By Rusty
I was never actively racist. I never joined a hate group, never shouted slurs, never burned a cross. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t racist. I was — not by intention, but by design. I was taught it — not always through words, but through silent observation. Through the things people around me chose to ignore, to dismiss, to justify, and to say. Sometimes it was direct. Most of the time, it was woven into everyday life. That’s how racism survives — quietly, invisibly, passed down like a genetic defect disguised as tradition.
Intentional Indoctrination
I was taught by the actions of others. I was even taught in Bible study during my teens that it was “scientific fact” that Black people have smaller brains than white people — a claim I now know to be not just false, but malicious. That wasn’t ignorance. That was intentional indoctrination. I remember hearing racial slurs spoken casually, cruelly, repeatedly — words I won’t use here because they’re no longer allowed, even with loving context. But pretending those words never existed doesn’t erase the damage they did. Context matters, but so does the truth: those words shaped the world I grew up in.
I only went to that church because of a girl — Cindy Pace. She and her sister went there. It was near the reservoir, long before there was much development out that way. I was in love with that 13-year-old sweetie. She had little experience with boys and was a bit scared. It was around 1975. I’m in touch with her via Facebook, though I don’t talk with her a lot. We go down memory lane from time to time. The home she lived in when I knew her is gone. Her parents, like mine, are gone. My friends and I have grown apart. Most of them — I wonder if they’re even alive. I wonder if they think about me. Probably not.
And I don’t think I was unique. I think this is true for a lot of people — especially white people. Especially Americans. We grew up in systems tilted in our favor, and even if we didn’t know it, we still benefited. That’s the uncomfortable truth. It doesn’t matter if we weren’t the ones who built the system — we lived inside it. We cashed the checks.
I watch many of my peers deny that we had a head start. Some rightly feel that they worked hard for what they accomplished. But they fail to understand that hard work, for those who started the race five miles behind us, meant working five times harder just to get to the starting line.
I believe it’s human — evolutionary even — to favor people like us. Our tribe. Our kind. That instinct probably kept our ancestors alive. But now? It’s killing us. That wiring doesn’t serve us anymore. It’s holding humanity hostage. And unless something radical happens to reset the game, we’re going to stay stuck in this endless loop of violence, division, and hate.
Some believe we’ll fix it gradually — that education, awareness, and progress will nudge us into a better version of ourselves. I want to believe that. But I don’t. Not anymore.
We have made massive progress. Say you're in your makeshift playground at 12 years old in the late ’60s. I recall when police killed some Black students at Jackson State. Due to fear of widespread retaliation, the schools were closed. I didn’t fully understand what had happened. I just knew I was happy because I got a few days out of school.
For years after that, there was a gate on Lynch Street at Ellis Avenue that closed the road. It was a major intersection that led to Jackson State College. That fence inspired fear: Don’t go there. There are Black people there. That was the message sent to me.
With that backdrop, imagine a good man — who happened to be Black — becoming President of the United States. I remember the moment clearly. It felt like we had turned a corner, like love and unity might actually prevail. The phrase “post-racial America” was everywhere.
But that hope faded. If anything, the backlash grew. That moment may have fueled the rise of groups who saw it not as progress, but as a threat. One of the most influential — yet little understood — is the Heritage Foundation. While many Americans don’t realize it, the Heritage Foundation is deeply involved in shaping the next conservative administration. They created Project 2025, a sweeping plan to radically remake the U.S. government.
The language used by some of their allies suggests that they no longer believe reform can happen through traditional democratic processes. Instead, they advocate for swift, top-down control, bypassing checks and balances — not with violence, but with overwhelming executive power. It’s not a coup in the classic sense, but it’s a dangerous gamble with democracy.
The Coming Evolution May Be Violent
I think we’re heading toward a man-made global holocaust. Not climate collapse. Not slow decay. I mean a full-scale, human-triggered catastrophe — a civil war, a global conflict, or a nuclear fire that leaves most of us dead. And I fear only then, only after that, will we evolve.
Not in our technology. In our genes. In our hearts.
Only the ones who are predisposed toward love instead of hate will be left. Only those wired for compassion and community will survive. That’s how we’ll finally evolve.
I interrupt the Book of Revelation to suggest this: Not total annihilation, but evolution.
And I am not alone. Some ancient Bible scholars also interpreted it this way.
Isaiah tells us that God will never again smite the Earth with destruction as He did in the days of Noah. But there was no promise He would stop us from doing it to ourselves. That may be how this story ends — not with divine wrath, but with the consequences of our own choices. We were given free will and a warning. Whether we evolve or perish may still be up to us.
Love will stop being a luxury. It’ll become a survival trait.
It’s a tragic vision. But I don’t think it’s hopeless. I think it’s honest. We have a choice — change now, or change later when it costs us everything. We can choose to love now, or we can die.
This is my radical call: Even when hated, we must respond with love.
I hope we find a way to change before the fire. But if not, then maybe — just maybe — what comes after the fire will be worth the ashes.
And if not? Then maybe we didn’t deserve to survive in the first place.