An Unqualified Comment: Race, Identity, and a Response
In 2015, Thabo Sefolosha, an NBA small forward, was arrested in New York City while standing outside a club with his teammate Pero Antić. Earlier that evening, another NBA player, Chris Copeland was stabbed by a stranger, which shut down the club. Sefolosha and Antić were near the scene of the stabbing, and the responding officers subsequently arrested them for obstruction, disorderly conduct, and resisting arrest. It was during that arrest that the officer broke Sefolosha’s leg, ending his season and leading to surgery.
Eventually, the police dropped the charges against Antić, while Sefolosha rejected a plea bargain. I followed Sefolosha when he played for the Bulls, and everything about the case seemed uncharacteristic of what I knew of him. It turned out that Sefolosha had done nothing that warranted the arrest or the infliction of a broken tibia. He took his case to trial, and the jury found him not guilty. Sefolosha then sued NYC for damages, which led to a $4 million settlement.
As this story played out, I found myself waiting for a basketball game at the YWCA with my friend and fellow lawyer, Jay Hall. We discussed the craziness of a well-respected NBA player being so violently detained that it resulted in a broken bone. What started as an innocuous discussion about basketball and the law proved to be an enlightening moment on race and identity.
Jay grew up in Kansas City, Kansas, which has one of the most diverse populations in Kansas. Despite having a relatively large minority percentage, Jay indicated he was regularly one of a few individuals—or literally the only person—with dark skin surrounded by people of light skin. His experience is 180 degrees different from my experience growing up in rural Iowa that was 99.5% white, according to census records. It wasn’t until college when I remember ever being in a situation where I was the minority, and it’s a situation I have seldom experienced since.
As Jay and I discussed Thabo Sefolosha’s experience, he brought up the reality of being a black man and minority in America. When I grew up, my skin was never my identity. I could make statements like “I am an American” or “I am a Christian” or “I am __________.” I could fill in the blank with most anything, but rarely did skin color qualify who I was. The first time I recall being a minority was at a sushi restaurant in Sydney, Australia where Tara and I were the only Caucasians in a restaurant filled with people of Asian lineage. There was nothing hostile or threatening about the situation, but it was uncomfortable to look around and—for the first time—see no one who else who looked like us. It struck me at the time how challenging it would be to experience such a feeling every single day.
Jay described that the experience of being a minority is most noticeable when encountering a police officer. In that moment, there is no escaping the history of police violence against minorities in our country—only the prospect of being sized up based on a superficial assessment. Whereas I would be a man crossing the street, he would be a black man crossing the street. As someone who grew up only thinking about police officers as the people who were there to help, my experience was and is quite different from most minorities in the United States.
While my experience in rural Iowa was extreme in my limited exposure to minorities, our country remains over 72% Caucasian. This means it is rare for anyone in the majority to experience being in the minority. So when the country reaches a boiling point on issues of race, I feel—and recognize that in many ways am—wholly unqualified to offer any comment. I hold onto the truism that it is better to be silent and thought foolish than open my mouth and remove all doubt. Yet silence can also be damning.
As a former prosecutor who worked regularly with law enforcement, I have unending respect for individuals who serve in their thankless and often dangerous position. This respect is not mutually exclusive with the understanding that many people are hurting due to race-based issues, which makes it impossible to see the death, violence, and destruction while remaining silent. So while I do not have clarity on answers, I do have support and love for those who are hurting. Further, I believe we must make intentional steps to improve race relations, particularly in the context of community policing.
But this conclusion does not appear to be broadly shared, and many seem disinclined to work toward improvement. Back in 1985, Neil Postman wrote in Amusing Ourselves to Death that “Americans no longer talk to each other, they entertain each other. They do not exchange ideas, they exchange images. They do not argue with propositions; they argue with good looks, celebrities and commercials.” For something as complex as race or even effectiveness in law enforcement, there must be an exchange of ideas and intentional steps to enact laws and policies that can move us from where we are to a place that better ensures justice irrespective of race.
Dr. Charlie Dates, a pastor in Chicago, gave a message at the Gospel Coalition’s MLK50 Conference in Memphis on April 4, 2018. During his remarks, Dr. Dates emphasized the idea that segregation remains a curse on this country. When looking at the recent death of George Floyd and the subsequent reaction across the country, it is undeniable that the divide between white and black remains unacceptably wide.
Dr. Dates also emphasized that MLK’s vision was justice for all people, and it is apparent that many minorities are not experiencing justice. I have deep affinity for the history of this country and the ideas that emerged, which led to the creation of the United States. It was a central tenet that the Founders insisted on protecting the rights of the minority (albeit incompletely). It was an extension of fear over religious persecution that the majority was not to consume and swallow up the minority. To be fair, this ideal has seldom been actualized, but the ideal remains. While I cannot speak to the experience of being a minority, I know there is a power and responsibility that comes with being part of the majority and that is to own the idea that justice for all is essential.
The difficulty, of course, is that even if you agree with this conclusion, it leads to the question of “what can I do?” While I do not have a complete answer, these are my initial thoughts: (1) read, (2) vote, and (3) empathize.
As an extension of Neil Postman’s comment, it is not enough to circulate memes on social media with an expectation that improvements will occur. A more likely response is those who agree with you will agree with you, and those who do not will be further repelled. Ideas as complex as these require forethought and solutions, so it is important to read content that lends insight to what minorities are thinking, feeling, and experiencing. It means reading about proposals for change that might help. The what-can-I-do question feels most helpless when there are no practical steps for what to do next. Two ideas I’ve seen recently are increasing the number of minority police officers serving minority communities, and increasing training for law enforcement on how race affects perception. Another is to reform the immunity provisions for law enforcement. I do not know how these proposals would be received or what effect they would have, but I know I want to support people who are working for tangible steps to better ensure justice for all.
This leads to point two: vote. Voting has long been a passion of mine. You can read some of my pleas to vote here and here; it is a refrain I’m happy to sing over and again. To select leaders is a rare gift that we collectively neglect. It may feel to some like there are no leaders that inspire or are worth voting for, but you can start at the local and state level—the places that provide law enforcement—and support candidates who are vested in pursuing innovative approaches to addressing this critical issue. To passionately, vocally, and financially support candidates who commit to justice for all—not just conceptually but with practical ideas—is a good starting point. It may be slow-going, but elected leaders make a significant difference in how communities function.
Finally, it is not enough to paternalistically sympathize with someone who is hurting. As I expressed above, I am ill-qualified to express what it is like to experience prejudice based on the color of my skin. Yet as I teach my girls over and again, we demonstrate love by how we sacrificially serve others. It takes effort, imagination, and understanding to empathize with those whose experiences don’t match our own, and it is not likely to come easily. No one wants to be pitied, so—to echo the message from Dr. Dates and many others—everyone in this country should join the pursuit of justice for all. Just as critically, we must feel the pain and share in the hurt when justice does not occur.
I titled this writing, “An Unqualified Comment,” and the double meaning is intentional. While I identified and still feel the angst of being poorly equipped to write well on race and racism, I can write without any qualifiers that justice in this country does not exist as it should and that we need a new approach to ensure that justice for all is a priority for all. The solutions may not be easy or forthcoming, but they are unqualifiedly needed. On this, I hope we can all agree.
