wake-up call
This is going to be a fairly radical departure from what you’re used to seeing from me. I don’t usually write about things as serious as this. Well, that’s not exactly true. I write about serious things all the time; I just don’t often publish them. It’s my way of processing situations I find stressful, painful, or otherwise distasteful. And truth be told, I think I’m better at writing than speaking. I still ramble—my favorite “editor” once described my writing style as “breezy”—but I try to do it in an accessible way. Anyway, if you’ve read my stuff before, then maybe buckle up. It’s about to get much more raw than you may be expecting.
For starters, I’m flat out embarrassed to admit that I grew up in a part of the country that’s been named one of the most racist regions in America for several years. No, it isn’t the deep south. It’s Western New York. For those of you that are geographically or directionally challenged, it’s the part that sticks out to the left of the rest of the state like a big middle finger aimed at Ohio. And why not? I love most people I know from Ohio, but I so hate driving through it.
I probably should’ve added that while this will be serious, it will maintain some degree of sarcasm. I can’t help myself.
But back to serious. It wasn’t just the area. I know I’ll upset people when I say this, but I have many blood relatives who are very racist—even by a 20th century definition. They might tell you it’s how they were raised, or where they lived, or even that it was accepted back then as “just the way it is.” But those rationalizations are at least in part why we are where we are today. Why we still have people making those same excuses.
To be fair, I’m no saint. I had my own set of fears growing up about people who looked different than I did. I’m sure I made racist comments and told racist jokes. The fact that I didn’t actually believe any of what I was saying doesn’t matter at all. It wasn’t okay then and it isn’t okay now. If I could go back in time I’d kick my own ass.
The thing is, I didn’t feel racist back then. I had plenty of people of other races I considered friends, and I never saw them as anything but people. We played together. We laughed. We did what friends do, because I was taught to not see color. Back then, we used the word prejudice. I still remember my grandmother (who had her own fears and hard beliefs) telling me not to judge others by the color of their skin. She used to say we’re all the same inside, and that’s what matters. She also used to mix all of her food together on one plate and eat it like some horror movie goulash, because she said it all ended up in the same place anyway. That one didn’t stick, but maybe it’s just because I don’t care that much about food.
Up until recently, I would’ve said the same thing I did before: I don’t see color. I see people. But I realize now that as well-intended as I was, I only saw half the story. Maybe less than half. I was so focused on ignoring the surface-differences that I couldn’t move below the surface to see the real value in others. The qualities that make each of us wonderful and unique.
Today, I’m fortunate to be part of our company’s Diversity & Inclusion Council. And in the few months we’ve existed, my eyes have been opened wider than I ever imagined. I couldn’t be more grateful to our CEO and my colleagues for teaching me to see.
The horrifying actions that took the life of George Floyd were a sobering wake-up call for much of the nation at a time when we should have all been wide awake, working together to make sure things like that don’t happen to other human beings. I can’t condone or agree with answering this kind of lawlessness with more lawlessness, but I am beginning to understand it differently. And while I’m sure that some people are using this situation to mask bad intent, I’m equally sure in my heart that the majority of protests—even those that turn violent—are acts of desperation by people we have made to feel invisible for far too long. People who feel they have run out of options to make others see them. People who don’t want their color washed away, even by the most well-intentioned of white people.
Today, we had the first in a series of “office hours” to give our colleagues a chance to talk about their feelings, grieve, and share their own personal stories. Over 100 people gathered on Zoom with no agenda other than to talk and to listen. I’m not embarrassed to say that most of the stories I heard moved me to tears. I’m self-aware enough to know that as a 50-year old straight, white male, I can never fully understand what my friends of color endure every day. Hell, one of the worst experiences I had to endure growing up was overhearing a hot girl at the mall tell her friend I was really cute but too short. So not the same. Besides, I prefer to think of myself as “partially tall.”
My height or lack thereof aside, I was not prepared in any way for what I heard on this call. The raw emotion and brutal honesty shook me to my core. I was simultaneously inspired by my colleagues’ courage and horrified by my own ignorance. I had absolutely no idea what reality looked like.
One colleague told the story of how her 5-year old daughter experienced racism on her first day of kindergarten. Kindergarten. A white classmate informed her that her mother said she wasn’t allowed to sit near any black kids. Let that sink in for a moment.
I recognize that if I publish this piece on Thrive Global I’ll have to edit this next part out, but I have to ask that little white girl’s mom (and anyone else would give similar guidance to their child), what the actual fuck is wrong with you? I know I usually save my cussing (that’s southern for swearing) for my novels, but if ever there was an appropriate use of an f-bomb, it’s this one. I am not a religious man, but to teach a child this kind of behavior is pure evil. There’s no other word more fitting.
I’m also not a violent person, but if someone had said something like that to my kid, I’m not sure what I would do. I can’t even wrap my head around it. But what I can do is reflect. Reflect on the fact that there are millions more stories like that one. Some even more disgusting. Some, like George Floyd’s, ending in death. And I can’t help but wonder if we as a society had stopped to pay attention—to notice the world around us and all the people in it and ask them what they need instead of deciding for them what they want—we might not be talking about riots today.
As recently as a year ago, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the difference between diversity and inclusion. Now I think I get it. You can achieve diversity by having a bunch of books with different covers, but remember the old saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” To achieve inclusion, you have to be willing to crack the covers and appreciate the stories.
Everyone has a background that shapes who they are. I’ve often said I’m the least Italian Italian person you’ll ever meet. I don’t much care for pasta. I have no gold jewelry. I don’t drive a sports car. I’m, by most accounts, a pretty patient person with a relatively even temper. And I have female relatives who grow better beards than I do.
Some of that is genetic, of course. I also spent most of my young life at the hip of a half-Austrian lady who was tough as nails, but had an amazing capacity to love and give of herself. She taught me our family’s most important rule—be a good human. I know I haven’t always been so successful with that one, but it’s always been in my heart because that’s where she left it. And I’ll never stop trying to be better, because I know that’s what she would have wanted for me.
I listen to a lot of music of all kinds. I’m fascinated by how all of the disparate sounds—voices and instruments—fit together to form songs. And when I think about diversity and inclusion now, it’s hard to not think about one of my favorite t-shirts (thank you, designers at Life is Good): it says, “Music is what color sounds like.”
Incidentally, that half-Austrian lady was also half Italian, so I’ll close with the only Italian phrase I know, because she said it to me every night before I went to sleep:
“Buona serata. Arrivederci domattina.”
Cheers.
