Editor’s Note: This could be a moment of awakening in the Great Con II. Noem and Bovino lied about two Minnesotans killed in ICE actions, smearing the citizens as criminals until (uh-oh) video exposed the truth. It took more innocent blood to be spilled, but people see. There’s more thinking going on.

In normal times, common sense would have already dictated how corrupt and inept this administration is. Instead, it’s the death of a white guy, coming to the aide of a woman in distress; the other is a mom blocking traffic. He had a job caring for sick veterans; she had just dropped kids off at school.

Don’t forget them. Listen to the songs at the end.

One of my prized possessions is a World Series program of the 1947 World Series. There are many legends mentioned, including quite a bit on Joe DiMaggio, but the pages have very little to show of the most iconic player of that time.

But he was there.

In the middle of the program is a scorecard, and there in the lineup is the name Robinson, where a scribe long ago penciled in that the immortal Jackie Robinson reached base and scored.

During this highly segregated time in America, he could not be shown on the cover of the program or be heavily promoted by his team, but he was there, and now all of America knows the man who broke baseball’s racial barrier.

That old program isn’t just a piece of memorabilia; it’s a reminder that people can be present, essential, and still be officially invisible. It’s something I never thought about during the time we lived in a black community.

Some of my very earliest memories are from that small corner of Muskogee. My brother’s best friend was a kid named Darrell who lived two blocks behind us. I remember him because we would play football in an empty lot. I was around 8 years old and liked to tackle by going for the legs. He praised me for my ability and so naturally, being able to hang with the older kids was a badge of triumph. I remember when the lady across the street caught a small bass and gave it to me in a bucket, and I treated that fish like a pet until it died and I buried it with the Indian corn crop I grew in the backyard. My parents bought pies from a lady who lived behind us and a few kids always came to our house in the mornings because we could watch TV and still be able to see the bus on the way to the corner stop.

In those days, I cannot remember ever thinking about being the only white face around. It never dawned on us that there were any differences in color. Later on we lived in Tennessee and there were much fewer minority kids, to the point that I especially remember one lonely black boy named Larry who came and went after a few months of our fourth-grade year, never to be known or seen again. The contrast between my childhood neighborhood and that brief appearance of Larry still lingers.

Somewhere between those two worlds, the innocence cracked. Middle school was where I first heard the n-word and began to realize there were “differences” with people, and by high school, it was only sports that seemed to be desegregated when it came to kids and colors. Not school, not church, nothing. The quiet, everyday segregation around me made those childhood memories feel almost like a temporary loophole in the system.

You don’t have to rely on memory alone. Look at the videos of Arkansas and Alabama desegregation and the level of hate spewed by whites toward young Black kids going to school. Look at the Selma bridge crossing. Look at the smugness of the murderers of Emmett Till. The history is on film, in still photos, in the eyes of those doing the screaming and in the faces of those just trying to get to school or work.

As an adult, through regular reading and education, I began to realize that Black Americans have been scapegoated and abused for almost any measure of missed success by white Americans. Yet through kidnapping, murder, slavery, segregation, and a continued thousand cuts of prejudice and racism, they are still here, and I admire the forgiving heart that most Black folks I know carry. That forgiveness is not naïve; it is a kind of spiritual endurance most of us have never been asked to practice.

Many Americans have been through hard times, though no segment of the population has had to carry it like our Black brothers and sisters have. So when it comes to affirmative action and DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion), these were the minimal acts that a mature and responsible culture can offer for what history tells us. These policies are not charity; they are a late and partial payment on a very old bill.

Over my life, I’ve known outstanding Americans who happened to be Black. Mr. Bob the crossing guard. Dr. Brickler who delivered one of our babies. Dr. Camps who did an un-fun surgery. Numerous teachers from my second-grade teacher Ms. McClain to my seventh grade teacher Mrs. Pearson to one of our favorite elementary teachers, Ms. Ash. None of them are abstractions in a debate about “race relations”; they are simply excellent human beings doing their jobs and caring for others.

So how does the ignorance end? It starts by questioning stubborn beliefs. If maturity is the same as agape, the real goal of all spiritual quests, then it’s a final recognition that how we treat others is a real reflection on our inner selves.

If we would recognize that the individual fight for freedom is really the fight for all of us, a portion of our predominantly white population would not have so easily been conned by a grifter with a cabal of morally deficient opportunists. The refusal to see our shared fate is not just political blindness; it is self-hate.

The American story is not about one people, one way, or one belief. It is really about growing diversity in people, technology, education, and legalities; a direct outcome of the spirit of the Declaration.

Today’s narrow scope in thinking is sold as a return to the “good ol’ days” (the again in make America great again). It treats history as fiction, seeking to roll back efforts at a level playing field.

Instead of giving credence to messages of fear, look around you for the truth. Next time you are having a roof done, getting a medical procedure, being served a breakfast, looking for a senior center to take care of Mom, dropping your kids off at school, getting a lift across town, or having someone deliver your food, be mindful of who is doing the work. These are not extras in the background of your life; they are a diversity of Americans who keep the country running.

Black America is a mirror for all of us. If we act the fool and treat Black Americans, or any minority, as expendable, our constitutional rights will erode in a vapor of lies.

Hate is the prisoner’s dilemma. It creates its own bars. The harder thing, which this president and corporate America don’t want you to do, is to see each other clearly, to step out of the cells together, and stop mistaking the building of cages as the promotion of freedom.

I thought this quiz would be something different. It actually does a good job of reflecting just how much economic benefit goes to those who complete their education journeys.

From my time growing up as the first in my family with higher education, to discussions with GED students who didn’t want to be in class, I cannot fathom how the freedom and power of education still receive such ridicule. I had one kid who was there by the stern lecture of a judge who said it was jail or school. I had another who, not considering the end of his cash bonanza if he fell off a roof, lamented the days of labor he missed by having to be in class (to the construction company’s credit, they were forcing him to get at least his high school diploma).

The anti-education message is even coming from the tech bros who have only cashed in because they were at the head of the digital curve, just like someone was ahead of the automotive growth, the oil boom, the fur trade, and on and on.

We have every method available now to make education more individualized and stimulating for better results, and it can be done more affordably. We don’t do it because of a number of factors, but AI and the fight against miseducation may bring this roaring to the front.

When I was a teenager, I was able to get up close to a herd of buffalo being managed in a state park in Tennessee. They are magnificent animals, and I reached out a hand to feel the wonderful coat of a big male that was lying against a fence. He eventually stood up, walked a few feet away, turned toward the few of us visiting the park, and with quick speed and force rammed his head into the fence. It was a quick reminder of just how powerful these massive animals are (and that he didn’t take too kindly to us being so close to him).​

My youngest son is taking a course on the Old West, and we got into a conversation about what is the biggest symbol of that place and era. For me, it’s the buffalo—a solid representation in almost anything you can read from that time, as well as a symbol of the folly of unregulated free markets. Nearly hunted to extinction, the buffalo has only made a comeback with the help of billionaires such as Ted Turner. The continued reintroduction of a species that coexisted with people for thousands of years shows an appreciation for life and for learning from mistakes. While conservation has tipped way too far into law enforcement, the roots of conservation are in species diversity and the human experience. The buffalo is something uniquely American. Like the turkey and the eagle, it is also synonymous with an appreciation of the old and the willingness to learn with the new.

And Now….

If there’s a lesson from the recent murders in Minnesota, it is this: it is sometimes deadly to be a good person.

They died coming to the aid of others.

Remember Oscar Schindler, Chiune Sugihara, and James Reeb. If you don’t know these people, you know the story of the Good Samaritan. Laws can be manipulated. Entire communities can be conned into surrendering their freedoms.

Always, always strive to be a good human, and you will be on the right side of history.