The morning after the last presidential election, I sat down and thought, things are going to change, fast, and not for the better. It was a serious wave of, what the hell happens next? I thought about many things, but mostly I thought about my son, who I have written about frequently. Of all the tasks I face in my life, the one task I care the most about, above all others, is being a good father for my son.
When Son #1 was born, it took us a very short amount of time to know he faced a lifetime with a mental disability. It was heartbreaking and sad, but I could understand it and move forward. I did not understand, at that moment, how much the fact that he presented far more as Jamaican-American, with his tight curly hair and dark skin color, would impact his life. I just did not understand.
At 10 years old, I learned my first lesson. In a panic attack at his school, the response was to throw him into the back of a police car until I arrived — which resulted in some unique looks. Let us just say, having a pasty white guy in a business suit show up was probably not the expectation.
It was my first introduction to the things I had not thought about, and suddenly, I thought about the issues he would face in a whole new way. He was not just mentally disabled; he was a mentally disabled person who would never be identified as white, and those complications could be serious.
I lived within the shadow of a sliver of hate. My son could be a target of others; but I, the guy behind him who loved him, would be free to walk out on my own and, when I went places, it would not follow me. It would always follow my children.
Since last year, there have been moments, but most directly today, where even that shadow, that glimmer, that touch of hate has been too much. Stifling. Exhausting. Brutal. Painful. And yet, at any moment, I could walk into the sun, free of it, but he cannot at any point in his life.
As January rolled around in our household, we had some big decisions to make. I sat down with my wife of nearly 20 years and confessed something I had held in since Election Day: I may have really screwed up. I had spent the last four years working feverishly with advocacy groups on mental illness, candidates, party efforts elsewhere, in large part, because I saw it as the most effective way to, potentially, change the opportunities for our son. In Kansas, we succeeded. My friends in North Carolina and elsewhere also had success.
In four years, I had run through two cars, hundreds of thousands of miles and frequent flier miles. I had been away from home often, working as hard as I could, when present, to make sure the bills were paid, but taking weekends and during the week, to setup fundraisers, help with call time, talk to potential candidates, and find people who would help make a difference for the issues I was concerned about.
We sat on the bed in our room, and it was probably the first time post election that I had said out loud: what is next? Did I spend too much time, and now, we are in worse situation than before? Could I have increased my business and saved money for later, when our son turns 18 — which happened two weeks ago — what could I do differently?
Go for it. Fight for what is next, we decided. So, I ran for DNC VC, in part to make a point, and in part, because I needed to make a case that many of us are now trapped, and desperate.
While I was doing that, however, I began also looking for a new job. I had been happy working for myself for nearly a decade, it paid my bills, and I kept my own work schedule. Without the ACA, however, and with our son’s issues, we were not sure what was next. Having been a former CTO or management in the IT world, I looked at going back. Doing so, however, would almost end my political activism. Being involved in the day-to-day operation of major companies was why I began my Daily Kos account with a pseudonym. The idea of going back into that was disheartening.
It meant one thing for sure: from January on, no campaign work could happen in my house for candidates. If I decided to take one of the corporate offers, I could not be entangled, and I had to be prepared to change everything and protect my family.
Job offers were out there. Headhunters contacted me immediately about opportunities if I would come back. The idea of signing on, however, would leave me without a portfolio of what to do next for my family. I’d have insurance. And probably good pay. But, no more advocacy.
I struggled all summer with where to go next; but as the summer went on, several opportunities opened up. I haven’t decided what happens next, I’m still thinking on that, but I started to breathe easier. Maybe, just maybe, we can figure this out.
Sitting at Netroots as the events in Charlottesville happened was terrifying, unthinkable, and daunting. I was across the country from my family and the fear was there again. It’s OK, I thought: our neighborhood is great, nothing will happen. And as I went to sleep I remembered that in April, a young black man found himself three houses down from me surrounded by police officers with a shotgun out and multiple firearms after ringing a door and being reported by a neighbor. That is, until the home owner answered the door in a towel and explained she knew him and couldn’t get to the door because she was in the shower.
It all ended in laughter, a few houses away, but I kept thinking of that shotgun down by the man’s leg as he was frisked. Would my son, a 6 foot, 290lb man with a disability behave so calmly? Could I? What would happen?
And in that moment, even away from my son, I was in the shadow once again.
Home with my children again, post Netroots, I thought we had weathered the worst. I drove today to support another congressional candidate and a friend. We can change things, I thought. Driving from Pittsburg, Kansas to Leavenworth, Kansas, two friends notified me “Turn on MSNBC radio. It’s bad.”
I listened as Trump explained that the killing in Charlottesville was maybe murder, maybe terrorism, he was a terrible person BUT… and began his litany of excuses for neo-nazis.
And for the first time, for the first time in 18 years, just the sliver, just the barest hint of the hatred that people like my son could bear and shoulder without me hit me like a ton of bricks. It was too much. I pulled over to the side of the road and thought to myself: how can I know he will be safe? And I had no answers. None.
Tonight, the sliver of a shadow was too much for me on a Kansas road. Too many thoughts, concerns, and fears. But I’m the fortunate one. For me, it is the glimmer of a shadow. It is escapable. I will never be touched by it in my own person, I will never be at risk of feeling that potential fear of what could happen to me personally. Neo-Nazis will not refer to me in slurs. They would not attack or rattle me in the streets. As a white man who is, frankly, bald, I’m not on their target list.
But for a few minutes today, for a period of time in my car, thinking of my son, the fear was all too real.
I will wake up tomorrow, and continue the work I have started. I will continue on because it is the only option we all have. I will forget this fear, take meetings, and that’s it. I can shake it off.
But my family does not have that option. And that thought will stay with me, every day.