You Again Stop the Alt Right
Contents
- The "Crime"
- The Metamorphosis
- Meme-World
- Caller, You're on the Air
- M.O.A.R.
- The Awakening
- The Reckoning
When my son Sam,* who was and so 14, asked me to take him to the Mother of All Rallies on the Mall in September 2017, I said no. The pro-Trump effect was billed every bit a demonstration to preserve "traditional American culture," and white supremacists were expected to show up in strength. Not only was this not how I wanted to spend a Saturday—like nigh everyone I knew, I'd been devastated by the 2016 election results—but I had serious concerns virtually safe. At Charlottesville's Unite the Right rally only a month earlier, a neo-Nazi had killed counterprotester Heather Heyer. I couldn't shake off the stupor of her violent murder, or of watching men with tiki torches shout racist slogans across the University of Virginia grounds. Police there were unable to protect citizens; I couldn't reasonably expect this gathering in DC to be whatever different.
Sam knew exactly how I would react to his request. He'd anticipated my automatic veto and readied reasons in favor of attention—not equally a participant, he stressed, but as an observer. I tin can still see him continuing in front of me, the longing credible in his big chocolate-brown eyes. His favorite school subject area was history, he reminded me, and he hungered to witness a genuinely significant upshot immediate. Every bit he would tell me later: "I wanted to be role of something large."
The rally was just a one-half-hour Metro ride from our home in Washington'south outer suburbs—so he could brand the trip alone, he bodacious me, flashing the transit app on his phone.
His case was well thought out, his explanations admirable. In fact, they were perfectly (likewise perfectly?) reverse-engineered to match my ain values. I'd always preached to him the importance of seeing things for yourself before making a decision, of talking to people individually to understand what motivated them.
Still, I suspected I was being had.
The "Crime"
The problems had started when Sam was xiii, barely a month into eighth grade. In the taxonomy of our local public school, his close grouping of friends was tagged edgy and liberal: One of them came out equally gay during a class presentation; another identified as trans for a while. Their group-text chain pulsed 24-7 with observations virtually alternative music and the robotic conformity of other classmates. Standard stuff for sensitive middle-schoolers.
I morning during first catamenia, a male person friend of Sam's mentioned a meme whose suggestive name was an inside joke between the 2 of them. Sam laughed. A daughter at the table overheard their private conversation, misconstrued it as a sexual reference, and reported it as sexual harassment. Sam's guidance advisor pulled him out of his adjacent class and defendant him of "breaking the police force." Soon, he was in the function of a male administrator who informed him that the exchange was "illegal," hinted that the police were coming, and delivered him into the custody of the school's resource officer. At the administrator's instruction, that homo ushered Sam into an empty room, handed him a blank sheet of paper, and instructed him to write a "statement of guilt."
No i chosen me as this unfolded, fifty-fifty though Sam cried for about six hours straight as staff members parked him in vacant offices to keep him away from other students. When he stepped off the motorcoach that afternoon and I asked why his optics were so swollen, he informed me that he would probably be suspended, but possibly also expelled and arrested.
If Kafka were a eye-schooler today, this is the nightmare novel he would take written.
At a meeting ii days later with my husband, Sam, and me, the administrator piled more accusations on top of the harassment charge—even implying, with undisguised hostility, that Sam and his friend were gay. He waved in front of usa a statement from the girl at the table and insisted that Sam would demand to defend himself confronting her claims if he wanted to show his innocence. But the administrator refused to reveal the particulars of the complaint (he had as well blacked out identifying details, FBI-way) and then hid the paperwork under a book. He alleged that it was his master duty, equally a school official and every bit a father of daughters, to believe and to protect the girls under his intendance.
The problems started when Sam was 13 and was defendant of sexual harassment during start catamenia at school.
In an out-of-body moment, I imagined that this very episode would be cited by some future cultural critic on the limits of liberalism, or perchance we'd show up in a sociology dissertation about the collision of babyhood and technology. Except, coming dorsum to reality, I realized there was zilch theoretical about this. Our son sat pale and trembling as he made his case. I wanted to reach out and hold his hand, but he was at the other end of the large conference table—a raft, it seemed to me, floating unprotected in a stormy body of water.
The coming together didn't go well. My hubby walked out after the administrator parsed a line in the county's code for student conduct in a specially absurd fashion, and Sam and I shortly followed. Later, from the principal, we learned that school staff had just completed a mandatory training on spotting sexual assault—and the principal acknowledged that mayhap the stress of finishing that course had caused colleagues to overreact.
Sam agreed, reluctantly, to write a letter of amends to the daughter who'd reported him and so that the debacle would come to an stop. But no hoped-for resolution materialized. Instead, Sam'south sweet earnestness, his teenage overconfidence, even his tremulous decision in the face of unjust dominance drained away, replaced by . . . goose egg. He lost all affect. He stopped eating and sleeping, complained of headaches, and regressed in agonizing ways. He couldn't concentrate, turned in no homework, and didn't fifty-fifty choice upward a pen when it was time to take a examination. Ane of his extracurricular instructors—a woman who had recently lost a educatee to suicide—overheard him talking to friends and called me to express concern. He didn't say much to united states of america, but information technology seemed obvious plenty that he felt betrayed by the adults he'd trusted.
My husband and I felt betrayed, too. Nosotros agreed that if we'd lost conviction in the administrators in charge, withdrawing Sam was our just option. We frantically researched private schools with rolling admissions and registered him every bit soon every bit he was accepted to one that seemed a good fit. The tuition was a serious stretch, just we believed that because Sam's well-being was at stake, the situation called for extraordinary measures.
On his concluding 24-hour interval at the public school, I met Sam at the autobus stop, and he reached for a hug in the center of the empty street. We were both relieved this hideous chapter was closed.
Back to Height
The Metamorphosis
But the transfer, midyear, to a new school—later he'd been wrongly defendant, unfairly treated, then unceremoniously dropped past his friends—shattered Sam. He felt totally lonely. I counseled patience, naively unprepared for what came next: when he found people to talk to on Reddit and 4chan.
Those online pals were happy to explicate that all girls lie—especially nigh rape. And they had lots more noesis to impart. They told Sam that Islam is an inherently vehement religion and that Jews run global financial networks. (We're Jewish and don't know anyone who runs anything, but I guess the testify was convincing.) They insisted that the wage gap is a fallacy, that feminazis are destroying families, that people need guns to protect themselves from government incursions onto private property. They declared that women who abort their babies should be jailed.
Sam prides himself on questioning conventional wisdom and subjecting claims to intellectual scrutiny. For kids today, that means Googling stuff. 1 might think these searches would plow up a variety of perspectives, including at least a few compelling counterarguments. I would be wrong. The Google searches flooded his developing brain with countless bias-confirming "proof" to back up whichever specious alt-right standard was existence hoisted that calendar week. Each set of results acted like fertilizer sprinkled on weeds: A wood of distortion flourished.
Sam launched a campaign to sway united states to his new views. In his listen, he was now an intrepid truth-teller disseminating critical data that mainstream society was invested in keeping under wraps. Challenges to this narrative were to exist expected—indeed, they were built into the narrative.
Photo past Evy Mages.
Photo by Evy Mages.
After befriending neo-Nazis on Reddit and 4chan, the writer's son met some of his internet heroes in real life at a 2017 rally on the Mall. Photograph by Evy Mages.
An interaction that twenty-four hours with a counterprotester was a turning point in his trip through the alt-right. Photograph courtesy of author.
Later befriending neo-Nazis on Reddit and 4chan, the author's son met some of his net heroes in real life at a 2017 rally on the Mall. An interaction that twenty-four hours with a counterprotester (bottom correct) was a turning point in his trip through the alt-right. Counterprotester photograph courtesy of author; all others past Evy Mages.
Who was living upstairs in the room with the bunk beds, surrounded by glow-in-the-night solar-system decals? I couldn't empathize how this had happened. The state of affairs was ludicrously overdetermined, every bit contrived every bit a bad movie. My married man and I poured everything nosotros had into nurturing an compassionate, observant kid. Until and so, it had seemed to be working. Teachers and family unit friends had e'er commented on Sam's kindness and particularly his gentleness toward the "underdog." Then an cyberspace chorus of alt-correct sirens sings their song ofAmerican History X to my kid and he turns into the evil twin of Alex P. Keaton: merciless, intolerant, unwilling to extend the benefit of the doubt to anyone.
The pendulum had swung. And now it was stuck.
I trained myself to freeze my facial expression into something neutral and then that when I countered Sam'south remarks—"Feminists keep divorced dads from seeing their kids" was a favorite—it would seem as if I'd actually considered his perspective. I tried to tell myself that at least he was talking to me. And at least he cared about something once more; he was blithe and engaged.
I did try to articulate my own mind enough to sympathise some situations as he did, such as his belief that the men'south-rights motility restored justice to the globe. Sam pledged fealty to the idea of men's rights because, every bit he said, his former administrator had privileged girls' words and experiences over boys', and that'south how all of his troubles had started in the first identify. I'd never in my life backed the "masculinist" crusade or imagined that men needed protecting—yet I couldn't help but agree with Sam'due south analysis.
These moments where Sam and I found common basis became increasingly rare, though. Although he had legitimate reasons to feel aggrieved, it was impossible for him to make sense of his situation or to trust that fourth dimension would heal the hurt. The chasm betwixt us grew. Head down, optics averted, he trudged straight to his room after schoolhouse, responded that he wasn't hungry when I called him down for dinner, and went to bed without saying goodnight.
Dorsum to Elevation
Meme-Globe
Shortly Sam stopped trying to convince me to join his brave new earth. He was and then active on his favorite subreddit that the other group leaders, unaware that he was 13, appointed him a moderator. Amidst his new online besties, this was a huge honor and a boost to his cratered self-esteem. He loved Reddit and its unceasing conversations almost the nuances of memes—he seemed in love with the whole enterprise, as if information technology were an adolescent crush.
But equally Sam became a courtier amidst Reddit royalty, it became articulate that meme-world was bailiwick to a hierarchy as rigid and byzantine every bit England'due south class system. If users didn't follow the rules, they got humiliated publicly. The worst offenders were people who posted "normie" memes—pictures with upper-case slogans across the top and lesser. My husband and I started to hear a lot about normies, "normie civilisation," and how normies were ruining the net and destroying what they (meme insiders?) worked so hard to attain. Sam and his swain Redditors used language that was often violently hostile: Not only did normies have no right to dare participate in meme-earth; they had no right to live. Literally.
I read later in the Daily Beast that normies are "agreeable, mainstream members of society" and that when they attempt to get in on the joke, "the joke is ruined forever." Ergo, clueless normies who put their ain spin on your bright memes deserve to die. Or something like that.
It all seemed, to a presumed normie such as me, rather . . . unhinged.
Still, the mods invited Sam to a local Meetup—and considering I'd read somewhere that your child'south internet activeness is constructive if online connections cantankerous over into IRL pals, I was actually happy for him. Friend-making at the new schoolhouse was tedious going; Sam never had plans on the weekend. Then this Reddit thing was borderline obsessive and some of the people seemed deeply disturbed, just possibly information technology would turn out okay after all?
"I liked them because they were adults and they thought I was an developed. They took me seriously."
Then the mods' chat nigh smoking weed at the Meetup became explicit rather than allusive. Sam confessed and said he knew he couldn't go.
Predictably, other problems stacked up. The top moderators aimed to approve 100 posts a day, and Sam took it as seriously as a paying job. (The ever-nowadays fear of existence chosen out serves the internet culture well.) His grades suffered, he sacrificed sleep, and stress blackened his mood. When he did talk to us, he fixated on topics like hacking and doxxing.
On top of all this, Sam's far-correct views threatened to alienate teachers and classmates at his new school. Merely when I begged him to keep his politics to himself so people could go to know him, he accused me of trying to censor him.
Over fourth dimension, my husband and I started to suspect that Sam's musings on doxxing and other dark arts might non be theoretical. One weekend morn as we were folding laundry in our room, Sam sat on the border of our bed and instructed us on how to bear if the FBI e'er appeared at our door.
What was posturing and what was real? We suspected the quondam and doubted the latter, but nosotros had no way to be certain. The situation evolved faster than nosotros could frame the questions, much less figure out the answers. When we did face up Sam—say, if nosotros caught a glimpse of a vile meme on his phone—he assured us that information technology was meant to be funny and that we didn't get it. It was either "post-ironic" or referenced multiple other events that created a maze-like series of in-jokes impossible for us to follow.
Eventually, Sam had to give up moderating for the most practical of reasons: 8th course ended and he was packing for sleep-abroad camp. He would exist offline for a month and would need other mods to cover for him. To ask for help, he had to out himself as a kid.
Sam and I both laughed about the applesauce of the situation, though he admitted he was nervous he'd exist exiled from moderating. I asked him to read me the responses to his bulletin. They were all of the "Dude, y'all've got to be kidding me" variety—1 of their most sophisticated and reliable colleagues was a middle-schooler heading off to Jewish summer army camp!
Subsequently, information technology was my turn to be surprised: They all contributed to a going-away gift for Sam and mailed an emoji-themed fidget-spinner to his bunk accost.
Back to Top
Caller, Yous're on the Air
My hubby and I hoped the digital detox would dampen Sam's passions, just later that summer his bromance with the alt-right heated upwards again. He consumed Reddit/4chan/YouTube content even more voraciously. We'd hear nearly someone who was a cuck (every bit Sam's friends understood it, a liberal man with sexual and other inadequacies). Or an SJW (social-justice warrior, sneering tone of voice implied). Or a Kek (someone associated with Kekistan, a fake country of right-wing and libertarian citizens who battle liberals, though the term has a much more complicated origin and its definition has morphed over fourth dimension). A new lexicon was to be learned if we wanted to engage with our son, and information technology was transforming equally fast equally the trolls could type—because once the normies defenseless on, the alt-right torched its terms and rolled out something new.
Despite occasionally declaring that I was finished, forever, discussing Hillary Clinton's alleged crimes, the 2d Amendment, or the video of the girl screaming "Sexual harassment!" at the security baby-sit even though he'd simply asked her to get out the foyer of an office edifice, Sam produced countless evidence via Google to validate his new behavior.
A new lexicon was to be learned if nosotros wanted to engage with our son, and it was transforming as fast equally the trolls could type.
He seemed excited—proud, even—to teach us something after so many years of having to digest information we'd fed him. He reminded me of one of my brothers, who in his own early teenage years stayed upwards late to telephone call in to talk-radio shows. On the air, no one knew he was 14. People took him equally seriously equally they would whatsoever late-nighttime caller. Reddit was Sam'southward call-in bear witness, the place where he could function-play existence an adult.
My husband and I countered all of Sam's off-kilter theories with data and introduced him to people whose views might outweigh ours. We also took him to movies, signed him up for stone climbing, bribed him to play with his baby cousins, and insisted he continue to join united states of america at the dinner table. We flat-out begged him to go on hikes, bicycle rides, and even trips to the grocery store with us—anything to extract him from the echo bedchamber. The most insignificant outings were preceded by Army camp David–level negotiations. Most of the fourth dimension, we lost.
So when Sam asked—not but in one case but over and over—to go to the Mother of All Rallies, I eventually relented. Afterward the catastrophe in Charlottesville, I certainly wasn't going to allow him go alone. Anyhow, it was a gamble to spend the day together. It had been ages since we'd done that.
Back to Height
M.O.A.R.
The morning of the rally, Sam and I arrived at the Washington Monument around 8:xxx—more than than an hour early on because Sam has always been anxious about getting to places on time. Nosotros sat on a marble bench and people-watched equally rally-goers gradually filled in the plaza. When a black-clad protester with a black bandanna tied under his eyes slinked by, Sam whispered, "Await, it'south Antifa!"—as if he'd spotted a rare species in the wild. He hurried over to ask if the man would talk for a minute, but the Antifa guy spit out a gruff no and turned away.
All of a sudden, a dozen or so reporters and camera operators noticed a man marching around with a huge Nazi flag that trailed behind him, aloft, like a cape. They started running—actually running—after him. The guy with the Nazi flag kept walking simply slowed his footstep to allow them catch upwardly, then turned around to face the cameras at exactly the moment they were upon him. The choreography was as precise as a ballet.
For the next ten minutes or so, the reporters filmed the Nazi. When they finally turned away from each other, each side seemed happy, shaking easily, nodding enthusiastically, and smiling their thanks. Information technology was the well-nigh nakedly symbiotic transaction I'd ever witnessed. The reporters and the Nazi needed each other. There was no meaning—no job—for one without the other. I glanced over at Sam, who was taking it all in.
Over fourth dimension, my married man and I started to suspect that Sam'southward musings on doxxing and other night arts might not be theoretical.
"Did you meet that?" I asked, likewise overwhelmed to offer my gloss on the state of affairs. I was prepared to allow it go if he hadn't interpreted information technology as I had.
"Yeah," he answered. Even though that was all he said, his eyes were shining and I could see he was filing away the encounter.
As nosotros made our way to the makeshift stage for speakers—side by side to the portable booths of hawkers promoting their ideologies alongside their hats, patches, and posters—Sam decided he wanted to interview every bit many people every bit he could. During the next hr and a half, he approached anti-fascist demonstrators, heavily accessorized neo-Nazis, a man draped in the greenish Kek banner, and a guy who claimed to work for a Republican senator. He recorded the conversations with his phone while I stood a few feet away. He usually asked one question—"Why are you here today?"—and let the person speak until he (they were all men) was finished.
Then Sam's head would swivel to detect me in the oversupply. As he debriefed me, he spoke nearly as if he were seeing the contrary negative of the person he'd been taping. One neo-Nazi in his early twenties was "internally inconsistent," Sam said, because he was wearing an Iron Cross as well equally an Anarchy pivot, and, every bit Sam informed me, those 2 philosophies could never coexist. Plus the guy was almost totally breathless, rambling on about how liberals were keeping him from doing what he wanted, without being able to name a single thing he'd been prevented from doing. In fact, he'd traveled here all the manner from the Midwest, only because he'd wanted to. To Sam, who was still fully, unhappily accountable to a slew of adults, that guy had the ultimate freedom—he was just looking for things to complain about.
Every bit for the Kek patriot—well, because Kekistan is an imaginary place, the fact that an adult had created a uniform and a flag for a simulated state, and then marched around in the dust like a toy soldier, seemed to Sam a ridiculous waste of fourth dimension. After all, he knew what actual fatigues looked like, thanks to our family'south active-duty military friends. He knew that real service members shipped off to lengthy deployments where they faced serious enemies and life-threatening risks.
So here they were, the star players from Reddit and 4chan, reconstituted in human course on the Mall, and none were as convincing, witty, or transgressive as they had presented themselves online. Fifty-fifty Sam'southward biggest Reddit hero—an African American Nazi who posed with him for a selfie—wasn't equally personable as he'd expected.
Toward the stop of our walk down the Mall, I spotted a middle-aged man wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed NO TRUMP. NO KKK. NO FASCIST USA. He stood solitary on the grass, holding a pocket-size poster that featured a motion-picture show of a smiling Heather Heyer, the demonstrator murdered in Charlottesville. He'd magic-markered the words A TRUE AMERICAN PATRIOT and c-ville under her photo, to a higher place a paw-drawn middle. I asked if I could take his film, merely it was hard to choke out the words because I started crying.
I called Sam over and told him, in front of the man, that standing up for your beliefs among such a large, unfriendly crowd is the definition of backbone. Sam seemed to understand. I could tell by the way he shook hands with the man—slowly and deliberately, every bit if they were each transferring something to the other.
Equally nosotros walked to the Metro, I thanked Sam for convincing me to become to the rally and so I could be reminded what real bravery looks like. "I never would have believed someone could have the guts to stand up lonely similar that, hither of all places," I told him. "I'm and so glad I saw it for myself."
"That's what you e'er tell me to do," Sam said.
Dorsum to Pinnacle
The Enkindling
In the months that followed, Sam very gradually began to act like the kid he had been before he was falsely accused of sexual harassment. He texted more with classmates than with online strangers, and every few weekends I drove him to sleepovers with other kids. I noticed that when his new group of friends said cheerio to each other, even the boys hugged.
He joined a society. This was a major milestone—he'd never been in a club before.
He watched season later on season ofThe Part with his sister as he used to, and they laughed then difficult my husband and I could hear them across the house.
His grades improved. He made eye contact. He joked and sang and volunteered to accept out the trash before I even asked.
As for me?
I was trounce-shocked—glad the crisis was over simply struggling to come up to terms with what had transpired.
My cousin, one of the few people I had confided in, suggested that I readKill All Normies, in which the author Angela Nagle tracks the rise of the online alt-correct during exactly the period Sam vicious under its spell. Opening the volume was like discovering a diary I could have written myself. Once I started reading nigh the alt-correct, I couldn't stop. I understood, at last, that the precise circumstances of the online alt-right's successful wooing of Sam at the superlative of his vulnerability were unique but that a like story was playing out in adolescent bedrooms across America. The most horrifying example, of course, was Dylann Roof, the white supremacist who massacred 9 African American parishioners in Charleston. Roof has said he became "racially aware" every bit a teenager after Googling statistics about "black on white" violence. Our family's circumstances couldn't be more than dramatically unlike than Roof's. But if Sam had been drawn into the alt-right, it was open season on any child with an internet connection.
I began to see how white supremacists have been benefiting from what the writer Carole Cadwalladr has called the "circular knowledge economic system"—how search algorithms feed an cyberspace so ravenous for content that facts are optional. But worse, I discovered how expertly extremists accept leveraged the web to prey on young people who are depressed. Search for the term "depression" on YouTube, and the professional person-looking white supremacists lecturing on cocky-empowerment might have you lot nodding in understanding, too.
"At that place NEED to be public warnings about this," said Twitter user @MrHappyDieHappy, in 1 slice I read. " 'Online pals' take attempted to groom me multiple times when at my absolute lowest."
Back to Meridian
The Reckoning
One nighttime last autumn, I left a stack of these articles on Sam's bed when he wasn't around. The story near how the alt-right purposely recruits depressed kids was on top. I walked back to my room, propped myself up in bed, and started catching up on eastward-mails.
Soon, Sam was at my door.
Then he was curled up next to me.
"Did you detest me when I was earnest to the cult?" he asked. I'd never heard him use that phrase before.
"I didn't detest you," I said afterwards a minute. I sensed this was a test, and if I passed, something of import was waiting for me. "I was merely baffled."
"I hated myself," he admitted. "I felt trapped. And now I feel so stupid." He started sobbing, raggedly, struggling to take hold of his breath. "Why would adults want to practice that? Why would they want to fool kids? How could I fall for it?"
I explained that he'd been a pawn in a much larger game. At age 13, suddenly friendless, he couldn't be expected to sympathize how he was being manipulated or how technology fabricated it easier for the online alt-correct to find him.
We talked about it every day for the next few weeks. He helped me understand how his anger and confusion over existence falsely accused had fueled everything that happened adjacent.
Simply 1 mystery remained. I asked him, bespeak-blank, why he'd finally broken from the online alt-right.
"I'd always had my doubts," he said, as if information technology were the most obvious matter in the world. "I knew liking them was incorrect. Simply I wanted to like them because everyone else hated them."
"But did you actually like them?" I asked.
"I liked them because they were adults and they thought I was an adult. I was one of them," he said. "I was participating in a conversation. They took me seriously. No one ever took me seriously—not you, not my teachers, no one. If I expressed an opinion, yous idea I was only a dumbass kid trying to notice my voice. I already had my vox."
I had no idea he'd felt that way. I couldn't call back of annihilation to say.
"All I wanted was for people to have me seriously," he repeated matter-of-factly. "They treated me like a rational man being, and they never laughed at me. I saw the mode you and Dad looked at each other and tried non to grinning when I said something. I could hear you both in your room at night, laughing at me."
I struggled for a moment because I wanted to tell him that wasn't true. Just I couldn't deny his accusation. Behind closed doors, when my husband and I thought our children were asleep, we had often vented to each other about Sam's off-the-wall proclamations and the bizarre situation nosotros found ourselves in.
And so I told Sam simply that I was sorry for making him feel bad.
I even so think nearly his words a lot, particularly when alt-right figures headline the news. Merely mostly, I wonder how I could accept tried so difficult to parent Sam through this crisis and yet tripped up on something as basic every bit non making my own kid feel pocket-sized.
Thankfully, Sam moved on. By the fall of tenth form, he seemed at peace for the first time since he'd stepped off the motorbus almost 2 years earlier, face puffy from crying, to inform me he'd broken the law.
That'south why my fears came roaring back when Sam and I heard on the radio one twenty-four hour period that another Female parent of All Rallies was taking place on the Mall that very weekend—and Sam asked if nosotros could get. Together.
My breath caught. He must take seen my face up change.
"As counterprotesters?" he asked, eyes gleaming.
*Sam is a pseudonym to protect the writer's child.
This article appears in the May 2019 upshot of Washingtonian.
Source: https://www.washingtonian.com/2019/05/05/what-happened-after-my-13-year-old-son-joined-the-alt-right/
0 Response to "You Again Stop the Alt Right"
Postar um comentário