Three events significantly altered the direction of my life. The third incident (by date not by impact) was when three white supremacists dragged James Byrd behind their truck and to his death in my hometown of Jasper, Texas.

​

James’ mom, Stella, was a family friend and his brutal murder had a profound impact on me – mainly because, for years, I had been far too busy with my career and fabulous life to waste my time fighting for unpleasant things like racial equality and social justice. Hearing of James’ death by the hands of ignorant, despicable racists was the ultimate wake-up call. It also immediately brought to mind the first incident that changed my life forever.  

 

In college, as required by my Criminal Justice degree, I spent 40 hours volunteering at the Gardner-Betts Juvenile Justice Center in Austin. My first day, I met a thirteen-year-old black inmate named Michael who had been charged with attempted murder. After a few days of my tutoring Michael, he started cautiously confiding in me. Over the next few weeks, the life story he revealed was like something out of a horror movie.

 

Michael’s earliest memory is hysterically crying while crawling over his mother who was unconscious and bleeding profusely from her head. Although he never knew how she was hurt that particular time, he later assumed she had been beaten by one of her live-in boyfriends or her pimp, a pattern that would repeat itself until Michael was arrested. He knew his mom was a prostitute, and men would come and go all day and night. A couple of them had been nice to him, but those didn’t seem to last very long. The others would beat him, mock him, have sex with his mother in front of him, burn him with cigarettes and, in the case of the man who was possibly his birth father, force him to try marijuana at the age of seven.

 

Michael had two older brothers, but one was in prison from the time Michael was born and the other was killed in a drive-by shooting when Michael was three. Once in a while, his mom would ask him to deliver little packages around their decrepit apartment complex, instructing him to bring back the money he was given in return. His best buddy lived next door and they would leave really early on summer mornings and roam around the neighborhood until well after dark.   

​

After wheezing most of his life, the school nurse determined Michael had acute asthma, but he never got the proper medication to ease it. He started stealing at eight, hardcore drug use at ten and, because he and his mom were being increasingly terrorized, joined a gang at twelve for protection. The attempted murder charge was a result of his initiation into the gang, which required Michael to kill a random stranger for his jacket.  The night before Michael shot the guy, he decided not to go through with it, but the gang members said they would kill his mom if he backed out. 

 

For as long as I live, I will never forget this child’s face as he calmly and candidly described his reality.  The flashes of shame, bitterness, acceptance, anger, heartbreak, innocence, resentment, sorrow, rage and regret that intermittently crossed his face and flickered in his eyes are forever scorched in my mind. I wish I could adequately describe the memory to you, but I have rewritten it over ten times and can’t find the words to do it justice.

​

Meeting Michael was a radically life-changing experience for me. It took a thirteen-year-old to act as a mirror into my soul, forcing me to accept the dark shadow inside of myself. Every word Michael spoke was an indictment of my past prejudices, judgments and intolerances. My past behaviors haunted me, and every moment I mistreated and misjudged someone “beneath me” came flooding back – every time I automatically conjured hateful classist and racist thoughts when passing people on the street; every inappropriate joke at another’s expense; each and every time I took for granted how blessed my life has been.  

​

Michael taught me more than any degree ever could. He taught me about empathy, compassion and what it means to truly forgive those who trespass against you in egregious ways. He gave me unconditional trust and friendship. He showed me that although nature loads the gun, nurture pulls the trigger.

 

A year after I met Michael, the second life-altering lesson occurred when I received The Phone Call from my dad. My mom was a volunteer at a food pantry in the Dallas inner-city and, even after my enlightening experience with Michael, I could only hope it was a phase that would pass without disrupting my life in any way.  I mean, surely I couldn’t possibly be expected to go down there and serve at Thanksgiving or anything – I mean, please.

​

The day my dad called, he asked that I come to an address that sounded suspiciously like one I knew in a shady neighborhood. After rolling my eyes and making very rude remarks about bulletproof vests, I went. My worst fears were soon realized. The parentals were moving from swanky North Dallas into the inner-city neighborhood where my mom volunteered, because they thought it was important for them to “be a part of the community” they were trying to help.  

 

Well, you can just imagine the absolute spoiled brat fit I threw. I asked repeatedly how they could do this to me and I made it clear this was irresponsible, dangerous and that I was never, ever coming to visit ever again. You know, because all this was about me.

 

One month later, I relented and went to my parent’s new home for dinner (which I feel certain had something to do with a need to borrow money).  I maintained my dignity by making a big show of taking cover against the potential gunfire as I advanced with my baseball bat toward the front door. I also purchased a brand new, heavy duty Club steering wheel lock on the way over, just to prove I hadn’t changed my mind about this nonsense. Taking the involuntary commitment papers may have gone too far, but I think I made my point.  

 

We were seated for dinner when the doorbell rang. Standing on the porch was a filthy, stinky man with bloodshot eyes who reeked of alcohol. I shot my dad a major I-told-you-so look while, at the same time, wondered why he never looked quite as compassionate when I appeared on the doorstep in this condition. Quietly, the man said to my dad, “Could you please keep this $200 until tomorrow morning? I’m afraid I will spend it on drugs and I’m trying so hard to stay clean.”  

​

Seeing this man had neither an ulterior motive nor anywhere else to turn, I finally realized that by my parent’s very presence in that neighborhood – just by showing up – they had made more of an impact before their breakfast than I had made in my entire life.  

 

Looking back, I really shouldn’t have had the nerve to be such a self-centered, spoiled brat because at the time my professional life was mediocre at best. Sure, I had my share of success and made a little cash, but working in the energy industry back in the day made that pretty easy. It’s my when the wind is right even turkeys can fly theory.

 

The central reason for my lukewarm success was, let’s be honest, it’s somewhat difficult for someone in their early 20s to get super stoked about pipelines and British thermal units for very long. Plus, because I made decent money when I did work, I had to do so less often which fueled a self-perpetuating lack of interest. 

 

My dad would often say that, if I worked an entire year with no travel breaks, I would, amazingly enough, be able to pay off my student loans and establish a savings account. But I never really grasped that concept. To the contrary, whenever I would begin to make headway in my career, I found I could no longer breathe, and my wanderlust instincts kicked in with full force. Very soon thereafter, I would find myself on the next plane, off once again in search of some sea no man can measure. Each time I got back, I felt far less inclined to reengage in my career and, when I did, I felt even more like I was on a fast train to nowhere. 

 

That said, although pipelines and British thermal units couldn’t hold my undivided attention, I’m actually an extremely motivated and determined person. When called upon, I’ll do my best to get the job done and get it done right. Knowing this about myself, I’m convinced I know a profession where I would have been wildly successful. It’s a job that transforms entrepreneurship and intelligence into commerce. It’s a job where seamless, tight organization and flawless execution are critical to its success. It’s a job that allows even those with a seventh-grade education to excel. It’s a job that offers a unique chance to provide for those you love in ways that you never imagined.

 

Without a doubt, I would have been the most successful drug dealer on the street.

 

It’s not that I have a criminal mind… I’ve never been charged with a major crime in my life. It’s not that I’m a big fan of drugs… I tried them and never figured out what the big deal was. It’s not that I’m lazy… I’m actually quite energetic. If I were indeed a successful drug dealer, there would be one reason and one reason alone for my phenomenal success: I would be in a position where I felt I had no other choice.

 

This is not said to condone criminal behavior and chemical dependency or to justify poor self-control and excuse those who languish in a lifetime of debauchery. However, it’s time to put the judgment on hold and get really honest about why people sometimes do the things they do.

​

Be extra careful in your indictment of others. Have you never done something that you thought you would never do only to later be ashamed because you were better than what you did? Quite frankly, when it comes to most of our social issues, far too much energy is spent finger pointing and placing blame – which is a massive waste of time. The fact is we are where we are regardless of who played what part. Let’s just focus on solving the problems, then we can sort all the rest out later. 

 

For all our sakes, we need to move forward toward reconciliation instead of backward to condemnation. Our goal should be to mitigate the current problems and put mechanisms in place to prevent history from repeating itself, not to continue to exacerbate the problems through denial, defensiveness, and accusation.

 

We also need to be 100% honest about what is really going on here. There is no getting around the actual evidence; facts that many people continually refuse to acknowledge. Some people try hard to convince themselves, despite the rather straightforward statistics, that it’s some miraculous coincidence that people who are involved in injurious behavior are often the ones who are caught in the vicious cycle of economic and racial inequities.

 

Having gone to graduate school to study psychology, I’ve been inundated with the various psychological theories that attempt to explain the intricacies of nature versus nurture. Most of the theories have valid points, but none of them encompass the true complexity of the relationship.

​

In truth, we don’t need some textbook to explain this. Watching carefree children as they run and laugh on the playground tells us all we need to know. What happens to their innocence? There is only one sensible answer: Circumstance.

​

Certainly, we each have innate personality traits that contribute to our reaction to circumstance, and some dispositions are more difficult to control and are more potentially damaging than others. But it cannot be denied that being self-actualized is much more difficult when you experience trauma to the extent Michael has.  

​

Seven-year-old minds don’t have the ability to appropriately assimilate and process violent and shocking experiences. Therefore, their only alternative is to internalize them. And then those seven-year-old minds suddenly find themselves encapsulated in eighteen-year-old bodies.  

 

I’m confident that, after you read about the policies in these books, you will recognize the balance I strive for between personal responsibility and compassion. I’m equally certain that my capitalistic beliefs come through crystal clear. I firmly believe that, when done fairly and correctly, a rising tide lifts all boats (it’s my s%^# rolls downhill theory).

 

​But good grief, can we please have some empathy and humility about it? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been stuck at dinner with people – draped in $5,000 suits, sipping $100 cognac, and dripping with a sense of entitlement – regaling the table with stories of their exceptional brilliance. With every sip, they become more and more convinced they are somehow smarter and more deserving than everyone else (especially those lazy ass people who should get a job but instead sit around all day smoking crack and having babies that the government will have to support).

 

People like this make me want to stab myself in the eye with my dinner fork. My aversion to these types has grown so deep that I now actually request the waiter remove my utensils as quickly as possible, just in case. I mean, who do these blowhards think they are? If only modesty, compassion and humility could be bought on Fifth Avenue.  

 

Believe me, I understand and appreciate hard work as much as anyone. I understand having pride in one’s accomplishments and deserving the success that follows. I’m neither short on self-confidence nor self-appreciation. I think so highly of myself and my triumphant endeavors that I have to practically force myself not to kiss my reflection in the mirror every morning.  : )

 

However, I also fully appreciate the contribution of an extremely comprehensive support system, a financially blessed upbringing, private school education and just plain luck. These factors have contributed exorbitantly to my having access to a vast array of choices in my life (and should be given full credit for my knowing the word exorbitantly). There were tons of avenues available to me. So many, in fact, that not once was I forced to consider being a drug dealer to achieve my dreams.

 

I recognize there are far more than two options. I’ve seen people born in the most devastating conditions imaginable work four jobs to ensure they wouldn’t have to engage in a life of crime. I also know plenty of people raised with a ton of money and opportunity who have crashed and burned. However, from my experience and with minor exception, this last group always miraculously rebounds virtually unscathed from their mistakes and bad decisions. Redemption seems to come much easier when you can afford rehab and qualified attorneys. It’s funny how prosperity can hide a multitude of sins.  

 

But I learned a long time ago that many ignorant and hateful people will believe what they believe regardless of the massive amount of evidence you provide. They subscribe to the ol’ we’re on the boat now pull up the ladder theory. After years of frustration, I have decided to stop trying to change these hateful people’s minds. I have simply had enough of listening to idiotic, repulsive theories from uninformed people who possess zero facts to back-up their position. Those people aren’t going to be my close friends or anything –since I prefer people who have all their internal organs, including a brain and a heart – but I’ve made peace with the fact that some people make a conscious choice to develop a belief system that makes them feel better about themselves and less guilty about failing to act on the behalf of others.

 

So, to those hateful people: Go ahead and fool yourself into thinking you are smarter, more worthy, and that God loves you more than the child born to a fifteen-year-old mother in a crowded and dangerous public housing unit. Feel free to believe that the 36.8 million people living in poverty are stupid, lazy and that they just want to sit around and live off the government so they can drink cheap, hot beer on the stoop – just because it’s so much fun.​ Continue to denounce statistics that say children born into low-income families perform far worse on almost all indicative measures including physical health, emotional health, cognitive ability, literacy and school engagement. Perpetuate the argument that people who experience the deeply entrenched stress of poverty are in their position because they made their own conscious choice to be there... that they somehow think life is better as an unemployed, uneducated drug addict whose children have virtually no chance of breaking the nightmare cycle they were lucky enough to be born into.  

​

To those hateful people who believe such things: It’s certainly your right in a free society to believe some or even all these things. But then what? If your hypothesis is correct – and absent an exit strategy – we’re essentially screwed. If you are right, it’s virtually impossible for non-stupid, non-lazy, God-blessed Americans to procreate fast enough to overtake the ever-growing population of quart-guzzling, crack-shooting, border-jumping, gun-wielding lazy freeloaders that threaten our very existence. Holy smoke, we better move to Canada!

 

But before we pack, is it possible there is a better way to approach social justice? Is it possible that blaming the victim, justifiable or not, has incessantly proven to be a losing strategy and that we all as Americans and human beings have an ultimate bond of common fate?

 

Callous voices that carry little empathy for the vulnerable may sound somewhat credible when they speak of thousands of unseen people, but I am living proof that their argument deflates when you look into the eyes of just one. I challenge anyone to stand before a destitute, desperate mother who has neither the capacity nor the resources to create a better life for her children. Lifelong hopelessness, addiction and abuse have catapulted her into a perpetual cycle of despair and now her children are left to raise themselves, as she was, in a drug infested neighborhood where they can either hit the streets or helplessly watch the world through the steel bars of their tiny rat-infested apartment. 

​

Look into the eyes of her kids who, at home, are surrounded by complete chaos and who, at school, are falling farther and farther behind their classmates with no chance of catching up.

 

I would love to see your resolve then, because it’s far harder to crush a person’s spirit to their face than it is when gossiping over cocktails – or when signing legislation.