I Have Decided to Stick with Love

When my youngest daughter, Lizzie, was in the second grade, I was trying to explain why we recognize Martin Luther King Jr. as a federal holiday. She looked at me with bewilderment and horror when I began sharing the troubling history of our nation’s past. She listened intently as I shared with her some of MLK’s words, tried to explain what they meant, and when and why he said them. I tried to explain words like prejudice, discrimination, racism, slavery, oppression, and inequality - all words and concepts that seemed foreign to her. I described what it meant to have segregated schools, businesses, and bathrooms. I explained that her grandfather was tasked with bringing order to some of the racial riots of the 60s during his service in the army. I finally asked if she had any questions. She looked at me with her big green, concerned and confused eyes and asked, “So, Grandpa wasn’t allowed in the same restaurant as white people?”

I paused for a moment and then just stated the obvious, “Lizzie, Grandpa is white.”

Her eyebrows raised in disbelief. “He is?!” She said with shock in her voice.

So, I started the conversation over - breaking the news to her that Grandpa and our entire family was white. As we talked about our own races and the race of others, she truly had a difficult time identifying the race of each person. After trying to explain some of the different races, I had her try to identify the race of different people she knew - an exercise that felt both necessary, but utterly arbitrary. She correctly pointed out that most people were simply different shades of brown. She also looked at me with those innocent eyes and said with a bit of frustration, “Why does this even matter?”

I paused and then just flatly replied, “Well… I guess that’s my point… What race someone is doesn’t matter.” Then, I thought some more and corrected myself acknowledging the cruelty of a world she had failed to know yet, “Well, it shouldn’t matter.”

I grew up in a town with very few people of color. I think every kid in my school was white. Despite our homogenous surroundings, we found a way to create wedges among ourselves based on where someone was from. There were two elementary schools that combined into our junior/senior high school. As a kid from Ferdinand Elementary, I thought of the kids from the other elementary school, Pine Ridge Elementary, as rough, mean, and scary. I was sure they all carried knives in their boots and were just waiting for an opportunity to carve their initials in my chest. I didn’t dislike them, but the stories that I had heard - like about the boy that broke a teacher’s glasses by hurling a basketball in his face in gym class - made me think I was better off keeping my distance.

Even though some of my teachers talked about the ugliness of racism, I didn’t think a lot about the topic as a kid. Living in my bubble, I thought of racial division mostly as some distant history and just background noise in my world. These were issues for the generations before me. When the issue of race was a topic even on TV shows that I watched as a kid, like Archie Bunker’s views of African-Americans, Hispanics, Asians, Jews (or really anyone different than himself) or George Jefferson’s intollerance of interracial marriage, it mostly drove home my view that those positions were outdated and based on fear, hate, and ignorance.

I certainly never thought of myself as racist. After all, as a young teenager, many of the heroes that I idolized on TV happened to be black men. I wanted to dunk like Michael Jordan, dance like Michael Jackson, and make people laugh like Edie Murphy. And yet, I don’t think that I even had a single conversation with someone that wasn’t white until I was probably 11 or 12 years old, and I’m not sure that experience even counts as a conversation. Some friends and I had gone to a high school basketball game in Evansville, a nearby city with more diversity than my hometown. We were busy running around the bleachers in the gym, when we crossed paths with a black boy that looked a couple of years older than us who was dressed in a colorful baggy sweatsuit. We were immediately enamored by the novelty of seeing what we thought was a young Michael Jackson. We so badly wanted to meet him. Strength and courage comes in numbers, so we all approached him with big adoring smiles and wide eyes. As we nudged closer, it became clear we had no real gameplan on how to engage. The boy stood alone staring at us with a mixture of confusion and uneasiness as a group of white kids that he had never met approached him. After a moment of awkwardness, one of my friends cheerfully asked, “Hey, do you know how to breakdance?”

The boy smiled slightly and then without saying anything, simply popped his arms rolling an invisible ball from the back of one hand, down his arm over his shoulders, and down to the other arm. We all cheered and begged for more. He continued to oblige us - even willingly teaching us some of his moves. And, we were eager to show him some of our moves as well. So, we stood together breakdancing in the upper bleachers of a gym, showing the world our commitment to racial solidarity.

Had someone accused us of being racist, we would have sneered with indignation and been insulted by such an inaccurate and insulting claim. Didn’t our shared moment of breakdancing prove that? In our minds, judging someone based on their skin color seemed like something only for the sad, deep, troubling history of the past, not a real issue of current time. We would have dismissed the very idea. That wasn’t us.

In fact, we would have argued that we didn’t judge others by their race while at the very same time assuming a complete stranger that was black could breakdance. Even though we prejudged his interests before muttering a word to him, we never equated that to being prejudice. And, although that ignorant moment as young boys was relatively harmless, it also exposed some of the biases and ignorance that was baked into our belief system. Racial biases, prejudices, and outright racism were alive and well - not just in those around me, but sadly within me as well. If you would have asked me to find a doctor in that gym, I’m pretty sure I would have first approached the white dads in the crowd.

I’m ashamed and troubled by the biases that I held (and perhaps unknowingly still have), but denying them would be even more dangerous. I would love to say that the fact that Lizzie didn’t see race or recognize race issues by second grade speaks to the progress that I’ve made in my views on race and the progress our society has made with racial relations. And, yet, the truth is that it speaks more to both our white privilege. She didn’t see race because she never had to personally suffer from racist views. She never was excluded from a recess game just because she looked a little different. And more importantly, where she lived, the jobs her parents had, and the life her grandparents led did not include stories of overcoming a system that was stacked against her. It wasn’t that racial oppression didn’t exist. As a white kid, it just didn’t exist for her.

We all have a way of gravitating to our tribe, especially when we are uncomfortable or scared. People that look like ourselves seem familiar. Those that look different seem different and that can be unsettling, even threatening. The question isn’t whether or not we have these deeply held biases. The question is what we do about them. Do we strive to overcome them? Do we try to get to know people outside our tribe? Do we succumb and fester the stereotypes that reside in our brain or do we try to fight against them?

One of the struggles that I have with President Trump is that not only doesn’t he challenge people to move past their deeply nested biases and prejudices, he exploits and inflames them. He preys on people’s fears by citing wildly inaccurate claims about blacks killing whites, characterizes undocumented Mexican immigrants as rapists and animals, classifies all Muslims as terrorists - calling for the travel ban on the entire religion. He has drawn a moral equivalence from self-proclaimed Nazis rallying together and groups of people protesting that very group, and has told black and brown members of Congress that if they don’t agree with his policies that they should go back to the countries they’re from.

President Trump has built a campaign convincing others that America wasn’t great anymore, called our country a laughingstock, spoke of American carnage in his inaugural address, became politically known by spreading wild falsehoods about the birthplace of President Obama, regularly attacked and undermined the FBI and CIA, called his top Generals “Dopes” and “Babies,” refused (and still refuses) to acknowledge Russian interference in our elections, called an American city a rat and rodent infested mess, and made up an injury to dodge Vietnam Service. If anyone should leave the United States because they are not happy with its policies or aren't sufficiently patriotic, I think it should probably be him.

I am obviously not a fan of President Trump, but I do continue to love so many President Trump supporters. The one thing that living with a terminal disease has taught me is that even those that have different political views - and may even see the world very differently than I do - still have kindness in their heart. Many people that I vehemently disagree with on Trump’s rhetoric and actions are the very same people that have written, called, and prayed for me. So, although I still find it important to respectfully disagree, challenge, and call out views that I find damaging to this world, I have learned that even misguided or hateful views are driven from earnest beliefs that are rooted in what others see as love - such as necessary actions to protect their family or our country. Hateful beliefs don't originate from hate; they are born out of fear.

I don’t condone the views, but I accept the people. I also continue to work on breaking down the stereotypes and preconceived thoughts that I hold toward others. Today, when I think of black males, I no longer think of basketball stars, rappers, and gang members. Instead I think of close friends like Larry Winters and Terrill Krigger, who were there to let me cry on their shoulders (literally) during my darkest hours after my diagnosis. When I think of a doctor, I no longer think of only old white males; I think of my female Indian-American friend, Dr. Vasantha Aaron, that I met on the sidelines of my daughters soccer field, who also happens to be a nuclear medicine radiologist at IU Health University Hospital that reads my PET/CT scans and has been one of my strongest advocates for my health.

And, when I think of strong Trump supporters, I think of people like Jimmy Smith - someone from Pine Ridge Elementary (that “other” elementary school) who I had almost nothing in common, someone that wanted to fight me in school and was someone that I was convinced would be rather happy to see my die - who also happens to be one of the first people that called me after my cancer diagnosis asking if he could pray for my healing.

In general, the more that I have taken time to get to know others, the more that I realize what we have in common. It also turns out that the other kids from Pine Ridge weren’t so bad either. Most of the stories that I had heard weren’t all true or came with a perspective that I could better understand only when hearing it from someone that lived it. The kid that hit a teacher with a basketball wasn’t the rebellious bully I had imagined, but instead was an incredibly smart and driven guy (with incredibly unlucky aim) who went on to graduate from MIT with straight As, became a successful hedge fund manager, and retired in his late 30s.

Like Dr. King, “I’m concerned about a better world. I’m concerned about justice; I’m concerned about brotherhood and sisterhood; I’m concerned about truth.”

And like King, I believe “the ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty by the bad people but the silence over that by the good people.” But like King, I also believe “We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back.” Like King, I believe, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

Love begins with understanding. We must not only be willing to stand for issues that are important; we must be willing to sit and listen to others that disagree. We must find a way to disagree without being so disagreeable. We must find a way to push away from assigning each other labels like conservative, liberal, redneck or snowflake and make an effort to get to know others not like us.

For the last 18 months since my diagnosis, I am grateful to have so many others walking by my side. They are not by white friends, brown friends, or black friends. They are not my doctor friends, Trump Supporter friends, my high school friends, or my rich or poor friends. They are simply my friends. It’s easy to cast others aside and stay in our echo chambers shouting to those that agree. But one thing that I know for sure… My life feels full not because I’ve surrounded myself with people just like me, but because I have so many people not like me that have challenged my thinking and have made me a better version of myself for doing so.

As we celebrate MLK’s life and legacy, we should not only take a moment to remember his words, we should strive to live out his Dream. Like MLK, “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.”