Provocative title, I know. It is taken from a John Travolta
movie that was released in the mid-'90s, which likely took its title from the
Rudyard Kipling poem of the same name. It was a clumsy attempt at trying to show the trials and tribulations that African Americans go through on a daily basis. I don't remember much of the movie beyond the fact that whites were in the minority and faced arrest for any reason black officers felt like. I had not thought of that movie for years—until the
grand jury decisions in the Michael Brown shooting and the Eric Garner choking case were released. Somehow, those decisions, opened a door in the back of my mind, and amongst all the cobwebs was a memory of a movie I saw in 1995.
Reflecting on that movie I know that, while it had good intentions, I will never know what it is like to be a minority in this country. I will never know what it is like to be pulled over for driving while black. I will likely never be killed by a police officer because of my race. I have struggled with how to explain these events to my teenaged son.
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I do not understand how or why people are judged by the color of their skin. The entire concept of doing so is foreign to me. I think I owe part of that my high school principal, Milt McPike; he had such an influence on my life it is hard to even describe his impact on me. I never looked at him as a black man. He was my high school principal who caught me chewing tobacco on school grounds. Instead of calling my parents, he had me follow the janitors around for a month, cleaning out trash cans where other students had spit their tobacco juice. He never scolded me or raised his voice when he caught me, even though he was physically intimidating. He just said, "Mr. Andersen, I am disappointed in you." I felt like I had let him down. I would like to say I never chewed tobacco again, but that would be a lie. I never did chew on school grounds again, though. Not because I feared punishment, but out of respect for Mr. McPike.
Other role models followed, like SFC Childress, my senior drill sergeant—and you never forget your drill sergeants. He was tough, but fair. Then there was SSG Kennedy with his Vietnam combat patch and a scar that ran from from his ear to his mouth. I learned leadership from him, and I would have followed him to the gates of hell and back. And there was Sergeant Wills, who bent over backwards to get me promoted to specialist. I never once thought about judging any of these men by the color of their skin. I looked up to them, they were role models to me.
I can never understand the despair in Ferguson that has led to rioting, for I will never be so despondent, so without hope. I had hoped that with the election of President Obama that we had moved beyond racism in this country, but if anything, his election brought the racists out of their holes and out into the light. They actually seem to be emboldened now that they are out in the open. The Republican Party does not hate our president for his policies. His policies are closer to those of Ronald Reagan than those of FDR. They despise him for the color of his skin.
While I have struggled with explaining these events to my son, I look back through photos of his past football season. I see a mix of white and black faces on a team of young men who are segregated not by color, but by position, each of them working together as a team. They give me hope for the future. There is no hate in their teenage hearts, and I hope their never is.
Just because I do not understand why people hate, and that I cannot comprehend what it is like to be on the receiving end of that hate ,does not mean I cannot show empathy towards those feeling racism's sting, nor does it mean that I cannot be outraged at those who practice racism.
I don't often write about race. In the back of my head I fear that I will say the wrong thing or stick my foot in my mouth. Not out of malice, but from a lack of understanding of what it is like to be persecuted just because of the color of your skin.