I Was Wrong, and I’m Sorry

I didn’t feel right about posting a secret song yesterday. I also don’t feel right about saying much. Partly because I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong things. But also because I’m listening and processing. It feels like I will be (and should be) for the rest of my life.

I’ll just share one anecdote. Because I can’t stop thinking about how wrong I was. It’s about someone close to me. I’ll call him James, for privacy.

One day it was brought up in conversation that James never puts his hands in his pockets. Early on, his dad broke the habit, teaching him to always have his hands visible.

It wasn’t because James’s dad thought it was more polite or proper to have your hands out of your pockets.

It was because James is black. His dad worried James might someday be mistaken for a man pulling out a weapon. Simply because his hands were in his pockets. Simply because he is black.

When I first heard that story, I’m ashamed to say, I thought his father had been drastic. That at best he was overly worried. And at worst possibly paranoid. But I don’t think that anymore.

I was wrong, and I’m sorry.

Please let there be more love and justice, compassion and equality, and may we have the courage of our convictions in this important moment in history.