Tolerance and Respect

Simply put, I don’t get it. I truly don’t get it. I don’t understand hate. I don’t understand bigotry. I don’t understand racism. I don’t understand how supposedly enlightened, evolved human beings can view those different from them as inferior. That said, I’m not so naïve that I don’t see clearly that those feelings are rampant in these very troubling times.

 

Perhaps I’m searching for a kinder, gentler, more harmonious world where every single person finds value in his fellow man regardless of race, religion, beliefs, or orientation. Perhaps I’m longing for a perfect world where everyone thinks before he speaks, everyone listens, everyone is non-judgmental, and everyone takes time to reflect on the challenges of walking in the shoes of others. That world never existed, of course, and I know it never will.

 

This past July, in the midst of yet another cringe-worthy news cycle of venom spewing from the mouths of those who should set positive examples, Emily and I traveled to San Francisco to visit her daughter Taylor. It was a long and tiring but fulfilling trip to a city – The City – that overflows with refreshing diversity and vitality.

 

Sitting at Gate 41 in Terminal One of SFO awaiting our return flight, we couldn’t help but notice and be intrigued by a United Nations of passersby: vacationers, students, tourists, business people, folks shepherding young children, individuals in wheelchairs and on and on. All shapes and sizes and ages and skin colors. All with their personal stories. And no one – absolutely no one – cast an angry eye toward another. Even in a busy airport, it was truly a microcosm of the world I envision.

 

My home away from home has become the VCU Medical Center. It, like San Francisco, is populated by a diverse range of humanity. From the day I became their patient in late 2009, the members of my medical team – my guardian angels, my second family – have treated me with compassion and professionalism. When my autoimmune liver disease reached its apex of virulence in the fall of 2012, they did all within their power to save my life. In the aftermath, they nurtured me back to health step by tentative step.

 

When I was the guy in the bed, it mattered not if my caregivers were male or female, black or white or brown, gay or straight or transgender. It mattered not to them if my skin color or culture or belief system or background was different from theirs. My goal was to stay alive and then get well. Their goal was to keep me alive and then help me get well. Those enduring associations and the reinforcement of time-honored values are priceless gifts derived from an emotional, unimaginable experience.

 

I invite those who live with hate in their hearts, who demean and threaten and bully, who look but can’t see, who hear but don’t listen to consider for a moment these two scenarios. You’re ill. Your strength is ebbing. Your days are short. You need a liver or kidney or heart to survive. You get an offer. Your donor is African-American. Your doctor, trained overseas, speaks with an accent. Your choice. What do you do? Now, let’s get very real. It’s your child who’s ill. The decision is yours. What will it be? Will you accept the precious gift? Or will pride, prejudice, and myopia cloud your thinking?

 

Collegiate embraces diversity. It embraces inclusion. It embraces responsible citizenship. It fosters community, collaboration, and outreach. Those aren’t just hollow words. They aren’t just lofty concepts. That’s our culture. Always will be. We travel this path together, you see. We make each other better.

 

“Work quietly and diligently for peace. Begin within."

That gentle entreaty appears on a sign in the window of the Forest Bookstore in the heart of Japantown in San Francisco. It’s a plea for decorum, for respect, for tolerance. Easier said than done, you say, especially in these divisive, troubling times. Yes, but it’s a start.

    -- Weldon Bradshaw