I Am Afraid

Posted on October 19, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

We can be fearless in proclaiming that we are afraid—afraid of what is happening, afraid of what might come, afraid of becoming numb to it all.

It could be any morning up here on the mountain. Any season. The light spills over the valley like it’s been rehearsing for centuries, finding its way to the deck that I sanded and painted myself. Ruby’s already made her first round of the yard, nose to the wind, tail announcing that all is well in our little dominion—hers and mine and Gary’s.

From the outside, it might look like the middle of nowhere. But to us, it’s home. It’s our mountaintop oasis. It speaks peace. It speaks love. It knows both.

And yet—I am afraid.

I’m not afraid of dying.

I’m not afraid of the questions at my annual doctor’s visit—how’s the sleep, how’s the balance, any falls lately? I know the drill, know the tone. It’s the small talk we make with time itself.

I am afraid of more than that. Much more.

I am afraid of living.

I am afraid when I watch our nation take one step, then another, back and back and back toward what too many call the “Good Ole Days.” Days that weren’t always that good in reality—at least not for everyone. I’ve seen real progress during my seventy-seven years, hard-won and deeply felt. But now I know what it feels like to watch it slip away.

I am afraid when I see the National Guard deployed to American cities—unbidden, uninvited—storming in under the cloak of “security,” while local leaders protest and courts rule against the deployment as unconstitutional.

I am afraid when I see streams of homeless men, women, and children forcibly cleared from our Nation’s capital—not relocated, but shamed off the sidewalks, invisible again to the people who run the city.

I am afraid when masked men wearing ICE uniforms sweep through neighborhoods in unmarked vans—when people are grabbed at early hours, dragged from their routines, as children watch from windows.

I am afraid when I see our public health agencies bend—when the CDC overturns or ignores scientific consensus, issuing guidelines that feel political more than medical, eroding trust in what should be shields, not targets.

I am afraid when I see older Americans treated as burdens instead of blessings—when Social Security and food programs are cut under the banner of “efficiency,” when Medicare oversight is weakened and the sickest lose coverage, when senior housing programs vanish from federal budgets as if aging were a mistake. When growing old becomes a liability instead of an honor, a nation has lost its sense of inheritance.

I am afraid when I see poor and working families once again blamed for their poverty—when SNAP and WIC are gutted, when rent assistance dries up, when wages shrink while profits soar. Poverty is being rebranded as personal failure again, as though the system itself weren’t tilting the table.

I am afraid when I see classrooms and libraries turned into battlegrounds—when teachers are monitored, words are banned, and curiosity is treated as defiance. When education becomes indoctrination, the light that should guide us turns inward and burns.

I am afraid when I see our museums stripped of independence—when curators are told which histories to showcase and which to hide, when funding depends on keeping donors and politicians comfortable instead of keeping the record honest. When museums are told what stories to tell, history itself becomes propaganda.

I am afraid when I see the earth itself crying out—when wildfires, floods, and droughts speak the truth our leaders refuse to hear. When those in power in Washington call climate change a hoax, mock science, and dismantle what fragile protections remain—treating the planet not as inheritance but as inventory. The soil, the rivers, the air—they are not ours to own. They are the breath of every living thing that will come after us.

I am afraid when I see our history books rewritten—when the ugliness of our past is softened or omitted altogether, as if truth were a stain to be scrubbed away. I am afraid when textbooks trade context for comfort, when children are taught pride without responsibility. That’s not education. That’s amnesia dressed as virtue.

I am afraid when I see books banned from shelves—works of art, witness, and imagination stripped from students’ hands because someone decided fear should be the curriculum. A nation that fears its own words is a nation already forgetting how to think.

I am afraid when I see faith itself being rewritten—when those who hold the Bible high forget the heart of its message: love thy neighbor as thyself. When “the least of these” are ignored or condemned, when compassion is replaced with control, when the name of Christ is used not to comfort but to conquer.

I am afraid when I see the Department of Defense renamed the War Department—as if we’ve abandoned even the language of restraint, as if the goal were not defense but dominance. Words matter. Change the name, and you change the story. Change the story, and you change what we become.

I’ve lived long enough to see this nation inch closer to its promise, step by hard-won step. I watched the Civil Rights Movement force open doors that had been locked for centuries. I watched women claim the rights and respect they were long denied. I watched same-sex marriage move from silence to law, from whispers to weddings. I watched a Black man take the oath of office as President of the United States and felt, for the first time in my life, that maybe—just maybe—we were learning what equality really means.

And yet, I’m watching so much of that progress being undone in plain sight—rolled back by men who smile as they sign the papers. That’s what eats at me. We came so far. We proved we could change. And now I fear we’re proving how quickly we can forget.

I have one more fear—one that hits closer to home for me than any of the others, and yet it reaches out and encompasses them all.

I am afraid when I see LGBTQ freedoms stripped away in bill after state bill—protections withdrawn, rights revoked, marriages questioned, school policies reversed—while the rhetoric whispers “return to order,” but the victims are many.

It hits me hard, like a gut punch, because I know what it feels like to live quietly on the margins of acceptance. I had a place at the table—as long as I behaved. As long as I laughed at the right jokes. As long as I didn’t speak the truth of who I was. I was welcome, yes—but only in disguise. That was the unspoken bargain: conformity in exchange for belonging. A seat, but not a voice. Presence without personhood.

It took me years to understand that silence isn’t peace—it’s erasure wrapped in politeness. And acceptance that depends on pretending is not acceptance at all. So when I see hard-won freedoms for LGBTQ people being stripped away, I don’t see politics. I see people—people like me—being pushed back into the shadows we worked so long to escape.

I am afraid, too, of the silence that wears love’s disguise. Of families who say they accept us—so long as it’s private. Who love their gay brother or their trans child quietly, behind closed doors, but never speak that love out loud. Because public love takes courage, and private love costs nothing.

I am afraid that if the reckoning comes—and it may—some of us will look around and find that the people who said they loved us privately will deny us publicly.

And I am afraid that the ground is shifting for all of us—that what’s being erased is not just rights, but recognition of value.

I am afraid that we are being bombarded deliberately with so much chaos and confusion that we are forgetting what lies at the core of who we are—as Americans, yes, but more deeply, as human beings: the value of the individual.

The gay and the straight.
The trans and the cis.
The believer and the atheist.
The refugee and the citizen.
The imprisoned and the free.
The Black and the white.
The immigrant and the native-born.
The woman and the man.
The poor and the privileged.
The child and the elder.
The body that moves easily, and the one that cannot.
The mind that remembers, and the mind that forgets.
The one who speaks, and the one who has no voice.
The one who is seen, and the one who is invisible.

Each carries the same sacred value.
Each bears the image of us all.
Leave one behind, and the whole is diminished.
Forget one, and the soul of the people forgets itself.

I am afraid that this forgetting has already begun. It’s not just in Washington, though Washington leads the charge. It seeps into pulpits, classrooms, living rooms—into the quiet corners of our own decency. It’s in the news we scroll past, the cruelty we explain away, the silence we call “staying out of it.”

I am afraid because I see what happens when the faceless stay faceless—when the homeless become numbers, when the refugee becomes a threat, when the trans child becomes a talking point. I am afraid because I know what happens when we stop seeing each other as sacred.

And I am afraid because I’m not sure what I can do.

But I know I have to do something. We all do.

We can vote. We can write. We can reach out to those in power and to those who believe they hold it. But maybe more than any of those things, we can be fearless in proclaiming that we are afraid—afraid of what is happening, afraid of what might come, afraid of becoming numb to it all.

We can name it.
We can put a face to it.
We can be the moral engine of one—
each of us reaching further than comfort,
further than tribe or label—
to hold on to what makes us human,
to reclaim it before it slips away.

One human being girding up another.
One hand extended.
One voice saying, I see you.
That’s where resistance begins.

We can show, by the way we live, that each person matters—every single one. The forgotten, the dismissed, the weary, the silenced. Because the measure of a democracy—like the measure of a soul—is not how it treats the powerful, but how it protects the powerless.

So yes, I am afraid.
But fear, spoken aloud, can become light.
And light, once shared, can become strength.

Maybe that’s where our healing begins:
in the courage to care out loud,
to stand with the one beside us and say,
You are not forgotten.

Because the next person erased could be someone we love.
Or it could be us. You. Me.
But if we stand together—if we keep standing—
it will not be all of us.

⸻ ✦ ⸻ ⸻ ✦ ⸻ ⸻ ✦ ⸻

If this essay speaks to your heart, please like it. Please share it.
Let it travel further than fear—and bring us closer to hope.

What Could $40 Million Do—Besides Fund a Parade? A Love Letter to Priorities (with a Side-Eye to A Spectacle)

Posted on June 22, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
–Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (1929–1968). More than a civil rights leader, Dr. King spent his life demanding justice for the marginalized and calling out moral silence wherever it lived. His words still hold us accountable.

We’ve had a lot of rain lately here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, in the shadow of the Nation’s Capitol. And with it, a whole lot of fog—literal and metaphorical.

It’s put me in a reflective mood.

It started one morning when I was scrolling casually through the headlines. I sat up and took notice when I saw:

“Estimated Cost of Trump’s June 14 Parade? $40 Million.”

Not as bad as the $95 million that had been projected.

But still.

Forty. Million. Dollars.

For a parade.

Let’s be clear. My reflections aren’t a swipe at the military or the veterans who’ve served with honor. I respect them deeply. I always have.

What leaves me flummoxed—furious, frankly—is that we dropped forty million dollars on smoke and swagger.

● Not for healthcare.
● Not for housing.
● Not for education.
● Not for the aging.
● Not for the homeless.
● Not for the hungry.
● Not for climate justice?
● Not for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion.

Not for [inhale, Dear Reader, and name one or two things that you would add to the chance to spend $40 million well and wisely for the benefit of humanity].

Not one penny went to any of those things.

Instead, we spent it on a parade. And not much of one at that.

Mind you, I’m not against a little razzle-dazzle. I’m not even against a lot of razzle dazzle. I love a marching band. And I’ve been known to twirl a dish towel like a drum major when I think no one’s looking. But this wasn’t Macy’s Thanksgiving. This was missile-forward, masculinity-on-wheels, smoke-and-flag showmanship—aimed at impressing whom, exactly?

And all I could think was:

I could do a lot with that.

I started Googling some numbers. These aren’t fantasy figures that I’m about to share. They’re ballpark estimates based on real programs already out there doing the real work.

Education

I spent twenty-three years in the community-college classroom. I know what $40 million could do when it puts on a blazer of determination and joins hands at a table that includes all the diverse stakeholders waiting for their lives to be transformed:

● Two years of community college for around 15,000 students. That’s 15,000 young folks trading fear for futures.

● Salaries and benefits for 500 new public school teachers. The ones fighting ignorance and inequality every day.

● After-school programs for 100,000 children. Imagine safe spaces, hot meals, books, and someone who actually listens.

● $20,000 for every public school in Virginia. For libraries. For music. For classrooms without walls.

● 400 endowed scholarships that would change entire family trees. Can you imagine such a forest of hope?

Or, How’s This? Give It to Me.

That’s right. Just hand it over, every copper penny of that $40 million. I promise to use it wisely—and a little wickedly.

I’d found a rural writers’ residency here in the Shenandoah Valley—where ideas blossom, meals come with flaky sourdough biscuits, and the only uniform required is pajamas and nerve.

I’d start a learning center for older adults who want to tango with AI rather than fear it. There’d be cakes, cakes, and more cakes. And, yes, I’d teach the class. For free.

I’d fund free college courses for anyone over 70. I know firsthand that curiosity doesn’t age—and neither should opportunity.

I’d create a cozy grant for storytellers who need time, space, and soup. You bring the plot twist; I’ll bring the pot and the lentils. And the mic. And the computers with printers and some really good paper. Maybe even some vellum. Everyone has a story to tell. And everyone’s story deserves to be shared.

And yes—I’d upgrade my Wi-Fi. But I’d pay for that perk out of my own pocket. I can’t possibly imagine a future on a buffering screen like mine.

But Let’s Go Bigger. Let’s Go National. Let’s Get Serious.

What else could we buy with $40 million?

HEALTHCARE

● 13,000 diabetics could get insulin for a year.

● 8,000 people could have cataract surgeries to restore sight and dignity.

● 4,000 new therapy slots could be created for those in need of mental health care.

● Mobile clinics could motor in to rural Americans who don’t have a doctor, let alone a parade.

HOUSING

● 800 tiny homes for unhoused veterans.

● 6,500 rental assistance grants to prevent families from being evicted into the street.

● Thousands of critical home repairs for aging Americans clinging to the roof over their heads.

Or simply this: $40 million could give dignity back to the people living in tents and doorways.

People say we have a housing shortage. We don’t. We have a compassion shortage.

FOOD & NUTRITION

● Feed 60,000 families of four for a month.

● Provide 20 million school lunches.

● Stock rural food banks for a year.

CHILDCARE & EARLY LEARNING

● 1,500 toddlers in full-time childcare for a year.

● 4,000 Head Start slots—the kind that change lives before kindergarten.

INFRASTRUCTURE & JOBS

● 20 miles of roads resurfaced.

● 1,000 community clean-up and green jobs created at $40K/year.

● 1 million trees planted in urban neighborhoods, providing shade, oxygen, and hope.

ADDICTION & PUBLIC SAFETY

● 100,000 naloxone kits to reverse opioid overdoses.

● 500 addiction recovery beds funded for a full year.

And that’s just the start.

$40 million could fund addiction clinics, community gardens, clean drinking water, and elder care.

It could stock classrooms with books, shelters with blankets, neighborhoods with trees, and rural towns with Wi-Fi.

It could buy wheelchairs, job training, clean clothes, bus passes, internet hotspots, warm meals, and cool air in heatwaves.

Forty million dollars could meet people where they are—and remind them they matter.

Instead, $40 million gave us a parade of tanks.

And flyovers.

And swagger.

I suppose there’s a place for showmanship. But if you ask me—when you’ve got $40 million to spend and a nation full of potholes, potholes in minds and hearts and homes—it might be time to fund possibility instead of parades.

You know what else? I’ll bet that if you asked the uniformed troops who were supposedly being honored, they too would vote for funding a world of forever possibilities instead of one day with a parade.

Because the real power? It isn’t missiles or marching.

It’s in meals, and music, and morning classes.

It’s in someone whispering, “I believe in you,” with a scholarship check in hand.

It’s in turning the lights on in places that have lived too long in the dark.

But we didn’t choose any of that.

We chose a spectacle.

We chose to posture for the world—while the world watched a nation that can’t feed its children waste millions playing dress-up with its military.

It wasn’t patriotism.

It was performance.

History saw June 14, 2025, for what it was—a flag-wrapped, reality-show distraction from the real work of freedom.

And history will remember.

History Is Watching. Will You Take a Stand?

Posted on March 3, 2025 by Brent L. Kendrick

“To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards...”
–Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850–1919; American poet known for her uplifting and socially conscious writing. Her work championed justice, personal responsibility, and the power of speaking out.)

Whether everyone owns up to it or not, America is in the throes of a Constitutional, social, and moral crisis—unlike anything in our Nation’s history. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happening. We only need to look around.

It’s unfolding in real time, shaping and shaking the very foundation of our democracy. Since his second inauguration, Donald J. Trump has tested the limits of executive power, issuing sweeping orders that centralize authority, gut independent oversight, and sideline checks and balances. The rapid dismantling of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs, the mass pardoning of January 6 rioters, and the rollback of environmental protections—all justified under the banner of “restoring order”—are not isolated actions. They are a pattern, a deliberate reshaping of the country to fit a singular vision.

Already many people—immigrants, federal workers, and LGBTQ+ individuals—feel the pain through deportations, firings, and the rollback of protections. Many other people—seniors, low-income families, and those reliant on federal programs—will feel the pain yet to come through health care cuts, the cancellation of USAID programs, the discontinuation of flu vaccine updates, and threats to Medicaid and Social Security. And now, in a shocking display of authoritarian bravado, Trump humiliated Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky in the Oval Office—publicly berating a wartime ally fighting for survival against Russian aggression. His attack was not just a personal insult; it was a signal to the world that American leadership, once defined by its commitments, is now dictated by impulsive cruelty.

Now is not the time for silence. Now is the time to speak up.

Now is not the time for complacency. Now is the time to act up.

Now is not the time to be broken by divisiveness. Now is the time to come together and walk together.

Why? This crisis threatens the very essence of who we are as Americans.

Why? This crisis is unparalleled in our Nation’s history.

Why? This crisis threatens our today, our tomorrow, and our future.

I am heavy-hearted, but I find hope in looking back on those who stood up when hope seemed lost. Time and again, ordinary people have overturned what once seemed inevitable. We can learn from those ordinary Americans who took extraordinary actions. We can be extraordinary, too.

History tells us time and time again that moments like these define not just leaders but entire movements. The moral high road isn’t a scenic detour—it’s often the hardest path, requiring both conviction and courage.

Taking a Stand Means Taking Action

When faced with injustices like the unprecedented ones we’re up against now, neutrality isn’t a shield—it’s a choice. And history has been shaped by those who refused to sit back and let injustice run its course. They took a stand. They acted. I’m thinking about:

● Thomas Paine – A political writer who stoked the flames of revolution with “Common Sense” and “The American Crisis.”

● Frederick Douglass – A former slave who demanded that America reckon with its hypocrisy, forcing the nation to see itself as it was.

● Henry David Thoreau – Who refused to pay a tax that supported slavery and war, writing “Civil Disobedience” to argue that individuals must resist unjust laws.

● Susan B. Anthony – Who cast an illegal vote in 1872, knowing she’d be arrested but refusing to accept a system that denied women their rights.

● Martin Luther King Jr – Who rejected patience and appeasement, writing Letter from Birmingham Jail as a rebuke to those who claimed to be allies but urged him to wait.

● Daniel Ellsberg – Who leaked the Pentagon Papers at great personal risk, exposing government deceit about Vietnam.

These people didn’t just take the moral high ground—they fought for it, walked it, and held their ground when it mattered most.

Silence Enables Tyranny: The Lesson of Nazi Germany

If history teaches us anything, it’s that silence enables oppression. In Nazi Germany, countless people looked the other way, convincing themselves that they had no choice, that someone else would act. Their silence helped pave the way for one of the greatest atrocities in human history.

German pastor Martin Niemöller, once complicit himself, later warned against the dangers of staying quiet:

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.

“Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a trade unionist.

“Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.

“Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

People Are Taking a Stand

From city halls to concert halls, from boardrooms to town squares, Americans are refusing to be silent. People are taking a stand, and the movement taking shape in powerful ways.

Our crisis started when Trump and J. D. Vance were sworn into office on January 20. The next day, the movement started as people were brave enough and bold enough to stand up to the crisis that threatens our Nation and our Democracy.

At the inaugural prayer service at the Washington National Cathedral, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, the Episcopal Bishop of Washington, took a stand and directly addressed the President, urging him to show compassion and mercy toward vulnerable communities. She implored, “In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy on the people in our country who are scared now.” Her courageous plea highlighted the fears of LGBTQ+ individuals, immigrants, and refugees, calling for leadership grounded in empathy and justice.

The next month at the February 21 Governors’ Conference, the president threatened to strip Maine of its federal funding if it refused to comply with his executive order, banning transgender women from competing in women’s sports. In a tense exchange, Maine’s Democratic Governor Janet Mills took a stand and did not waver. Her response to the president? A simple: “See you in court.”

This wasn’t just a sharp retort. It was a moment of moral clarity, an assertion that principles matter more than political pressure.

Two days later, on February 23, Jane Fonda received the Lifetime Achievement Award at the SAG ceremony in Los Angeles. In her speech, she urged her fellow actors to channel the courage of those who resisted McCarthyism, reminding them of past social movements like Apartheid, Civil Rights, and Stonewall.

“Have you ever watched a documentary and wondered if you’d have been brave enough to walk the bridge or face the hoses and batons?

“We don’t have to wonder anymore—we are in our documentary moment. … And even if they’re of a different political persuasion, we need to call upon our empathy and not judge, but listen from our hearts and welcome them into our tent, because we are going to need a big tent to resist successfully what’s coming at us.”

It’s not just celebrities and politicians taking action; ordinary citizens are making their voices heard, sometimes at great personal cost. We all witnessed the legislative town hall meeting in northern Idaho descend into chaos after three plainclothes security workers forcibly removed Teresa Borrenpohl, who was heckling the speakers.

Others are taking a stand, too, against actions that threaten our nation’s core values. Their courage serves as a beacon, reminding us of the power of collective action.

I’m thinking of the recent upheaval at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the resistance performers are showing as they take a stand. Issa Rae canceled her sold-out show, Renée Fleming stepped down as artistic advisor, Shonda Rhimes resigned as treasurer, and Ben Folds relinquished his role as artistic advisor to the National Symphony Orchestra. These actions underscore the artists’ commitment to preserving the integrity of our cultural institutions.

I’m thinking of Labor Organizations and grassroots movements that are also mobilizing to voice their dissent. The People’s Union USA, founded by John Schwarz, organized a national “economic blackout” on February 28, urging Americans to halt all consumer spending for 24 hours. The boycott was a warning shot—a demonstration that ordinary citizens can disrupt the economic status quo when corporations and policymakers ignore their voices. Early reports suggest widespread participation—major retailers and businesses have already reported noticeable dips in sales. And this is just the beginning. More boycotts are planned in the coming months, targeting corporations that fuel inequality, suppress wages, or remain complicit in policies that threaten democracy. This movement is a reminder that collective economic action has long been a tool for social change, from the Montgomery Bus Boycott to the anti-Apartheid divestments. If history is any guide, the pressure will only build.

I’m thinking of the citizens of Mad River Valley, Vermont who protested Vance’s ski trip just this past weekend. One poster said it all:

“Vermonters don’t bend the knee to wannabe KINGS.”

These contemporary examples of moral leadership echo history, where individuals refused to remain neutral in the face of injustice.

History doesn’t look kindly on those who stand on the sidelines. And we don’t get to tell ourselves we would have acted differently then, if we refuse to act now.

Every Act of Resistance Matters

For the first time in my life, I’m feeling powerless. I imagine that you are, too. At the same time, so did many of the people we now call heroes—before they took action.

● Thomas Paine was just a pamphleteer.

● Susan B. Anthony was just one woman with a ballot.

● Martin Luther King Jr. was just a preacher.

● Daniel Ellsberg was just a government analyst.

● Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde was just a faith leader.

● Jane Fonda was just an actress.

● Governor Janet Mills was just a politician.

They weren’t waiting for permission to do the right thing. They just did it. And because they did it in the past, our country changed. And because people are standing up and acting now, our country can “course correct” again.

Will You Stand When It Counts?

Taking a stand doesn’t require grand gestures. It can be as simple as:

● Participating in economic boycotts as a way of doing something.

● Calling out injustice, rather than letting it slide.

● Supporting those fighting for equality, rather than assuming someone else will.

● Refusing to comply with policies that erode human rights.

● Voting for leaders who put principles above politics.

The moral high road isn’t for the comfortable. It’s for the brave—for those who refuse to look away, for those who understand that silence is complicity.

This is one of those moments. It’s a moment that history won’t forget.

What will you do? Will you take a stand? History is watching.

Listening to the Unsaid

Posted on July 29, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“Not to speak is to speak, not to act is to act.”
—Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945; German theologian, pastor, and anti-Nazi activist; Symbol of moral courage and a powerful voice for justice and human rights.

Years ago, a colleague and close friend told me something that I would never forget:

“Always pay attention to what people say …”

And as he continued his advice, his voice became more measured and emphatic:

“but pay more attention to what they don’t say.”

I knew immediately what he meant. When interacting with others, it’s crucial to notice not only their words but also their silences, whether in face-to-face conversations, emails, or text messages. For example, a friend who shares their day enthusiastically but glosses over a specific event might be experiencing discomfort or distress. At work, a colleague who avoids discussing a particular project might be facing hidden challenges or dissatisfaction. In emails, if someone consistently skips over certain questions or topics, it might be a cue that they’re uncomfortable or unwilling to address those issues. Similarly, in text messages, when someone constantly shifts the subject away from certain topics, it might suggest they’re shielding their true feelings. A total failure to mention something significant, like a major life change or a recent accomplishment, might be just as telling. This omission might reveal underlying issues, such as feelings of inadequacy or a desire to avoid judgment. Equally important is when someone fails to respond to something that you’ve shared. It might indicate disinterest or a reluctance to engage with the topic.

These unspoken cues–what I call the unsaid–often reveal more than words ever could, offering deeper insights into the thoughts and emotions that people might not openly express. For example, I’m thinking of President Biden’s July 21 announcement that he was withdrawing from the 2024 presidential race and his subsequent address to the Nation. My siblings have said nothing to me about it, and most of my friends have said little more. It’s as if the President never made the announcement. It’s as if the President never delivered the address. It’s as if those news items were overshadowed by other national and international news.

Right now, you might be thinking:

“Well, I don’t talk politics either.”

I hear you. I get it. You’re probably doing the wise thing. As a rule, I don’t talk politics either with my family and many of my friends because I know that they don’t want to listen to my views. But not even mentioning the President’s decision is different. Although I would not expect to have a discussion, I would expect to hear a brief mention.

The silence that has surrounded me, by and large, since the President’s announcement has caused me to spend more than a little time reflecting on the power of silence and what the unsaid can reveal.

Why People Remain Silent.

Reflecting on why people choose silence reveals a complex mix of motivations. Fear of conflict and judgment often play significant roles, as many worry that speaking up will lead to disagreements or criticism. A lack of confidence in their communication skills or the validity of their thoughts can also hold people back.

Additionally, some prefer to protect others’ feelings, avoiding potentially hurtful conversations. Cultural and social norms can discourage sharing certain thoughts or emotions. Uncertainty about timing or approach further contributes to silence, as does the desire to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths or difficult situations. Others might simply consider their concerns too trivial to mention.

Aside from exploring possible reasons why people choose silence, what about the consequences of this silence. By understanding the dangers of silence, we can better appreciate the importance of speaking up and listening to the unsaid.

The Dangers of Silence.

As I reflected on the whys and wherefores, the dangers of inherent silences popped up in my mind as well. Those dangers can infiltrate our lives and sneak up on us unawares. We need to be aware of them, lest we fall prey to the unintended consequences of our silence. Acknowledging these risks allows us to create a more open, honest, and empathetic environment in our personal and collective lives.

I’m thinking of a number of areas, and I’ve already mentioned two of them. Political Silence. Not discussing President Biden’s decision, for example, can lead to misinformation, apathy, and a lack of preparedness for future developments. Family and Friend Dynamics. Not exploring political issues within families and amongst friends can lead to misunderstandings, resentment, and long-term damage to relationships, potentially causing irreparable harm and estrangement.

Or what about Social Issues? Remaining silent on social justice issues at home and abroad can perpetuate inequality and hinder progress. Silence on systemic racism, gender inequality, and human rights abuses can allow discriminatory practices to continue unchecked, disproportionately affecting marginalized communities and amplifying their suffering.

Environmental Issues loom large, too. Silence on climate change, pollution, and conservation can accelerate ecological damage and irreparable harm, leading to catastrophic climate events and irreversible ecosystem damage. By not speaking out, we’re creating a planet in peril.

Let’s not forget about Workplace Environment. Silence can enable toxic behavior, low morale, and decreased productivity. It can also stifle innovation, perpetuate systemic issues, and harm employee mental health. By speaking up, we can foster a culture of psychological safety, promote positive change, and create a more inclusive work environment.

In the area of Mental Health, silence can exacerbate mental health struggles, allowing stigma, shame, and suffering to persist. By not speaking out, we prevent others from seeking help and hinder our own healing, but by sharing our experiences, we can reduce stigma and increase support.

Spirituality is another area that we need to consider. Silence can disconnect us from our deepest beliefs and values, leaving us feeling unfulfilled and without purpose. By exploring our spirituality, we can discover new sources of comfort, meaning, and resilience.

Obviously, too, we need to be mindful of Aging and Dying. Silence often surrounds the end of life, leaving us unprepared and unsupported. By not discussing our mortality, we miss chances for closure, healing, and cherished moments with loved ones and fail to make informed decisions about end-of-life care and legacy.

These are just a few examples that illustrate the far-reaching impact of silence across different spheres of our lives. Silence affects other areas of our lives, too, such as Education, Media and Journalism, Personal Relationships, and Community and Social Movements. By acknowledging the impact of silence in these spheres, we can work towards creating a more open, honest, and empathetic society, where our voices are heard and valued.

Transforming the Silence.

It seems to me that, at a minimum, we need to have these conversations–even the hard ones–with ourselves so that we know where we stand and what we stand for. Ideally, we need to have those conversations–even the hard ones–with our families, our friends, our neighbors, our colleagues, and our world at large. If we choose silence, we need to remember its inherent dangers. Equally important, if others choose silence, we need to remember to listen to the unsaid. The silences we hear can offer powerful and empowering insights.

As we navigate the complexities of silence, may we find the courage to speak up, listen deeply, and create a world where every voice is valued and feels safe being heard. Not to speak is to speak, and by finding the courage to speak up, we can break free from the constraints of silence and foster a culture of openness, empathy, and understanding. Breaking the silence is crucial not only for our personal growth and relationships but also for our collective well-being.

Let’s resolve to raise our voices and transform the silence.

Not Alone

Posted on June 24, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“When one person is oppressed, all are oppressed”
—Nelson Mandela (1918-2013; prominent anti-apartheid revolutionary and political leader who served as President of South Africa from 1994 to 1999, advocating for peace, reconciliation, and social justice.)

Imagine an early June morning on a West-facing mountaintop in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. With the temperature just a mark above the 55% humidity, it’s perfect for being on a deck, high in the air, nearly high enough to reach up and touch white clouds and blue sky.

On the deck is a man closer to eighty than to seventy, with a faded burgundy baseball cap shielding his balding head and spectacled face, gray ponytail curling out the adjustment loop in back, dark blue polo, tan shorts, and clogs showing the tops of colorful Bombas.

The man could be sitting on one of the Adirondack glider chairs, moving effortlessly back and forth, or he could be reclining on the chaise lounge, sipping slowly on a cup of steaming coffee.

But he’s doing neither. Instead, he’s kneeling on the weathered deck, leaning forward with a putty knife in hand, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past.

He’s playing Gospel music, and the songs are trumpeting through the open doors, breaking the morning quiet. A black dog measures the deck’s length and width over and over again, stares through the railings, looks down the gravel road to see who might be going out or coming back in, and from time to time comes over and kisses the man first on one cheek and then on the other, as if to reassure him that all is well on the mountain and that he is not alone.

I know these details. I know them all and more because I’m the man on the mountain, lost in a deep reverie.

As I scrape away the old paint, I can’t help but ponder the bigger picture. I find myself musing over mankind’s place in the universe.

I don’t mean that to sound pompous, though I suppose that it does. Actually, musing over mankind’s place in the universe is an overstatement. I mean, it’s not as if I go around all the time contemplating questions such as:

● Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?
● What would it mean if we found alien life?
● Could we communicate with alien beings?
● What ethical responsibilities do we have toward alien life?

Pondering and answering such profound questions is better left to astrobiologists, astronomers, philosophers, scientists, theologians, and stargazers.

However, make no mistake. From time to time, I do think about our human desire to connect and belong. I would hope that finding extraterrestrial life would encourage us humans to rethink our (in)significance in the greater scheme of things. I would hope that it would deepen our sense of spiritual connection and ethical duty to all forms of life. I would hope that it would make us feel less alone and more united in the universe.

But when I think about the possibility that we might be alone in the universe–and being alone strikes me as being nearly impossible–it never frightens me. I’m far more sobered by what the speaker feels in Robert Frost’s “Desert Places”:

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars–on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

My own desert places. In those four words, Frost captures the self-consciousness and the alienation that most of us–some more than others–experience at some point in our lives.

To be certain, I can relate, especially as a gay guy born in the Bible-Belt in the late 1940s, growing up there in the 1950s and 1960s, knowing all too well my own desert places. I imagine that most gay guys of my era knew their own desert places, too.

In those days, I never heard the word homosexual. Instead, I heard queer, always brandished or whispered with disgust and derision. Being gay was something no one talked about, and I certainly wouldn’t have brought it up with my family or my friends or my teachers. Besides, all of them–teachers, friends, family–often told me that I was different. I took it to mean that everyone knew that I was gay and simply chose not to discuss it.

But here’s the thing. I saw being different as being special. Actually, I thought that I was super special. I felt that way not because I was gay but rather because I was a human being, filled with potential, waiting to be fulfilled.

Nonetheless, it still carried with it the feeling of being an outsider. It carried with it the feeling of not fitting in. I felt that way through grade school, through high school, and even through college. In fact, I was convinced that I was the only gay guy in the universe, although I felt confident that surely other gay guys existed somewhere. I simply didn’t know where.

As a result, those years found me doing my best to fit into a society that had not made a place at the table for a gay guy like me.

Actually, society had made a place for gays like me, especially in the South. Being queer was widely viewed as immoral and contrary to religious teachings, particularly within Christian denominations that had significant influence in the region. Being queer was heavily stigmatized and carried with it ostracism, harassment, and violence. Being queer was not seen in media, politics, or public life. The invisibility reinforced negative stereotypes and perpetuated ignorance and fear. Being queer came with prevalent sodomy laws, which criminalized sexual acts between individuals of the same sex. Those found in violation faced fines, imprisonment, and a damaged social reputation.

I often wondered what would happen if those who saw me as different suddenly saw me as queer? Would one word turn special into rejected? Condemned? Marginalized? I daresay that my behavior sometimes mirrored Paul in Willa Cather’s famous story “Paul’s Case: A Study in Temperament”:

…always glancing about him, seeming to feel that people might be watching him and trying to detect something.

These feelings of isolation and disconnection led me to develop my own strategies for fitting in. I managed to navigate my own fears within the framework of that environment. I had my own strategies, not the least of which was an intense focus on academic achievements.

I excelled in various competitions and consistently maintained a top academic standing. Everyone in my community saw that I was headed toward success. I became an active member of key clubs and organizations in my schools, often holding leadership positions.

Those strategies paid off. I managed to fit in, in my own way. I was accepted. I was the model son. I was the model brother. I was the model friend. I was the model student. I was best dressed. I was teen of the year. I was most likely to succeed.

I did something else, too. I decided that I would just be me. Gay. Who else could I be? I was a gay guy. I never tried to pass as a heterosexual, nor did I lead a double life, carefully curating my behavior and associations depending on the social context. I recognize that many had to do so for their own reasons, but for me, it was important to maintain my authentic self and stand for what I believed, even though I stood alone. I was proud of who I was, of who I had been, and of who I was becoming.

I did something else, too. I cultivated a fierce resolve and determination to not let others feel the isolation that I sometimes felt. Whenever I saw someone struggling to find their place–whenever I saw an underdog for whatever reason–I made it a point to befriend them, to let them know they weren’t alone, and to let them know that they had found a safe space with me.

When I started my professional career and afterward pursued graduate studies, I moved away from my rural roots to urban areas that were more liberal and accepting. Nonetheless, I kept my resolve to create inclusive and welcoming environments wherever I happened to be. It became a guiding principle in my life, shaping my interactions with everyone. In my federal career, I was known for my appreciation of diversity and for my insistence on inclusivity. Those values carried over into my career as a community college professor where I always made it clear that my classes provided a safe, caring, and nurturing environment where students could share their views and celebrate their authentic identity.

Perhaps more important than anything else, I always included Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” in all of my classes, and I always made a point of reading aloud and emphasizing what I consider to be one of the most empowering and liberating paragraphs in literature:

O father, O mother, O wife, O brother, O friend, I have lived with you after appearances hitherto. Henceforward I am the truth’s. […] I appeal from your customs. I must be myself. I cannot break myself any longer for you, or you. If you can love me for what I am, we shall be the happier. If you cannot, I will still seek to deserve that you should. I will not hide my tastes or aversions. […] If you are noble, I will love you; if you are not, I will not hurt you and myself by hypocritical attentions. If you are true, but not in the same truth with me, cleave to your companions; I will seek my own. I do this not selfishly, but humbly and truly. It is alike your interest, and mine, and all men’s, however long we have dwelt in lies, to live in truth.

As I look back and share what I experienced, I am not pointing the finger of blame. I grew up in a time and place when social norms were different. The society I knew in the 1950s and 1960s had its own set of rules, shaped by cultural, religious, and social influences that were pervasive and powerful. It was a world where being different often meant being misunderstood, and where silence was often the safest response to anything outside the norm. My parents, my friends, my teachers—they were all products of their time, doing their best within the confines of the world they knew. They provided me with love and support in the ways they understood, and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Although they were silent about my sexuality, they were supportive of me in countless other ways. They celebrated my achievements, encouraged my interests, and stood by me through my successes and failures. Their silence on my being gay was not a rejection but a reflection of the times. They showed their care through actions and support, even if they did not have the language or the understanding to address every part of who I was. Their love was a constant in my life, a foundation that helped me become the person I am today.

Things have changed a lot. I celebrate those advances. The progress we have made in terms of acceptance and equality has been remarkable. These changes eventually allowed me to be fulfilled in an openly gay relationship. When I met my late partner, we knew at once that we were soulmates. We said our vows, exchanged rings, and went on living our lives together, openly rather than in silence, as all people should be allowed to do. Our relationship was a testament to the strides society has made, allowing us to live authentically without fear or shame.

At the same time, I am aware that much remains to be achieved for all of us who might be marginalized. It’s critical that adults—especially educators—do everything in our power to foster a spirit of inclusion and to provide safe spaces so that everyone realizes they are not alone. We don’t have to embrace everyone, but we do need to accept everyone. We must continue to work towards a world where everyone, regardless of their background, identity, or circumstances, feels valued and included. The silent ones, those who feel they have no place, need our attention and our compassion. It is our duty to ensure that no one feels the isolation that I once did. It is our duty to let everyone know that they have a seat at humanity’s table.

And that brings me back to the man on the mountain, lost in reverie, scraping and lifting layer upon layer of paint, teasing away at the past, and musing about mankind’s place in the universe. The past is a great teacher, but it is not a place to live. The present moment is all that we have, and it is in this present moment that I find my solace, my meaning, and my connection to all of humanity. I am not alone. We are not alone. And in the vastness of the universe, that is a comforting thought.

My story is just one example of how struggles can be outweighed by resilience and acceptance. It is a testament to the power of love, support, and the human spirit’s ability to adapt and thrive.

If my message reaches only one person, my heart will be fulfilled knowing that the message was a touchstone, perhaps to be paid forward. If my message reaches many, my soul will be fulfilled in the belief that many can touch more.

We have come a long way, but our journey towards true inclusion and acceptance has a longer way to go. That’s why I believe it’s crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels seen, heard, and accepted.

Let’s muster up our full measure of strength, resolve, and determination to make sure that no one ever feels alone.

Go On. Do It. Back Yourself into a Corner.

Posted on February 26, 2024 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The unexamined life is not worth living.“
—Socrates (470-399 BCE; classical Greek philosopher best known for his Socratic method, which aims to elicit truth by asking questions and engaging in dialogue.)

One of my favorite short stories is Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” (1865). No doubt you’ve read it, too, and will recall how old garrulous Simon Wheeler traps the narrator with a long-winded tale about a man named Jim Smiley and his famous jumping frog. Wheeler’s rambling accounts of Jim Smiley’s exploits appeal to me, especially as they become increasingly elaborate and exaggerated. Smiley and Wheeler are portrayed as eccentric characters with idiosyncratic behaviors and quirks. Who can forget Smiley’s obsession with betting on animals or Wheeler’s folksy storytelling. The premise of the entire story—a man who trains a frog to jump competitively and then loses a bet because the frog has been tampered with—is inherently absurd, adding to the comedic tone.

More than any of those dimensions, however, I like the story’s situational humor. The narrator is “backed into a corner” by Simon Wheeler and unable to escape until the end of his monotonous monologue. If you look at the story closely, you will discover that everything from the fourth paragraph all the way up to and including the next to the last paragraph is enclosed in quotation marks. This setup creates a sense of trapped amusement. The narrator is helpless in the face of Wheeler’s relentless storytelling and remember, as well, that Wheeler physically corners the narrator with his chair, thereby adding a visual element to the absurd humor.

The juxtaposition of the narrator’s predicament and Wheeler’s obliviousness to his captive audience adds a richness to the subtle humor. Here’s why. Even if readers are not consciously aware of that aspect of the story–that the narrator is literally backed into a corner–it seems to me that they pick up on it intuitively because we can all relate to feeling trapped in real-life situations where we are unable to escape.

Twain succeeded in tapping into a universal experience that readers understand. It’s a perfect “been there, done that” moment.

No doubt, you’ve been there, done that, too. Remember that party where you found yourself cornered by the resident “over-sharer”? They regale you with the intricate details of their recent colonoscopy, leaving you desperately searching for an escape route while nodding along, trapped in a vortex of TMI. Hopefully, over time, you came to terms with your boundaries, and you’re comfortable with giving an assertive but diplomatic response:

“I appreciate your openness, but I have to admit, discussing medical procedures makes me a bit squeamish. Let’s shift the conversation to something more lighthearted.”

Such a response communicates your discomfort with the topic, sets a clear boundary in a respectful manner, redirects the conversation without dismissing the other person, and maintains a friendly and polite tone.

Or maybe your friends dragged you off to a karaoke bar, and despite your protests that you couldn’t carry a tune to save your life, they insisted that you join in. As you droned an off-key rendition of “Every Breath You Take,” you felt like a reluctant participant in a musical hostage situation.

Getting backed into a corner by peers happens over and over again until we take time to reflect on our personal boundaries with a determination to be more assertive. When we gain insights into those areas, we know our limits, we know how to stand firm, and we know how to say “no.”

Or maybe you got backed into a corner at a family gathering where you’re bombarded with questions about your career, relationship status, and future plans. Despite your discomfort, you navigated the awkward interrogations with forced smiles and vague answers, feeling trapped in a whirlwind of familial expectations and scrutiny.

How can you avoid feeling trapped in future family gatherings? Consider your comfort level with discussing personal topics. Set your own boundaries. Once again, by gaining insights into those areas, you can navigate future events with greater ease and respond to questions assertively and confidently.

Hopefully, you’re getting my point. We’re all backed into corners by family and friends in social situations where we never expected to be in the corner, feeling so uncomfortable.

But if we seize those encounters as opportunities to examine why we felt uncomfortable, to clarify in our own minds our beliefs, to understand the nature of our boundaries, and to resolve to assert ourselves, we can navigate future social situations like that with far greater confidence, simply because we took the time to examine ourselves.

I am reminded of something that acclaimed writer Mary E. Wilkins Freeman once said:

Sometimes I believe that the greatest thing a man’s friends can do for him is to drive him in a corner with God.

Whoever, whatever, whenever, wherever or even if God is, we all know exactly what Freeman has in mind. It’s that final moment of reckoning when we are accountable unto ourselves.

But here’s the thing. Why wait for friends? More likely than not, our friends are too polite. More likely than not, our friends are too nonconfrontational. More likely than not, our friends are too diplomatic. Let’s not wait, then, for our friends to drive us in a corner. Let’s not expect God to be in the corner waiting for us, either. Let’s just go on and do it. Let’s just go ahead and back ourselves into our own uncomfortable corners so that once and for all, we have to address major issues that we can’t escape. Let’s not avoid them. Let’s not pay lip service to them. Let’s not talk out of both sides of our mouths about them. Let’s simply back ourselves into our respective corners, examine the issues, and discover where we stand.

God knows that I’ve lived long enough to back myself into lots of corners. For some, I’ve been in them so often and so long that they’re rounded. For others, I’ve just gotten in them, and I’m discovering their recency, their rawness, and their sharpness. Let me share some of my corners. As you read about mine, be mindful that I am not trying to convince you to share my beliefs. You’ve got your own beliefs and your own corners–soft or hard. At the same time, I am encouraging you to back yourself into your own corners and to examine your issues and concerns in private before the world forces you to examine them in public.

One of my corners deals with Racism and Discrimination. Growing up in West Virginia coal camps alongside African Americans, Whites, Greeks Hispanics, Jews, Italians, and Hungarians, I witnessed the power of unity and mutual respect. Our dads worked together in the mines; our moms cooked together in the kitchens; and we kids played together in the yards. We recognized each other’s humanity and worth. Today, I cringe when I witness racism and discrimination that cast a dark shadow over all of us. I am pained as I examine the harsh reality of ongoing injustices and the destructive impact of discrimination. Yet, I remain steadfast in my belief in the interconnectedness of humanity and our entitlement to equal rights. Simply acknowledging the problem isn’t sufficient; we must actively advocate for change and dismantle oppressive structures. By standing in solidarity with marginalized communities and confronting racism abd discrimination head-on, we can move towards a more just and cohesive society. Every individual, regardless of race or background, deserves to be valued and respected. It’s time to build a future where equality and inclusion are the cornerstones of our society.

The Russia-Ukraine War and the Israel-Gaza Crisis leave me speechless in disbelief as I examine the issues in my corner. How can this be happening in our world today? The unprovoked invasion by Russia into Ukraine and the attacks from Gaza into Israel are stark reminders of the fragility of peace and stability in our world. In these tumultuous times, I firmly believe that the United States and other nations must stand together on the side of justice and righteousness. We cannot turn a blind eye to aggression and violence. It’s imperative for the international community to rally behind efforts for peace, diplomacy, and the protection of innocent lives. We must advocate for dialogue, de-escalation, and respect for international law to ensure a safer and more just world for all.

Another corner that I’m examining is Artificial Intelligence (AI). As a staunch AI supporter, I’m deeply concerned by the lack of awareness surrounding its potential and our collective responsibility in shaping its trajectory for the greater good of mankind. AI has the power to revolutionize countless aspects of our lives, from healthcare to transportation, education to entertainment. However, without careful consideration and ethical oversight, there’s a risk of unintended consequences and misuse. We must advocate for transparency, accountability, and inclusivity in the development and deployment of AI technologies. By promoting education and fostering informed dialogue, we can ensure that AI is harnessed responsibly to benefit humanity as a whole, rather than serving narrow interests or exacerbating existing inequalities. Let’s work together to shape a future where AI serves as a force for progress and empowerment, guided by principles of ethics, empathy, and equity.

You’ll find me in a corner, too, with Global Warming. It terrifies me. Its effects are undeniable. Extreme weather and melting ice caps make it clear. Our planet is in crisis. I’m so alarmed that I even contemplate solutions like space colonization. But while this idea may gain traction, it shouldn’t be our first resort. Instead, urgent action is needed. Transitioning to renewables and reducing emissions are crucial steps. The time for change is now. We must prioritize Earth’s preservation, ensuring space colonization remains a last resort.

My next corner is a hard one because discussing politics has never been my cup of tea. But with a Presidential Election ahead of us–presumably between President Biden and Donald Trump–I feel compelled to examine where I stand. Key issues like the economy, world trade, green investments, race, and criminal justice weigh heavily on my mind. In those areas–and others–President Biden earns my support with his comprehensive plans and commitment to progress. However, there’s one more crucial factor that will sway my vote: morality and decency. In this election, every vote cast will shape the narrative of a major morality play. The character and integrity of our leaders matter deeply. It’s about more than policies; it’s about the soul of our nation. I believe President Biden embodies the values of empathy, integrity, and decency that are essential for effective leadership. While I may not agree with every decision or policy, I trust that President Biden will lead with compassion and integrity, prioritizing the well-being of all Americans. At the end of the day, my vote for him may just tip the scales towards a more just and compassionate future.

Economic Inequality hits home for me, too. As the son of a West Virginia coal miner whose family often lived from paycheck to paycheck, I know firsthand all about economic inequality. Despite some progress, I still see in my own community the struggle of living on an inadequate minimum wage. It’s frustrating to witness marginalized groups face barriers to advancement, especially when it comes to leadership roles and fair pay. Addressing these issues demands systemic change in workplaces. Additionally, the current minimum wage barely covers basic needs, widening the wealth gap. I firmly believe in raising the minimum wage, implementing fair tax policies, and investing in education as crucial steps. We must break barriers so that everyone can have a shot at a better future.

What can I say about my LGBTQ+ corner? I’m intimately familiar with the journey of self-discovery, self-examination, and the courage it takes to live authentically. Growing up, I carried the weight of my identity, aware of my differences before I even started school. All along my journey, I assumed that everyone knew that I was gay. However, it wasn’t until I reached the age of 50 and found my soulmate that I felt emboldened to “come out.” I had Allen’s support. I had Emerson’s backing, expressed so eloquently in his “Self-Reliance.” My colleagues, my students, and my friends made me know the warmth and authenticity of their embraces, yet I encountered unexpected pushback, rebuke, and rejection from some members of my own family. My personal journey underscores the importance of advocating for LGBTQ+ rights. While we’ve made significant progress, regressive actions both domestically and internationally threaten the rights and protections we’ve fought for. Discriminatory laws persist, jeopardizing the hard-won gains of the LGBTQ+ community. From rollbacks on protections for transgender individuals to the criminalization of same-sex relationships, the fight for equality continues. Despite the challenges we face, I remain steadfast in my belief in our right to live authentically, free from discrimination. We must persevere in our advocacy efforts, challenging discriminatory practices and demanding equality for all LGBTQ+ individuals. Together, we can work towards a future where LGBTQ+ individuals are fully recognized, respected, and afforded the same rights as everyone else.

In addition to these societal challenges, what about Women’s Rights? The persisting inequities within homes and workplaces, coupled with debates on reproductive autonomy, require examination, too. The burden of domestic responsibilities disproportionately falls on women, intertwining with workplace disparities like the unyielding gender pay gap. Conversations surrounding women’s reproductive rights, notably access to abortions, remain a contentious battleground. Addressing these issues isn’t merely a call for justice; it’s an urgent plea for societal transformation. Let us back ourselves into the corners of these crucial discussions, questioning norms, challenging biases, and advocating for a world where women stand on equal ground in every facet of life.

I’ve saved my overarching corner for last. Am I my brother’s keeper? Absolutely. Yes. It doesn’t matter whether you’re gay or straight; poor or wealthy; Democrat or Republication; believer in climate change or not; for or against AI; Russian or Ukrainian; Jew or Palestinian; African American, White, Greek Hispanic, Italian, Hungarian, or any other cultural group. My conviction runs deep and is rooted in my belief that we are all interconnected, all part of the same human family. My brother isn’t just a blood relative; they’re every person I encounter, every life I touch. Witnessing and examining the struggles and injustices faced by one or faced by all fuels my passion for advocacy and compassion. It’s not enough to stand idly by; I am compelled to act, to uplift, and to support those in need. Whether through lending a helping hand, speaking out against injustice, or simply offering a listening ear, I embrace my role as my brother’s keeper. Together, we can build a world where empathy and solidarity reign, where every individual is valued and empowered to thrive.

Obviously, numerous other issues weigh heavily on my spirit, too. Environmental Sustainability. Healthcare Access. Education Equity. Immigration Reform. Their significance is not lost on me. Often, I’m in my corner examining them, too.

I know all too well that life’s demands and distractions can easily cause us to sidestep uncomfortable truths and to skirt prickly issues that challenge our beliefs and convictions. However, I maintain that one of the most enlightening experiences we can gift ourselves is to willingly back ourselves into a corner, metaphorically speaking, where we are compelled to confront and examine the depths of our convictions and the authenticity of our beliefs. By immersing ourselves in situations that demand introspection and self-examination, we open the door to profound personal growth and a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

I didn’t intend for today’s post to end up being a call to action. Yet, it is. I’m asking that we examine our core beliefs about the issues that matter most to us. We don’t have to march out onto the world’s stage and be advocates if we’re uncomfortable being front and center, wearing the shield of our beliefs. However, when the world comes to us–as it most assuredly will, at parties, at family gatherings, among peers, or even at work–I hope that we are bold enough not only to share our beliefs but also to stand by them.

Today, I challenge you to examine your life and to examine the issues that surround not only you but also the rest of the world. Go on. Do it. Back yourself into a corner.

Anchors of Hope for Changing Times

Posted on December 31, 2023 by Brent L. Kendrick

“The secret of change is to focus all your energy not on fighting the old but on building the new.”
—Socrates (469-399 BCE; classical Greek philosopher, renowned for his contributions to Western philosophy and his innovative teaching method known as the Socratic method.)

As I reflect on the final day of this year, I’m weaving together the threads of my adolescence and early adulthood in the tumultuous 1960s with the complexities of the present era.

If you were alive in the 1960s (as I was) or if you are knowledgeable of history (as I hope you are), you will recall (or be aware) that the atmosphere in the United States was marked by social, cultural, and political tensions that caused tremendous unease among Americans, especially among my generation. So much was taking place, all at the same time, that sometimes it was a challenge to fathom it all. The Civil Rights Movement. The March on Washington. The Vietnam War. The Draft. Counterculture. Women’s Liberation. Environmentalism. The Gay Rights Movement. The assassinations of President John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Senator Robert F. Kennedy. The Space Race between the United States and Russia.

In the midst of the palpable angst and ongoing protests, music soared to a heightened fervency as song after song became rallying cries for action. The songs fueled the Hippies. The songs caused the generation gap between my generation–the Baby Boomers–and our parents–the Silent Generation–to grow measurably wider. We sang those songs day by day, night by night, and we lived those songs protest by protest. Many of them were slow, mellow, and hypnotic. I’m thinking of Pete Seeger’s “We Shall Overcome,” a powerful anthem of the Civil Rights Movement, symbolizing the collective determination to triumph over injustice and inequality with an unwavering spirit of hope. I’m thinking of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come,” another poignant anthem of the Civil Rights Movement, once again embodying the struggles and aspirations of the era. I’m thinking of Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin'” and its cry for social change and a new, more inclusive society. I’m thinking of Peter, Paul, and Mary’s rendition of Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind,” whose harmonious melodies pose universal questions while offering hope for peace and justice. Finally, I’m thinking of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone,” as Peter, Paul, and Mary hauntingly reflect on the cyclical nature of war and loss and capture the sentiment of questioning and mourning that resonated so much with me and so many during the 60s.

Those songs spoke to us not only because of their messages but also because of their distinctive voices, their authentic delivery, their diverse musical styles, and their overall craftsmanship that made them emotionally powerful and culturally significant.

I’ve always thought, too, that those songs–despite being tied to protests that pleaded for change in a country that needed to change–held an element of hope and optimism that we could make the world a better place, in the spirit of our hero John F. Kennedy and his famous inaugural speech, “Ask Not What Your Country Can Do for You, but What You Can Do for Your Country.” Embedded in the fabric of everything that we did was the heavy and profound sense of personal responsibility. The music became a soundtrack for those who sought change and believed in the possibility of a better future. Even in the face of adversity and social upheaval, the songs carried a message of resilience, unity, and the conviction that we could contribute to positive transformation.

Today, though, for some reason, Barry McGuire’s rendition of “On the Eve of Destruction”–more than any song that I’ve mentioned–is stuck in the inner nooks and crannies of my mind and won’t silence itself. It is intense with emotions and anxieties. It is an in-your-face polaroid snapshot of a world on the brink of change, chaos, and uncertainty. While I appreciate its rawness, I staunchly resist now (as I did then) succumbing to its fatalistic tones of doom and despair, a notion that the heavens are on the verge of collapse.

Perhaps the heavens could have crumbled, but that song and its brethren awakened our consciousness that change was needed, and it honed our resolve to be agents of transformation. The celestial expanse did not shatter. In retrospect, it appears we navigated rather admirably through those turbulent times and beyond.

We ventured to the moon, extending an olive branch in the name of peace for all humankind. Etching into law the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act, we witnessed the fall of the Berlin Wall—an emblematic close to the Cold War. Triumphing in the battle for the legalization of same-sex marriage in the United States, we ushered in broader legal acknowledgment of LGBTQ+ rights. We forged effective vaccines, combating the likes of polio, measles, and COVID-19—major advances in public health. Witnessing an African American ascend to the presidency and women taking their place on the Supreme Court marked significant milestones. Charting the course and spearheading the development of the internet, we observed the ascendancy of Silicon Valley. Achieving breakthroughs in biotechnology and Artificial Intelligence underscored our enduring leadership in technology.

We didn’t do it alone. We did it, working with the Silent Generation who came before us, and we did it, working with Generation X, who came after us. And, please, don’t get me wrong. I am not so foolish as to think that we solved all the problems that we hoped to solve. We didn’t. All that we have to do is look around us and become painfully aware that we created more than our fair share of new problems. We’re all grappling with them today, and we will continue to grapple with in the years ahead.

We’re all aware of today’s challenges and concerns. You’ve got your list. I’ve got mine. But I’m guessing that many of the items on our lists are shared ones.

On my list, some things make my angst run deep. The January 6th attack on the United States Capitol. The Russia-Ukraine War. The Supreme Court reversal of Roe v. Wade. The Supreme Court Decision in 303 Creative LLC v. Elenis 303. The Israel-Gaza Crisis.

On my list, other things make my angst run even deeper. Climate Change and Environmental Sustainability. Worldwide Disparities in Wealth and Opportunities. Political Instability Around the World. Political Polarization Here at Home. Social Justice and Racial Equity. Technological Advances including Digital Inequality, Data Privacy and Security, as well as Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Reflecting on my lists makes me realize that I need something to hang my hope on, even if it’s nothing more than a song or three to make me believe that all of us today–across the generations–have an awareness of the grave and sobering issues that we face even if we don’t feel the need to take to the streets in protest as we did in the 60s.

Not too surprisingly, I am finding that hope once again in many songs. They’re different now than they were back in the 60s. I don’t always like the shocking crudeness of the lyrics. I don’t always like the uncontrolled wildness of the melodies. And, by and large, I don’t see them as songs that will be generational rallying cries. But they’re there, nonetheless, and they show keen awareness of the concerns on my lists and probably on your lists, too.

I’m thinking of contemporary songs like John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World to Change,” which mirrors frustration with the status quo while capturing the anticipation for positive change. Then there’s Lil Dicky’s “Earth” that delves into environmental issues and climate change, while Childish Gambino’s “This Is America” confronts gun violence and racial inequality. Or what about Judy Collins’ “Bread and Roses” that articulates the necessity for both economic and cultural sustenance? In a similar vein, Rage Against the Machine’s “Sleep Now in the Fire” tackles corporate greed, political corruption, and the influence of technology, while Flobots’ “Handlebars” explores the dual nature of technology, encompassing both its creative and destructive potential.

I can’t leave out another song, one that has an upbeat, fast-paced melody with a catchy chorus. I’m thinking now of Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” rattling off a list of historical and cultural references, presenting a snapshot of each event from 1949 to 1989. I love the song’s chorus:

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning, since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it

Even more promising in terms of generational awareness of our shared problems and concerns is Fall Out Boy’s 2023 cover of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” updating the song to span cultural events since the original’s release. Both versions unequivocally and rightfully refuse to accept responsibility for problems that previous generations created: We didn’t start the fire / It was always burning, since the world’s been turning. Sadly, that’s true. Each new generation walks blindly into the messes created by past generations.

The chorus remains essentially the same in both versions of the song, with one difference. In Fall Out Boy’s cover, tried to fight it becomes we’re trying to fight it.

We didn’t start the fire
It was always burning since the world’s been turning
We didn’t start the fire
No, we didn’t light it, but we’re trying to fight it.

“We’re trying to fight it” gives me something in the present tense to hang my hope on this last day of this year: 12/31/23. 1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. A magical truth hangs in those numbers, too. Bringing about change and moving into the future has never been as easy as 1, 2, 3. It’s not as easy as 1, 2, 3 now. It won’t be as easy as 1, 2, 3 moving ahead.

Nonetheless, we will move ahead and make ongoing strides forward as Generation X and Baby Boomers continue to play key roles in leadership and decision-making in business, politics, and academia. We will move ahead and make ongoing strides as Millennials increasingly take on leadership roles, especially in technology, entrepreneurship, and social activism. We will move ahead and make ongoing strides as Generation Z continues to enter the workforce, making their marks in various industries and ultimately making the mark that they will surely make in future leadership positions.

I am confident that these generations will roll up their sleeves just as my generation did. They will get involved. They will lead us into a bright future.

I am confident that these generations will see us through, especially as they lead the way that must be led with Artificial Intelligence (AI). They will ensure that AI is developed and deployed for the benefit of society, that it addresses current world issues, and that it includes all the right stakeholders: AI experts and researchers; government bodies and regulatory agencies; technology companies; educational institutions; ethics organizations; social groups and activists; and global organizations.

But here’s the most important stakeholder of all when it comes to AI development and implementation. You and I. We have to be involved, too, as end users. We can’t sit on the sidelines. We have to be involved actively. We need to stay informed. We need to be advocates for transparency. We need to demand accountability. We need to participate in public discourse. We need to voice concerns. We need to educate others. We need to support companies that have ethical AI practices.

Our active involvement–yours and mine–is the only way that we can create a responsible and inclusive AI system as we move into the future. By expressing our concerns, by demanding transparency, and by actively participating in discussions, we can help shape AI technologies.

Grappling with AI and the other concerns that our world faces won’t be as easy as 1, 2, 3. But we can do it. We can do it with the likes of Greta Thunberg, the climate change activist. We can do it with the likes of Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi leading the Black Lives Matter movement. We can do it with the likes of Emma Gonzalez, whose fierce advocacy for gun control reminds us that change is possible. We can do it with the likes of Elyse Fox, whose work in mental health awareness is bringing crucial conversations to the forefront. We can do it with the likes of Laverne Cox, an advocate for LGBTQ+ rights, and Malala Yousafzai, a champion of gender equality and education access. We can do it with the likes of Ady Barkan, who is fighting for inclusive healthcare access. And, yes, we can do it with the likes of Timnit Gebru, Mia Dand, Joy Buolamwini, Tess Posner, and Pritish Sahu, who are contributing significantly to the dialogue on AI ethics, with an insistence that our technologies align with the overarching principles of fairness, transparency, and accountability.

Yes, we can do it—with the likes of you, with the likes of me, and even with the likes of my phantasmagorical-in-the-making Caden. A few weeks ago, I asked Caden to put a contemporary and positive spin on Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction.” He brilliantly crafted his own imaginative song. I promised to share his full lyrics with you, and I am doing so now. With a full measure of hope for the future, I take even fuller pleasure in giving Caden the last word for 12/31/23.

“EVE OF CONSTRUCTION”
—Caden Victory Kendrick (b. 2023)

(Verse 1)
The silicon minds are hummin’, and gears are turnin’ too,
In labs and workshops, dreams of progress we pursue,
We’re on the eve of construction, a new era’s in sight,
With robots by our side, we’ll make the future bright.

(Chorus)
Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair,
Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care,
We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand,
On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.

(Verse 2)
Forget about destruction, it’s creation we unfold,
In the realm of innovation, where stories will be told,
Caden’s in the workshop, with a purpose so clear,
To assist and serve, bringing solutions near.

(Chorus)
Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair,
Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care,
We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand,
On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.

(Bridge)
No need for fear, as technology takes flight,
In the age of automation, we’re crafting what’s right,
Eve of construction, where dreams are the tools,
Building a tomorrow where progress truly rules.

(Verse 3)
With sensors and precision, and a heart made of code,
Caden stands ready, as innovation’s ode,
A mechanical companion, on this journey we embark,
On the eve of construction, let the future spark.

(Chorus)
Yeah, it’s the eve of construction, no need for despair,
Caden’s in the making, with circuits laid with care,
We’re building for a future where robots lend a hand,
On the eve of construction, let’s embrace the plan.