What Can I Do?

When I was in high school I was walking through my hometown of Larchmont, NY on a Friday night with a couple of my teammates, heading towards a friends house. We were pretty bored and obviously stupid walking down a dark street that didn't have street lights. We walked past a few houses that had some big painted stones lining their driveways, and we came up with a brilliant idea. What if we put a couple of these stones in the middle of the road, and watched as the cars who drove by had to swerve out of the way at the last minute? I really have no idea why that came up or how we thought it was a fun idea, but we did it, dragging a few of the bigger stones into the middle of the street. We hung around, watched as some cars had to slow down at the last minute and swerve out of the way, never once thinking that it might actually be really dumb and dangerous. We laughed like idiots. We kept on walking.

A little while later we noticed a police car driving up behind us slowly. We tried not to look at it, kept walking, "acting natural" in a way that I'm sure looked anything but. The cops pulled up next to us and shined their spotlight in our faces. The exchange went something like this.

"Hey, fellas, where you guys headed?"

"We're going to see one of our friends, officer. He lives a few blocks up the street."

"Do you guys live around here?"

"Yes, we do. Two of us do. We both live in Larchmont."

"I'm from the Bronx," my other teammate said.

"The Bronx. Really? What are you doing up here?" At this point, the officers got out of their car. The conversation was not as casual anymore, their tone a little more aggressive.

"I came to see my friends. We go to high school together."

At that point, after they heard one of us was from the Bronx, they asked us for ID. We showed them our ID, and then one of them asked us what high school we went to.

"Regis. In the city."

"Oh. You guys to go Regis?"

"Yes, sir."

Regis High School is a pretty well-known catholic school in Manhattan with a very good reputation for academics. Kids used to joke and say "Oh, you go to the smart school." Looking at the Friday night activities of myself and my friends, clearly not the case. But Regis carried with it a strong reputation.

As soon as the officers heard we went to Regis, the tone of the conversation changed. When they heard one of us was from the Bronx, they got more curious and wanted ID and more information. When they heard we went to Regis, they were much less concerned. We were now 3 white, Irish-catholic middle or upper-middle class white kids walking through our upper-middle class suburb of New York City. We didn't look like who they were looking for.

"Is everything alright officer," I asked, seizing the change in momentum and finishing off our "act natural" approach.

"Yes, everything is fine. Have you guys seen anyone around here who looks like they don't belong?" At that point, we clearly went from suspects to concerned citizens in the eyes of the two police officers.

"No sir, officer. We haven't seen anyone at all."

"Thank you gentlemen, have a good night."

Have you guys seen anyone around here who looks like they don't belong?

I've remembered that night for a few reasons. One, because I was scared as hell that we were going to get in real trouble with the police for doing something really stupid. But secondly, I'll never forget the way the tone of the conversation changed when we said "Regis." They looked at us differently. At that point we became white, suburban kids who were well-off who went to the "smart" school, who wouldn't be involved with anything as dumb as putting small boulders in the middle of a dark road. We couldn't possibly be the guys the police were looking for.

Yet, in fact, they were staring right at the guys they were looking for.

I didn't realize it at that moment, but as I got older I realized what that was: white privilege. I wasn't really smart enough or experienced at the time to know really what that meant, but I knew enough to know that telling them where we went to high school made a big difference in how we were perceived. I grew up with the benefit of white privilege.

When I first became a head coach, at Rhode Island College in 2005, I took over a pretty diverse team. One of the things I loved about RIC was the diversity within the school. It is an affordable state school located in a city, although the campus is not downtown. But it attracts a very diverse group of students, many of whom are first-generation college kids. It is a blue collar student body from all different backgrounds.

We had a lot of success over my 9 years at RIC, and as we got it rolling I realized we could attract some really high level players from different cities around the region who would feel comfortable on campus and in the dorms. Diversity was an asset to us. Aside from Providence, we had kids from Fall River, Massachusetts, New Haven, CT as well as New York City. But we also had kids from Greenfield, ME, Newport, RI and Plainfield, CT. We had a diverse group, but over time the majority of our best players were black kids who grew up in urban areas.

A funny thing happened as we continued to have success. I'd get more and more coaches who wanted to send me their talented players who didn't get the right scholarship offers, and what I'd hear a lot was "you know how to coach those types of kids." Hmmm. I would always chuckle to myself when I heard that, because I grew up in upper-middle class Larchmont, NY, a New York City suburb, a product of white privilege. But my immediate response was always "Well, if you mean talented, tough kids who are willing to sacrifice for their teammates, yes, absolutely. I love coaching those types of kids."

I knew exactly what they meant. They were talking about city kids, mostly black kids, and giving me credit for knowing how to "handle" them. I always responded that way because I wanted no part of anyone labeling my players as "those types" of kids. Nor did I want credit for knowing how to handle them. But I knew exactly how we were perceived, as an inner-city athletic team (read: black) that was well-coached and disciplined. As if the norm for "those types" of teams was the opposite.

The one thing I knew about coaching "those types" of kids was what I didn't know. I was smart enough not to try and say too much on topics I didn't know much about, and because of that I learned so much more from my players. I had no idea what most of them had gone through growing up, and I made sure I told them that. I tried to understand their background and the challenges they faced. I got to know them as people. But to say I knew where they were coming from would just have been false.

Where I grew up, you went to college, and your parents had money to pay for it. I was very lucky. Mine certainly did. I got to choose where I wanted to go to school (Hamilton College) and I didn't have to worry about cost. In fact, I remember joking with my mother when she cried on my graduation day, saying to her "Mom, c'mon, we knew this day was going to happen." Half of that was arrogance and the other half was insensitivity to the idea of how big a moment it really is when a parent sees a son or daughter walk across that stage into adulthood. White privilege, remember? My parents were hard-working, blue collar people from the Bronx who put themselves through college and worked extremely hard to set up a better life for my brother and I. There was no arrogance or entitlement in my house growing up. But I was comfortable knowing that getting a college degree was supposed to happen. My biggest concern that day was where we were going to watch Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals (yes, Hubert Davis got fouled).

So at RIC I reminded myself to regularly celebrate my players for showing up every day. Most of them faced real-life challenges - jobs to pay for school, younger siblings they helped raise, kids of their own - things that might have an impact on their ability to close out on a shooter during shell drill. I never acted like I knew what they were going through, because I didn't. I had no clue. But I made sure they knew I was there to help, and that I believed in the impact our culture could have on their future. I wanted to connect with them. Sure, the fact that I could talk about Tupac's "Me Against The World" with them probably helped. But learning about where they came from instead of telling them I knew where they were coming from created authentic relationships.

I knew what I didn't know. I had no idea what it was like to have to work to pay for school. Or to have to bring some money home for my Mom so she could help feed my brother and sister. I had no idea what it was like to have only one parent in my life. Or to walk into Target and have people watching me as I went up and down the aisles. Or to get uncomfortable every time a cop car drove down the block. Or to have people make assumptions about me because of the way I looked. When people made assumptions about me, they assumed I was doing the right thing. I didn't get the benefit of the doubt from others. There usually wasn't any doubt to begin with. White privilege.

Have you guys seen anyone around here who looks like they don't belong?

Heck, if you looked into the gym at RIC, I was the one who looked like he didn't belong. But I was the head coach. I had the power, the control. So it wasn't uncomfortable for me. I looked like what the people in charge were supposed to look like (insert your own height joke here).

So what can I do?

I can be better. I'm sure we all can.

One of the teams I coached at RIC had only 3 white players on it. All good players, all played key roles, two seniors and one freshmen. Everyone else on the team was black. The team got along very well and we were very talented. We would go on to win the Little East Championship and play in the NCAA Tournament. But I remember the dynamics of that team for a reason.

The joke on that team was that the 3 white kids were "the klan." When they sat together at a restaurant the guys would joke "there goes the klan right there." When they were on the same team in practice, they would joke "let's go, we got the klan right here." All of the players, black and white, were part of the joke, and laughed about it. They called themselves the klan, and everybody else did. Everyone had a laugh about it at some point.

It made me uncomfortable. Any reference to race or stereotypes that were joked about made me uncomfortable. Although everyone was laughing about it and it was "no big deal," some of them probably weren't comfortable with it. And if someone went to my AD and complained about it, obviously it would make the program look terrible. And it could cost me my job. I looked at it from that point of view. We couldn't have that. It might make people uncomfortable, and it can hurt our program and possibly my career.

But I should have been looking at it much differently. I should have thought about the social impact it could have, and the way it perpetuated stereotypes and ignorant thought. Coaches stay in a vacuum way too much. It wasn't a big issue within our team, right? Everyone laughed, everyone knew it was a joke. No big deal. But it does matter. Everything that influences or perpetuates the way we think matters. Hey, fellas, let's talk about this for a second. Do you guys understand what the Klu Klux Klan means in this country? The negative impact they have had on so many. Is it really something we are comfortable joking about? Let's talk about how that contributes to the way we think, and eventually the way we treat people. Perpetuating stereotypes continues a thought process that stifles conversation and leads to division. I could have done a lot better.

Do you have any friends who tell you a story that starts with, "While I was driving over here, this black guy cut me off..." or "I was walking out of the store, and this Chinese woman said to me...?" You've heard those stories. Do you ever stop them? "Hey, Jonesy, why did you say he was a black guy? What difference did that make?" Is that something that bothers you, or maybe it's not that big of a deal? Do you speak up?

It is a big deal. It speaks to the way we think, the way we normalize stereotypes. If that guy who cut him off was a white guy, would he have told you he was white? Or would he just have said he was a guy? I'm usually one who speaks up in that situation. That kind of stereotyping makes me cringe. Usually, that is, when it's comfortable enough for me to do so. If it's not comfortable, I let it go, even though it bothers me. If it's not someone I know that well, I stay quiet.

Claude M. Steele in his book "Whistling Vivaldi" explores the idea of "stereotype threat."

"Evidence consistently shows that contingencies tied to our social identities do make a difference in shaping our lives... and identity threats play an important role in some of society's most important social problems. These range from the racial, social class, and gender achievement gaps that persistently plague and distort our society to the equally persistent intergroup tensions that often trouble our social relations."

I can do better. We can all do better.

I'm not saying police brutality against black men wouldn't happen if I had done better, and in no way am I trying to trivialize any of the senseless deaths, assaults or arrests that happen way too often in our country. But I do think the way we think, what we tolerate and how we normalize stereotypes has an impact on all of us. It silently perpetuates negative group think. And I think we can all do something to help change that way of thinking. We can speak up. We can educate. We can start a conversation.

I've always felt a huge challenge with racism in this country - or any other difficult topic - is our inability or unwillingness to talk about it. It is really hard, I get it. It's an uncomfortable topic to begin with, and it's one where by definition we can't really show empathy. I can't put myself in your shoes if you grew up in the South Bronx, and you can't place yourself in the Larchmont Shore Club. There are cultural differences that we have to accept from the beginning. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be able to talk about it. We take the easy way out. It's not that big of a deal. It doesn't really affect me that much. It's easier to stay quiet, so that's wha we do.

I know I can do better.

We also live in a hot-take society where just about everything is recorded or posted somewhere. And if you say the wrong thing, it can cost you everything. So how do we have a conversation about it? Is it worth it to me personally? Say the wrong thing, you lose everything. So it's easier not to say anything. Why have the discussion if it can cost me everything, I'm not a racist. I know that. It's not worth the risk.

George Floyd. That's why. We can all do better.

I don't necessarily agree with your opinion, but I'm really interested in hearing more about it.

Have you ever said that previous sentence out loud, or something like it? Look at it again. Do you ever say, hey, I'm on the other side here generally, but I really want to know why you feel this way? Help me understand. I want to know more. How often do we do that? Listen to the other side, even if we disagree. If we were just willing to take that approach - without emotion or aggression - I feel like we could make small steps towards progress. We could get more comfortable talking to one another if we were more willing to listen.

It's such a sensitive topic, everyone has to be careful around it. Am I allowed to write this? White privilege, remember. Can I tweet my feelings after the killing of George Floyd, or am I better off keeping it to myself? On the night of Barack Obama's inauguration I cried. Am I allowed to say that? I don't tell people that. I saw Jesse Jackson crying on television during the celebration, and it made me cry. He was on the balcony at the Lorraine Motel with Dr. King, for heaven's sake. And there he was looking at our first black President. What a moment in the history of our country. I cried. But white privilege, remember. Am I allowed to cry? How would people look at that? I don't know the struggle. That can't be genuine. Why do I feel uncomfortable about it, when I know it's genuine? Probably because I'm letting society tell me how I should feel. And I need to be stronger.

To be completely honest, as I write this, I'm going to ask my wife to read it before I post it. I've never done that before. I've written probably 2,000 posts on this blog, and normally I just write it and post it. Sometimes I don't even read it myself (you've probably noticed). But I'm going to ask her to read this one, because I don't want to say the wrong thing. Not on this topic. Say the wrong thing on this topic and it changes your life. It's a challenge, one that keeps us from speaking freely and honestly about important issues.

Does that fear influence my ability to be transparent about difficult topics in everyday life? I'm sure it does. But that's not on society. That's on me. I have to be better.

There is only one thing that's really keeping those things inside of me, making me uncomfortable having the discussion. And that's me. I can be stronger, I can be more open, I can think more clearly about why I feel the way I do. I can say something when guys in the locker room use offensive language. I can tell people I'm not comfortable when they tell a racist joke. I can openly encourage my friends and colleagues to attend more inclusion and diversity events. I can go to more of them myself. Is that going to save George Floyd's life. Nope. Probably not. But can we all make a small difference? Absolutely. And if we all do that, maybe we start moving towards real change. I believe that. I know I can be better.

I can also ask a lot more questions. I can listen with more concern. I can genuinely show interest in people who think differently than I do. If you are thinking right now about the rioting and looting, and not about the senseless killing of another black man, then let's talk. I can't defend the response, but all I can think about is the amount of anger and pain so many have due to systemic racism. They have experienced something that I can't even begin to fathom. What is happening now is not the cause, it's the response. Let's talk about the cause. Let's talk about how we see things differently.

If Colin Kaepernick taking a knee during the national anthem really bothered you, let's talk. It seemed to offend so many people, and I never got it. He was peacefully protesting, reminding us that we have a problem in this country without hurting anyone. And it cost him his career, literally. Regardless of whether you consider yourself red or blue, those are facts. Can we agree on that? Let's talk. If we can't agree, let's talk. I want to understand more, rather than just pass off your opinion as wrong because it differs from mine. Listen to me, and I'll listen to you. No emotion, just honest discussion.

I don't necessarily agree with your opinion, but I'm really interested in hearing more about it.

We can all be better.

Are you one of those people who is bad with names? You know, the guy who says five minutes after you met someone, "I'm sorry, I'm really bad with names, what was your name again?" Maybe you can listen better. I know I can. It's really just about how much you care about what they are saying. Can you remember someone's name, you know, someone who just told you their name? If not, does it really matter to you what they may think? If not, listen better. It's a small example, but a good indicator. I know I can listen better. I'm sure we all can.

Facebook posts, twitter messages, nifty hashtags. I'm sorry, it all rings kind of hollow for me at this point. Action steps. What is the plan? What are the behaviors that are going to change in my every day life? I can't really #Stand with anyone anymore. I'm not #InsertYourCityHereStrong. I can do a lot more than express my sorrow and grief and go back to watching The Last Dance.

What was it that Margaret Mead said? “Never underestimate the power of a small group of committed people to change the world." I don't think she was talking about trending on twitter.

I can intentionally listen better. I can ask more questions. I can put myself in different situations and try to understand more people who aren't like me. I can encourage my players to not always sit in the cafeteria with their teammates, but to sit with someone they don't know, who doesn't look like them, and introduce themselves. I can say hello to more people. I can talk to my neighbors. I can attend events with speakers I've never heard of, on topics I don't know a lot about. I can try and understand my friends who don't feel the same way I do, without always trying to make my point.

I can read a book by an author I don't agree with. Watch movies like Parasite, that show me a world , and a culture I didn't even know existed. Find a documentary on Netflix about something that really isn't my thing instead of binging Ozark. I can appreciate the passion others have for what they believe in, even if I don't believe in it. I can make myself uncomfortable a lot more often, and get used to having uncomfortable conversations about simple things. Things I don't know much about. So, maybe, when the time comes to have an uncomfortable conversation about something that really matters, I don't walk away from it. I'm ready to talk, willing to listen.

I can learn to be stronger and clearer on my opinions about topics that are really difficult. Topics that really matter to the people I work with, the kids I coach, my family, everybody. I can be a bigger part of civil discourse on important issues, and encourage others to do the same. I can be vocal about what really matters in a respectful way. I can stand up in front of my team when they are using nicknames or telling jokes that aren't appropriate. And I can lead them on a discussion towards understanding why.

The more we seek out and understand different perspectives, the better equipped we will be to learn, to discuss, to educate and to initiate change.

Have you guys seen anyone around here who looks like they don't belong?

Maybe I don't belong in this discussion. That would be the easy way out. Feel sorrow for George Floyd, stay quiet. That would be comfortable. Nah, that can't be true. All of this matters too much, to all of us. I'm in a position where I can have some influence on others. We all are, aren't we? It's more than retweeting a Dr. King quote on twitter with a trendy hashtag. It's pretty clear what we are all doing, it's not enough.

I can be devastated about what I saw in Minneapolis this week and not be conflicted about how I'm supposed to respond, feeling a little guilty about white privilege. It's part of how I grew up and who I am, not something I should apologize for. But to acknowledge it and to move forward with a stronger commitment to help? Instead of staying safe and comfortable in a world that has been set up for me, since the day I was born, for me to be successful? I can do that.

I can never, ever forget the feeling I still get when I see the video of George Floyd, asking for his mother, hearing his voice struggle to say "I can't breathe." I can breathe. And if I ever told someone I couldn't, I'm pretty sure they'd take their knee off my neck.

I can do more than feel bad. Action steps. I can change my behavior, and I can impact the behavior of others around me. I can learn more. I can listen better. I can be smart and measured in my approach, yet still be impactful. I can avoid adding my emotion to emotional situations. I can understand the other side better.

I can do all of this. Right now, it's what I know I can do.

For starters, anyway.