I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” – Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.
Last week, the world witnessed the tragic death of a handcuffed black man, George Floyd, at the hands of a white Minneapolis police officer, as he knelt on Floyd’s neck for over eight minutes, causing him to die from asphyxiation. This gruesome, senseless murder was video-recorded for the world to see, causing an immediate tsunami of national protests and riots across America over the past week. No human being, regardless of race, can possibly watch this video without feeling totally disgusted and angry. Naturally, because Mr. Floyd was black, and the police officer was white, this particular incident possessed all the earmarks of a potential racially-motivated killing. From New York City to Los Angeles, and from Seattle to Atlanta, there has been a steady stream of peaceful protests during daylight hours, only to be followed in the evening with complete lawlessness – looting, arson, and destruction of property.
For many, these riots are reminiscent of what our country experienced after the Rodney King beating at the hands of the LAPD in 1992. When the four police officers cited in that incident were acquitted, what followed in the Los Angeles area was six days of widespread looting, arson, assault, and murder. By the time the smoke from the rioting cleared, 63 people had been killed, 2,383 people had been injured, and over $1 billion of property was destroyed. “White America” had an extremely difficult time trying to understand how one incident of alleged police brutality could cause such “disproportionate” chaos. The quick answer is that this particular incident was videotaped, and the visceral effect of watching King being beaten resonated with “Black America” – because many of them have had experiences similar to King’s – only their’s weren’t “recorded.”
I do not wish to try to explain the causes of racism, or its painful effect on people of color throughout the world, other than to say that fear is certainly one of the core ingredients. If humankind shares one common fear, it’s the fear of those who are different than us – different color, language, nationality, and/or religion. We tend to gravitate, and find comfort, in what is most familiar. But what is also common is the fact that all of these differences are external perceptions. An individual’s color, language, nationality, and religion tells us nothing at all about who that person is inside.
Oftentimes, when blacks and whites get together to discuss race relations, the conversation comes to an immediate impasse the moment someone says, “Well, you have no way of knowing what it’s like being a black person in America.” That type of a statement accomplishes absolutely nothing, other than to invalidate everything the other person was planning on contributing to the conversation. About the only appropriate response would be something along the line of, “Yes, that is correct. I have no way of knowing what it’s like being a black person in America. I also don’t know what it’s like to be a Jewish Holocaust survivor, and neither do you. But, I do know what it’s like to be abused, taken for granted, hated, and fearful.” The “breakthrough” in that type of response is that you have shifted the direction of the conversation, by not going down that dead end street of trying to relate to someone externally, but by finding common ground, internally, between one another. That’s the beginning of a fruitful conversation. You are no longer limited to a discussion about racial differences – you are now discussing where you can connect on a human level, where we are all the same color, within the common humanity of our inner Beings.
I remember the first time a black individual used the dismissive “You have no way of knowing” statement on me. I was in the Army, sitting in the back of a “deuce-and-a-half” truck, along with several other transfer soldiers, being transported to our new assigned post in West Germany. Across from me sat a black GI who mentioned that he was from Detroit. Naturally, I piped in that I, too, hailed from Detroit. “Oh yeah, where abouts?,” he asked. When I told him that I actually lived in one of the neighboring suburbs of Detroit, he was quick to remind me that suburban life was not at all the same thing as living in the inner-city. Of course, I understood his point, but what was lost in our introduction was any semblance that we shared anything in common because we technically grew up 11 miles apart. Such are the unfortunate racial barriers that we ourselves choose to build, which only stifle any hope of finding whatever commonalities exist between the races.
Perhaps the most intelligent argument I ever heard concerning racial and ethnic equality came from the most unlikely of sources – my Drill Sergeant from Basic Training, who’s last name was Custer, if you can believe it. It was 1971, the draft was just winding down, so we had a complete potpourri of trainees of every color, religion, and ethnic group, all being verbally abused, equally, by Drill Sergeant Custer. One night, in the barracks, Custer had to jump in to break up a fight between two trainees, one who was black and the other one white. He threw the two GIs on the barracks floor, stood over them like Muhammad Ali over a knocked-out Sonny Liston, and proceeded to read them the Riot Act. That “Riot Act” ended up completely shattering any notion that anyone of us might have previously held that we were anything other than one band of brothers.
Drill Sergeant Custer was an Airborne Infantryman who had served multiple tours of Vietnam during the 1960s. Over our 8 weeks of training, when he wasn’t demonstrating the proper way to withdraw your bayonet from the body of a dead VC soldier, Custer would share many of his experiences “in the bush.” But today, poised over the prostrated bodies of two frightened GIs, surrounded by a captive audience of the rest of Third Platoon, he was to take on a new role – that of a wise old sage – and we were about to get the ultimate sermon on racial equality.
Custer ordered the two men to get on their feet and snap to attention, which they did immediately. He then circled around the two men like a hungry panther considering his prey. After several rotations of scrutiny, Custer stopped in front of the black trainee, grabbed the dog tags hanging around his neck, and read what was written on them. In a booming voice, he read the GI’s name, ID number, blood type, and religion. Releasing the chain, he then stepped in front of the white GI, grabbed his dog tags, and read the information stamped upon them. Custer then let go of the chain, told the two trainees to stand at ease, then slowly turned around and faced the rest of Third Platoon.
“What did you just learn about these two men?,” he asked. “The United States Army has gone through the trouble of summarizing everything they feel is important about you, on a one-by-two inch stainless steel oval, stamped with only that information I just read to you. What does it say about you as a soldier? I’ll tell you. Your name and military ID number is only on there so we know who’s body we’re shipping back home should you be killed on the field of battle. Your blood type is on there so that, if your your guts are oozing through your fingers on that field of battle, that we can match you up with another GI for a transfusion that might save your life. And, believe me, if half your guts are lying in your lap, you’re not going to care if that transfusion is coming from a GI who’s black, white, Jewish, Christian, Italian or Hispanic. And your religion is only listed on there so that we can find an appropriate chaplain to pray over your body should you be killed in combat.” At that, Custer paused, and began to walk around the room, staring into the faces of his men.
“That’s why the United States Army puts that specific information on your dog tags,” Custer continued. “But what does that same information say about you as a man, as a human being? I’ll tell you. Your name and ID number only describes who you are in this world, externally. A name and a number tells you absolutely nothing about who you are inside. Naturally, the type of blood that is pumped through your body by your heart, and runs through every vein in your body, defines the internal physical miracle of who you are inside. And your religion? Well, that defines who you are, internally, as a child of God.” At that, Custer paused again, and returned to the two GIs who had been fighting.
“I don’t ever want to see this type of behavior in my barracks again,” he said forcibly. “Whether you die in some rice paddy in ‘Nam, or in your sleep at the age of 90, you had better figure out that the only important thing about you is who you are inside. You are all created in the image of God, every single one of you. That is the only truth you need to carry forward through life, however short or long that may be.” With that, Drill Sergeant Custer turned and headed for the door. “Reveille is at 0400,” were the last words he said as he exited the barracks.
* * *
At 0400 the following morning, I was awakened by the startling shock of all the fluorescent ceiling lights being switched on, along with the sound of our Assistant Drill Sergeant yelling, at the top of his booming voice, “Alright ladies, time to drop your c**ks and grab your socks. Get out of bed, my little darlings. Your mommies aren’t here to make you Mickey Mouse waffles for breakfast, but I’m here to bust your asses at PT this morning, so get the f*ck out of those bunks, now!” As I slowly returned to consciousness, I suddenly realized that Drill Sergeant Custer wasn’t the one waking us up this morning – because he had been sick with pneumonia for the past four days.
It had all been a dream, all of it. As I slowly made my way to the latrine, to brush my teeth, my eyes only half open, I thought about what was said by Sergeant Custer in my dream. As I brushed my teeth, I looked into the mirror and slowly began to realize that, just because what I dreamt that night never really happened, it didn’t mean that Custer’s words, within my dream, weren’t absolutely true. Because they were! The truth of his words, although only “heard” in the unconscious mind of an 18-year-old soldier, has stayed with me ever since.
Perhaps that one particular dream best explains how, oftentimes, even our unconscious selves can still “hear” God speak to our souls. I certainly try to consciously keep my ears ever open for God’s gentle whisper, and He certainly does speak to my inner Being, because that is where He resides. In other words, God’s words of truth come to us, irrespective of time or space, to guide us forward – even in our dreams
This is just as it was the night He appeared to me, dressed as an Army Staff Sergeant by the name of Custer. And He told me that all men are created equal, so I had better treat them that way. As it turns out, I was only able to learn the truth about racial equality because I had a dream about racial equality.
