I can identify with a lot of the stories I hear. I also know it’s possible to change. We call formers credible messengers – we are able to bridge the gap between neo-Nazi groups and society.

“Why should society help these people? It’s a relevant question. But who are we to decide that somebody is unchangeable or that they deserve to be completely excluded? I know just how powerful the process of radicalisation is. It’s a moral value to me: do we really want to exclude people from society because they’ve done wrong? Is it because they’re evil, or because of circumstances?

“Now, I want to put my experiences to good use. I get such satisfaction from seeing people leave these movements and build totally new, healthy lives.”

Tony McAleer: the former white supremacist who realised the power of compassion

Tony McAleer used to be a skinhead recruiter and an organiser for the White Aryan Resistance. As well as committing acts of violence, he was found to have contravened the Canadian Human Rights Act by spreading messages of hate. But becoming a father in his 20s changed everything. He is executive director of US-based non-profit Life After Hate and also works as an inspirational speaker.

“When I was 10, I walked in on my dad with another woman. It was very confusing and made me incredibly angry. I went from being a straight-A student to getting Cs. My parents and teachers decided they would try to beat the grades into me.

“The bullying strategy I’d devised was ‘befriend the bully: become the bully’. And so I became friends with two guys I met at a punk concert and we started to build up the skinhead scene. Being able to walk down the street and generate fear was intoxicating.

“Someone asked me once: ‘Tony, how did you lose your humanity?’ But I didn’t lose it: I traded it for acceptance and approval until there was nothing left. Part of my great shame is not only the violence I did, but that I should have known better, having experienced powerlessness myself. Now I believe that the level to which we’re willing to dehumanise others is a mirror to how disconnected from our humanity we are inside.

The level to which we’re willing to dehumanise others is a mirror to how disconnected from our humanity we are inside

“At 23, I found myself in a delivery room, being handed a baby girl. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes and I knew that my face was the first picture her brain would ever take. Suddenly, I had to make decisions for someone else. Kids don’t see self-loathing; they see us for the magnificent human beings that we all are. I was able to open up my heart and allow it to thaw over time. Now, I carry healthy shame. I loathe the things that I did but I don’t loathe me.

“There was nothing available for me when I left: I stumbled through the wilderness and luckily found a way out. Now, I can help somebody who is a few steps back to be less lost. It’s about compassion and forgiveness but it’s important to have both with boundaries.

“The pain and the loneliness when you’re in the void, having left but not yet re-entered mainstream society, is huge. As Martin Luther King said: ‘Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.'”


Angela King: from violent skinhead to rehabilitating other Americans

Struggling for a sense of identity as a teenager growing up in Florida, a group of skinheads made Angela King feel welcome for the first time. After receiving a six-year prison sentence for her part in the armed robbery of a Jewish-owned shop, she went on to leave the movement and achieve a master’s degree. King is co-founder and deputy director of Life After Hate.

As a young person, I faced bullying, had low self-esteem and was socially awkward. A girl three times my size started a fight with me, ripping my shirt open in front of the entire class. From that point on, I felt that if I was the one doing the bullying, I could never be humiliated like that again. Neo-Nazi skinheads seemed the perfect fit because they were often angry and often violent, just like me. I’d been taught racism and homophobia as a child and felt that I had finally found the place where I belonged.

I felt that if I was the one doing the bullying, I could never be humiliated again

Sometimes women follow a romantic partner or relative into the movement. And then they are placed in conflicting roles: they’re expected to take on traditional women’s roles but also to be strong activists and willing to carry out violence. I’ve seen and, experienced, abuse and violence within these movements: domestic violence, sexual violence and emotional abuse.

When the Oklahoma City bombing happened, I realised it was done by someone with the same beliefs as me. I couldn’t see myself committing that level of violence, especially against children, so I made a decision at that time to leave the group and the lifestyle.

Stefan: after being part of violent clashes with far left, homosexual and immigrant groups, Stefan (not his real name) decided the neo-Nazi movement was ultimately devoid of meaning and left it behind

Grappling with complex social questions, Stefan found understanding and belonging in the Swedish far right movement. But it wasn’t to last. The non-judgmental ethos of Exit Sweden helped him to renounce his views, and turn his attention to contributing to society instead.

“I was active for nine years, from 2006 and 2015. At first, I was active in the movement but I wasn’t a member of an organisation. Later, I joined the group which was the largest of its kind in Sweden at the time: the National Socialist Front. I was quickly given more responsibility, and more of a role.

“I’ve always been someone who has thought a lot about societal issues. When I was at school, aged 16-18, there was a lot of interest in political alternatives. But I didn’t find anything in the mainstream parties that explained how we could build society in a new way: on a new foundation. So I searched outside of the mainstream.

“My ideas didn’t feel like they were ‘against’ other people – it wasn’t built primarily on hate – but more on preserving the idea of a Swedish social foundation. I wanted a strong society, and I think it’s a deep human response to be fearful about things – or people – that are ‘new’ or different.

“Violence was not the primary drive for me, but it was always present. We ‘legitimised’ it by the idea that we must be prepared in self defence. I was involved in about 25 confrontations within two years: stabbings and assaults. These were usually with extreme left wing groups but immigrant groups too and homosexuals: anyone that we considered a threat to ‘core family values’.

“I was busted for having a knife on me which is illegal in Sweden. But violence is what strengthens the group: it makes you feel tighter together, and then this sense of strength escalates into new fights.

I want people to be able to be part of society together: to find a sense of community, togetherness and belonging

“At first, my ideological commitment to the group was very strong. But in about 2013, I started to feel a shift. I realised that the race issue simply wasn’t as important as I had previously thought. I also started studying and while at university, came into contact with two elderly men. One was a political activist from Uruguay, and the other was from Somalia.

“As we got to know each other, I realised there were lots of similarities in what we identified in society as problems. I started to accept that if people are facing these similar problems in three very different parts of the world, this is probably more of a global challenge, not related to the previous explanation I had formed.

“By the time I got in touch with Exit Sweden, I had already left the movement. But I wanted to make a definite shift in order to disengage and reflect on what I’d done and been part of.

“There were no demands: it didn’t feel like attending Exit was a punishment. It felt open and non-judging. I was able to adjust at my own pace. I felt listened to, and that helped me to change. Talking openly about my experiences has helped me to make the shift.

“My personality had been very linked to the political ideological environment of the Nazi group. I learned that ‘this was good’ and ‘this was bad’. But now I’m open to thinking about things in new ways. I talked to my former history teacher about perhaps coming into the school to talk to his class about my experiences. I want to help people understand. I want people to be able to be part of society together: to find a sense of community, togetherness and belonging.”

Read our feature Leaving hate behind: the global movement of former neo-Nazis who are helping others renounce extremism

This article is featured in issue 89 of Positive News magazine.

https://www.positive.news/2017/perspective/27806/life-white-supremacy-far-right-extremists-now-turning-fascists-around/