I was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, during the turbulent Civil Rights Movement in 1968, the year which epitomized the era with the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy. The Red Stick has always been a catalyst for change, even if she was often times an unintentional participate.

Peaceful protesters overshadowed by armed militants.

The Baton Rouge I grew up in is not the same that I see today. My childhood in Baton Rouge was idyllic in that it was filled with all the treasures that children hold dear.

We existed in a microcosm that afforded exposure to the arts, sports, culture, and a rich heritage because we grew up in the shadows of a historic black college.

So, when I think of Baton Rouge, I think of Southern University, Dixie cups, Tabby’s Blues Box, the Ann Theater, Tony’s Seafood, debutante balls, Mardi Gras, Park Vista, the Scotlandville Branch of the East Baton Rouge Public Library, Ethel’s Snack Shack, teacakes, football, Ryan Elementary, family, and home.

To others it conjures up visions of Mike the Tiger, Highland Road, the LSU lakes, and all things south Baton Rouge.

Yet, I have always known that Baton Rouge, despite her greatness and location at the mouth of the mighty Mississippi, has been a mistress of sorts because of NOLA.

My Baton Rouge has always been in the thick of things, even if unwittingly.

On June 19, 1953, the African-American residents of Baton Rouge launched a historic bus boycott because black people were forced to sit in the back of the bus, even when the front of the bus was empty. It became known as the 1953 Baton Rouge Bus Boycott.

The demands for black riders to ride in the front of the bus, but still refrain from sitting next to whites, was supported by the City Council initially and it led to the passing of Ordinance 222.

However, the all-white fleet of bus drivers refused to enforce the ordinance and it was later overturned after the drivers went on strike. The bus drivers’ strike lasted four days. The drivers returned to work after the ordinance was overturned and declared victory.

1953 Baton Rouge Bus Boycott

However, a local minister, Rev. T. J. Jemison, had a call to conscious and he helped organize the United Defense League and a boycott in a response to the decision to overturn the ordinance by the Louisiana Attorney General.

Residents met in four mass meetings and raised $6,000 in just two days. About 14,000 of residents refused to board the city’s buses and instead received rides in free taxis and in private cars. About 125 private cars were used in the boycott.

The boycott ended six days after it began with Ordinance 251.

Black riders filled the bus from the rear forward and whites filled the bus from the front to the back. Blacks and whites were still prohibited from sitting next to each other.

Two front seats were off-limits to black riders and only black riders could occupy the wide rear seat in the back of the bus. Blacks made up about 80 percent of the ridership, so the boycott had an economic impact on the city’s transportation system and on the broader Civil Rights Movement.

The fight for social justice in sleepy Baton Rouge in 1953, including the free car ride system that was implemented during bus boycott, served as a model for the internationally known 1955 Montgomery Bus Boycott.

This resulted in Browder v. Gayle, the U.S. District Court case on Montgomery and Alabama state bus segregation laws, which ultimately resulted in a U.S. Supreme Court decision declaring Alabama and Montgomery laws require segregated buses be unconstitutional.

The 1953 Baton Rouge Bus boycott also inspired residents to mobilize around other issues, such as securing the right to vote.

So, Baton Rouge is no novice to civil rights movements or protests. She has long shined the light on disturbing inequities by forcing others to explore racial disparities.

Victims, Leonard Brown and Denver Smith

As a college student at Southern University, Baton Rouge, in the ’80s, I was all too familiar with protesting and its often heartbreaking cost.

I still remember when – nearly 46 years ago – Denver Smith and Leonard Brown, two African-American students from my alma mater, were killed on campus by white sheriff deputies during a peaceful protest on November 16, 1972.

The two victims were taking part in a peaceful, unarmed protest by African-American students who gathered at the university’s administration building to protest against the administration officials and their policies. Protests were ongoing as students fought for a greater voice in school affairs and the resignation of certain administrators.

Several student protesters had been arrested the previous night, and the students who entered the administration building on November 16 sought their release.

State police and sheriff’s deputies entered the administration building with firearms and tear gas. When they left, two students, Denver Smith and Leonard Brown, lay dead.

Louisiana’s governor, Edwin Edwards, ordered the campus closed and declared a state of emergency for Baton Rouge, claiming that these “militant” students posed a threat.

National Guard troops and police wearing riot gear patrolled Southern University. The deputies denied shooting the young men.

Governor Edwards said the fatal shots might have accidentally come from the deputies’ guns, or might have come from any of several other sources: “It is obvious there are discrepancies and questions…In the heat of that kind of situation, even if someone accidentally took a buckshot shell out of his pocket, loaded it, and shot it, he would not be able to tell himself afterwards whether he had done it.”

Edwards ordered an investigation, but the shooter or shooters were never identified. The official report by State Attorney General William Guste determined that the shots came from a sheriff’s deputy but it could not prove which deputy fired the shot. Guste recommended that the District Attorney consider criminal prosecution after the investigating committee concluded no students had firearms, tear gas, grenades, or other weapons.

After over four decades, no one has been tried or convicted for the murder. The victims’ families tried to file several lawsuits, but they were unsuccessful. Lawyers in town would not talk to the families and those that did were run out of town.

Nevertheless, over 40 years later, the legacy of Smith and Brown continues to live on.

When the old Administration Building was destroyed in a fire in 1991, a memorial stone was placed on campus near the spot where the students were shot.

I can remember being terribly disappointed as a third grader to learn that former Governor Edwards had not done more for these victims.

It was especially troubling because as a St. Anthony Elementary School first grader, Edwards had selected me to read a book with him in the rotunda of the state capital and so I always had deep admiration and respect for him.

There was no justice for these students, but the Smith-Brown Memorial Union honors them. During my matriculation at the university, it’s now the gathering place for many students to challenge the administration and to speak out against injustice on campus and in our community.

So, civil unrest and protest is nothing new in Baton Rouge. Nor is she new to being a catalyst for change.

Baton Rouge offers a considerable number of economic strengths and assets. Baton Rouge is a major center for higher education. Southern University, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge Community College, and multiple trade schools are all located in the City-Parish, graduating 5,000 to 7,000 students every year and providing a wider platform for research, innovation, and workforce development.

However, there is great socioeconomic disparity in Baton Rouge despite there not being much divide on the educational level.

These socioeconomic challenges include broader quality-of-life factors, such as concerns about public safety; the quality of the public K-12 school system; low air and water quality; a continuing population shift to the outlying parts of the Parish and other parishes; and acute economic and racial disparity within the City-Parish.

These factors have broader effects, both direct and indirect, on the economy of the City-Parish. For instance, local university graduates continue to seek employment opportunities and a better quality of life in other southern cities, such as Houston, Charlotte, and Atlanta.

Employers report difficulty in recruiting and retaining a qualified workforce, which affects the city’s ability to keep existing businesses and recruit new employers. In recent years, traffic congestion has moved toward the top of the list of challenges facing businesses and employees in Baton Rouge.

There is great economic disparity between the haves and have-nots in Baton Rouge that is not distinguished by color. There is poverty and affluence, educated and uneducated, and none of it has anything to do with color.

Poverty is real for many in Baton Rouge. Teachers, firefighters, and law enforcement are tremendously underpaid.

However, the problem in Baton Rouge is that the socioeconomically challenged have the same hard luck stories, whether white or black, and they cannot appreciate that their lives mirror each other.

Since I know the true story of Baton Rouge’s underbelly I cannot help but cringe and weep when I see recent images from my hometown. They are cringe-worthy images because what is at the root of Baton Rouge’s ailments is economics, not what is being told.

Even after discovering through life experiences that we are all more alike than not, some are reared to believe they are very different. That harsh reality for some is too raw, too real.

All of Baton Rouge, all of Louisiana, was hoodwinked by former Governor Bobby Jindal, but where was her protest then? Her shock, her anger, her commentary? It is also particularly frustrating that Mayor Holden has remained silent and opted to lobby in Washington for a project that offers little, if no, benefit to the community at large. Where is the leadership? How are they all absent in the wake of this?

I hope my final thoughts and prayers bring encouragement to Baton Rouge.

Early in my legal career, when I was General Counsel of the East Baton Rouge Parish Housing Authority, I worked closely with the Baton Rouge Police Department (BRPD) and my community-policing program was a success in controlling criminal activity, building trust, and rapport with tenants.

Properly training law enforcement officers to build ties with and work closely with members of their communities is critical if we want officers and citizens have a greater respect for each other.

July 9, 2016, a protester is grabbed by police officers after she refused to leave the motorway in front of the the Baton Rouge Police Department Headquarters.

I love Baton Rouge – she is home – so I am always hopeful. I know that it has always been a catalyst of change. Baton Rouge has encouraged change all around her.

However, just because some things are different does not mean anything has changed. Baton Rouge has largely remained the city of her troubled past and that saddens me.

Yet I know positive change is always possible where truth exists. Change is a necessary element of growth. If we change, we grow. If we do not change, we begin to stagnate and decay. That is the simple truth about change.

And we should all be reminded of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1963 “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” where he said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Therefore, my prayer for my hometown and communities everywhere is that they are bold, brave, courageous, and humble. I pray that they always remember to have empathy in your hearts. 

I hear their voices.

Voices of the people who want the world to stay as it is—the people who have too much to lose

if things change.

They say to stay quiet.

They say to keep my mouth shut.

They say to silence my voice.

They say to push down my emotions so I can stay level-headed.

They say not to rock the boat.

They say not to say anything that will cause disagreement.

They want me to conform.

They want us to conform.

I hear other voices.

Voices of the people who are losing their lives.

They say they are terrified to make one wrong movement.

They say that “freedom” doesn’t feel so free.

They say they are trapped in a system that isn’t fair.

They say they just want equality.

They say they want the same opportunities I have.

They say people are scared of them.

They say they are misunderstood.

They say they are tired of people walking on the other side of the street at night because of their

skin color.

They say they are tired of not getting a fair trial in court.

They say they are tired of dying.

They say they are tired of crying themselves to sleep at night when they mourn for their brothers

and sisters.

They say they are tired of being punished for doing the only thing they know how to do in order

to put food on the table for their family.

They say they can’t help it.

So they say they want me to help.

They want us to help.

I hear another voice.

It’s the voice coming from deep within my soul.

He says to love people.

He says to care about other people before I care about myself.

He says to encourage my black brothers and sisters.

He says I should make sure they know I love them.

He says I should do what I can to help.

He says I should mourn with them.

He says I should comfort them.

He says I should listen to them.

He says I should pray for them.

He says I should pray with them.

He says I have a lot to learn from them.

He says to see the world in through their eyes before making any judgments.

He says to make friends with people who have different situations than I do.

He says that I should do more than rock the boat—he says I should sink it.

He wants me to move. He wants us to move.

There’s one voice I haven’t heard, though.

It’s my voice.

I haven’t said anything at all.

But that changes today.

In the past, I didn’t understand all the hype around the Black Lives Matter movement. So, I chose to stay silent on it. I would think things like: Yes, I want everyone to be equal, but we have equality already. They need to realize that none of these things would be happening if they would just obey the laws (the list could go on and on).

As I became friends with some incredible people who are affected daily by fear, hatred, and stereotyping, however, my eyes were opened to the inequality we are still battling today.

These people led me to understand that things are not equal just because we supposedly play by the same rules.

They led me to believe that something has to be changed so people don’t have to break the law just to get by.

One time, I was driving through Atlanta with my friend a few weeks back. We were on the way to our church to play basketball. My friend has a heart of gold, but he is a teenaged, black male with an athletic build. The clothes he wears represent the culture he grew up in. Honestly, people look at his neighborhood—which he didn’t get to choose to live in—he doesn’t get a chance to show his heart before he is judged.

Anyways, he told me that he had recently spent a night in jail because he was having an altercation with his brother outside of their house. I listened to him tell me about this altercation and I couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t sound any different than fights I had with my brother when I was in high school. Nevertheless, somebody driving by saw the brotherly wrestling match taking place and called the police. When the police arrived, my friend and his brother were done fighting.

Now, I don’t want to say that the police had ill-intentions or are intentionally racist.

I don’t think there any many officers who do have ill-intentions. This is not an attack on them. However, there is a deeper problem in our society: We have a scale that measures how violent, harmful, or dangerous someone is…and we use skin color as the main variable. So, they assumed that my friend was dangerous. When they approached him to talk about the altercation, he tried to explain the story and say that it was resolved. But, the police took his explanation as some sort of resistance. They then violently threw him on the ground as they arrested him. He was arrested on the charges of domestic violence and resisting arrest.

Then, he had to get bail bonds to be able to get out of jail. Basically, he was thrown, arrested, charged, and forced into debt for something I would have got a slap on the wrist for. That dude looked at me that day with tears in his eyes and said, “Man, I swear it felt like they were trying to bring back slavery or something.” At that moment I realized that I couldn’t possibly understand what that was like. If I had a tussle with my brother like that, my parents would have handled the situation after things died down. I speak up now. Something has to change.

I work with a black girl who has become one of the most influential voices in my life lately. In a few short months, she has taught me more about loving people and praying for them than I could have ever known. As we were sitting in the office last week, she read an article about the KKK being allowed to adopt a highway in south Georgia. The article goes on to talk about the organization’s plans to make a comeback after 150 years from the time it was founded.

When I read that, I get angry.

I want to know what in the world those people are thinking; and then I put it down and don’t think about it anymore. That is not the case for people who are directly affected by that, though. I will never be able to forget the moment when my heart fell to the floor as I watched my friend cry.

I will never be able to forget the loss of words I had as I attempted to pray over her. I will never be able to forget the realization I had in that moment—the realization that I would never be able to understand the pain and the heartache that the inequality we still have today brings into the lives of my black brothers and sisters.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

I could provide story after story and example after example. I could tell you about the kids I work with who are absolutely incredible, but will never have the same experience and opportunities as white kids unless something changes. I could tell you about the high school students I work with who are affected every single day by all of the stuff going on.

They feel like they are trying to be seen, but are invisible because people who don’t understand are too busy looking at themselves.

They feel like they are trying to be heard, but their voices are being dismissed because of the very thing they are speaking up against. People tell them that their opinions are irrelevant. It’s like a soccer player who knows nothing about baseball trying to tell a baseball player that his opinions about the unfair umpire are irrelevant or stupid—it just doesn’t make sense.

So I speak up now: something has to change.

If you have ever played monopoly, you know that it can be fun for some people. For others, monopoly

can be one of the longest and most frustrating games ever. One time, I decided to join my

friends in a monopoly game they had already started. Places were already bought and occupied,

and there was only a little bit of money the bank could afford to dish out to me. So, I started playing

without much of a chance. I could basically land on someone else’s spot and have to pay or

the “Go to Jail” spot. Now, nobody would say that I ever had a fair shot.

I think our environment is a lot like that.

White people, like myself, have been playing the game since the late 1700’s.

We played the game for over 150 years, then, people wanted to join. So, after

we tried to be the playground bully who won’t let anyone else into his clique, we reluctantly

allowed black people to play. We told them that they have the same rules as us and are allowed

to do the same things we are allowed to do and we called that equality. Unfortunately, the only

places they had left to land on were places where they had to pay, take the back seat, or go to

jail. That doesn’t sound very equal to me.

If you want another illustration as you wrestle through what it may feel like for someone else,

Here is a video that illustrates this point in a slightly different way. It is incredible.

So What Can I Do?

Listen. Learn. Love.  No matter what you do in life, if you can do these three things before anything

else, you are much more likely to understand, make rational judgement, and make a difference

with what you say.

Speak up.  If you are a silent supporter, know that we need your voice. We need the voice of people

who are not personally affected by these things. For example, I could physically go on living

comfortably no matter what happens with this issue in our world, but I speak up because I am

willing to give up my privilege if that is what it takes. I realize that there are people who wouldn’t

claim to be followers of Jesus reading this article, but I do want to point out that Jesus told us that

life is found when we consider others more highly than ourselves. So let’s do that! Instead of

fighting for what we personally want, let’s be willing to fight for the things others need—even if it

means we have something to lose.

Be willing to lose something for the sake of other people having the opportunity to be valued as they should be.

Speak up. The world needs to hear that you

care for justice and mercy. The people who are being hurt need to hear that you are with them

and see that you are willing to stand with them no matter what other people think.

Speak Up!

I would like to say that I would have spoken up in the 1800’s when slavery was being abolished.

I would like to say that I would have stood with my black brothers and sisters in the 1950’s during

the Civil Rights Movement.

I fail to realize that it wasn’t the popular thing to do as a white person.

People who had something to lose would have called me crazy for doing those things in that

time.

Nothing has changed.

History is being written as we speak, and I refuse to look back in 50

years and tell my children that I didn’t do something to help move the world forward.

I refuse to have to tell my children that I was silent while my friends were living in fear, grief, and pain. So I

speak up—and you should too.

Tell people who they are.

This one may seem a little weird, but people tend to become who they

hear they are. If someone hears constantly that they were born to lead, they will be leaders. If

someone is told they were a mistake, they will most likely live like they are a mistake.

Peoples’ identity often get bound up in the things others say to them or about them. Let’s stop telling people

that they are uneducated and ignorant so we can start telling people that they are smart,

loved, wonderful, beautiful, and Children of the Creator of the Universe.

Bring Peace.

All the people who have helped move our world forward have done something that

disrupts the status quo. All the people we celebrate as heroes today, were revolutionaries yesterday.

Think about it.

MLK was shot.

Lincoln was assassinated.

Jesus Christ was hung on

a roman death trap.

Each of these people were considered revolutionaries back then, but are heroes

today. So, let’s rebel. Let’s rebel peacefully and joyfully. Let’s speak up for justice, mercy,

equality, and love. Then, lets commit to loving the haters so much that they can hardly disagree

with us any longer.

Let’s commit to going out of our way to help the haters so they can’t bring any

real evidence against our case for justice, mercy, equality, and love.

So let’s rebel. Let’s speak up.

Let’s stand up. But, let’s remember why we are fighting and rebelling in the first place:

Love for

others.

Make one difference.  Just bring joy into someone’s life by investing in them and helping them out

of a possible situation. It is not our job to change it all, but it is our job to change what we can

and inspire others to do the same thing.

I hear their voices.

They say not to speak up.

It’s not that they are bad people.

They just don’t want life to change for them.

Change is scary.

So, they don’t try to understand.

They say to keep quiet.

I hear their voices.

They are longing for justice, equality, peace, and love.

They can’t help their situation.

They say they don’t have it like I have it.

They say that nobody understands.

They say to speak up

I hear the voice in my soul.

He is hurting for others.

He is causing me to weep when I watch a video of a real, human life being taken.

He is telling me to be willing to give up some of my privileges so that other people can have

them.

He is telling me that the only real love in the world happens when we are willing to lay down

our lives for our brothers and sisters.

And now…now I can finally hear my own voice.

I am shouting to the world that I am not going to be silent any more.

I am shouting to my black brothers and sisters that I am with them!

I am shouting that they are worth dying for.

I am shouting that I love them—that I am willing to lay down my pride, the opinions of my

friends and family, and even my life if it will make their lives better.

I am Silent No More.

My Recommended Resource:

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption

Just Mercy all at once is a riveting personal narrative gifted young lawyer brimming with idealism, places you directly in the shoes of his defendants, and is an inspirational perspective on the fight and the pursuit of, not “justice”, but true justice

As a young lawyer, Bryan Stevenson founded the Equal Justice Initiative, which placed defending those most desperate in need its utmost priority, from the poor to the wrongly condemned.

It unfortunately shows how our current system ends up leading towards the impoverished people receiving the majority of punishment in our country, which passionately supports the argument on the need for change in our criminal justice system.

An argument so very fitting in our current societal state of affairs

I’m white.

Fair skinned (or so society tells me).

Very pale.

And very, very privileged.

I can stroll down the street or into a restaurant and be quite certain others will respond kindly toward me. I never fear or worry in the slightest about law enforcement. Magazines, movies, and newspapers are plastered with images of people who look like I do. I have never been asked to speak on behalf of my entire race. I can walk around unaware of my color and reap the undeserved benefits and entitlements that come along with my white privilege.

I could also choose to fight against systemic racism one day and completely ignore it the next because I am not disadvantaged by it personally. It doesn’t affect my daily life. But I affect it. Daily. The white privilege woven into my everyday life allows me to collect unearned advantages and opportunities at the expense of others.

Is my white skin really fair skin?

We’ve gotten to a point where in certain situations the color of our skin speaks louder than the words that come out of our mouth. It’s awful. It’s frustrating. It’s downright sickening. It’s the system we have been born into. Our society is saturated in white privilege. Oppression comes based upon skin color. Before a word is spoken, minds are made up about who people are based on appearance alone. Culture screams that the color of your skin determines your place.

My white skin is not fair skin. It gives me an unfair advantage that grants me unearned freedoms, unearned benefits, and unearned exemptions in our society.

I’ve heard a number of people say that they “don’t see color” or are “colorblind” when it comes to discussions about race and privilege. It’s always white people who are making these claims. Go figure. What they mean to say is they don’t consider themselves racist and don’t see themselves as prejudiced against people of color. However, it’s statements like “I don’t see color” that reek of white privilege.

Because with that declaration people are actually discounting racism all together, not helping to solve it.

Ignoring color just further promotes ignorance. As James Baldwin said, “To be white in America means not having to think about it.” Whites are in denial about their participation in the perpetuation of racism. Myself included. While I try to be aware, I know there are still hidden ways that I am contributing to this system of oppression without realizing it. Blindly going about our lives silently, and often unknowingly, oppressing other races is what has to change.

Not seeing color also strips people of their identity. Our differences are there to be seen and celebrated. I believe there is significant purpose in each of our ethnicity backgrounds for the glory of God and the expansion of His kingdom. *Surprise side note: Jesus wasn’t a white American, contrary to popular westernized “Christianity” belief*. Every human is created equal in worth, value, and dignity. I believe God has made us all uniquely in His image and it is the diversity of humanity that makes it so beautiful.

Rather than whites searching for the reflection of themselves in other people, shouldn’t we be looking for the reflection of Christ?

As a church, we need to come alongside our brothers and sisters and stand together in unity – as the family that we are.

Until people of privilege feel compelled to make this problem of privilege their own problem and do something to change it, systemic racism won’t end. We need to consciously have the eyes to see how our white privilege is affecting the lives around us. Until the issue is acknowledged and faced head on, no change will be made.

We have to become listeners and learners.

We have to become mindful of the ways we are contributing to the system of oppression and disrupt these social norms when we see them. Even if you don’t think you are contributing, you are. I’m not accusing you of being racist; I’m saying the problem of racism is much bigger than you and me. It has become institutionalized and ingrained so deeply into every aspect of our society. We have been trained to not see and simply overlook the ways we whites participate in systemic racism. So we actively have to learn to recognize the effects. By interrupting cultural norms we make the invisible visible. We shake the system.

It all begins with breaking the silence.

A dialogue has to start. It is long overdue. The time was decades ago for the conversation to begin between whites and people of color. Rather than assuming we know all the answers, we listen. We listen to the voices of the minorities who have been kicked around because of our privilege.

We listen to the experiences of those who have received unearned disadvantages because of white privilege. We educate ourselves. We remain learners, admitting we will never know all the answers. Instead of turning away or stepping back, we lean into the conversation as we humbly ask, tell me more.

Since my childhood in Caracas, Venezuela, I have always been an athlete. Team sports like soccer, roller hockey, speed skating, and especially baseball were all a big part of my early life. I always assumed that I would be involved in sports my entire life and, so far, that hasn’t changed. What has changed, is the type of sport I’m involved in.

I moved to the US when I was 19 to attend college at the University of Tampa. I stayed active during college and while building my career in the medical imaging equipment field, but it wasn’t until I was 28 that something changed in me. Team sports fell by the wayside as I shifted my focus to running, cycling and, eventually, triathlon.

Six years later, in 2015, after dozens of triathlon races, 14 of which were at the 70.3 mile, half-Ironman distance ( 1.2 mile swim; 56 mile bike; 13.1 mile run), I felt I was ready for a new challenge. I submitted an application to vie for the Guinness World Record for most half-Ironman triathlons completed in a single year. The current record is 23. I would need to complete, in one year, nearly twice as many half-Ironman’s as I had in the past six years combined. The goal was lofty, but after three months of waiting, Guinness accepted my application, and I made plans to begin my pursuit of the record in 2016.

Just one week later, I was at an Ironman event in Louisville, KY. During the race, I began to experience unbearable pain in my left calf. The pain became so intense that I was forced to stop before I could cross the finish line. Back home, my doctors confirmed that the pain was coming from severe damage to my meniscus and that I would need to undergo a full repair surgery to relieve the pain and to be able to race again. The surgery, which required nearly 12 weeks of recovery and physical therapy, was scheduled for the middle of January. Even if I recovered ahead of schedule, the year would be 25% over before I could get even one half-Ironman under my belt.

This news was discouraging, to say the least. I had just gotten everything in place to pursue my goal, only to have a huge obstacle, one that I had no choice in, set in front of me. Through introspection leading up to my surgery though, I considered the circumstances that many others fight through.

A lot of the races I had been a part of over the years had ties to non-profit organizations. Some of the people I had seen and the stories I had heard came back into my mind. Most notably, stories from the Challenged Athlete Foundation (CAF), a group that helps provide athletic-grade prosthetics and appliances for athletes who have been physically challenged by severe injuries or congenital conditions, and also stories of the patients at St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital; kids, some not even out of pre-school, already facing circumstances that could take literally everything away from them.

Knowing that there are people fighting much harder and with much more at stake, I doubled-down on my commitment to breaking the record, regardless of the time I would lose to my recovery. Now, after a full recovery, with lots of help from my doctors and physical therapists, I’m nine races into my goal with more scheduled every weekend for the next 16 weekends. In between working my regular job Monday through Friday, I’m travelling all over the US, racing in a dozen states, and even racing in the US Virgin Islands and Canada.

In addition to setting a new record, I’ve decided to widen the scope of my goal and use any attention this pursuit might draw to raise awareness for the organizations that helped inspire me. I encourage anyone reading this story to look into the courageous battles being fought by children and athletes with the help of CAF and St. Jude’s.

Ultimately, this experience has taught me that there is no excuse for making excuses. Very few things in life can actually stop us from achieving our goals if we only have the commitment and the discipline to overcome them. The Guinness Book is filled with regular, working-class people who set excuses aside, embraced commitment and discipline, and became their very best. I hope to be one of them very soon.

To follow my journey and help me support both organizations please go to http://aracing.net/

We at The Wish Dish try to be as apolitical as possible. But, when certain issues befall this nation we are compelled to comment. 

Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Lequan McDonald, Walter Scott, and now Alton Sterling.

He was outside a convenience store in Baton Rouge selling CDs. Officers responded to a complaint involving someone who fit Sterling’s description. Officers approached him and the altercation began. After a few seconds of heated words (from what the first video shows) Sterling is wrestled to the ground.

Not ten seconds later, Alton Sterling is shot several times in the chest at point blank range. He died soon after. Initial reports, stated that he was holding a gun during the whole incident. We now know that he wasn’t from what we see of the second video. 

These are the facts we have right now.

As protests erupt around the country, as media around the world points to all different angles to examine this issue, as people take to social media to express their outrage or their tempered bias for the police, as political pundits manipulate this issue into political rhetoric; I want you all to watch this and watch the whole thing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfNkVbe9y0Q

Regardless of whether you think this was a murder or not, we should take Sterling’s family’s words to heart. We should all look deep into the eyes of his crying son and let it shake us. Alton Sterling was a human being and that’s the fact everyone seems to forget.

We should not only critically look at these two officers of the law for taking someone’s life with such apparent quickness and carelessness. No, we should also look at ourselves in how quickly we separate the recently departed from their humanity.

If you don’t believe me, the next time this happens (and it will), look at how people on every news channel, social media platform, text message, article comment, is so quick to jump from the fact that a fellow human being is dead. You’ll hear this chilling phrase every time: We don’t know all the facts to form an opinion yet.

Or people will say that ‘this is the problem with police’ or ‘now what type of record did he have for officers to act that way?’ or even ‘now, see, this is the problem with those people.’

Excuse me? But the FACT still remains that a PERSON is DEAD. How dare we disrespect someone’s memory and their surviving family this way.

Today we have one less person on this earth. He didn’t need to die and that’s what we so easily forget.

I ask, as a country, have we grown so numb as to look at this tragic loss of life with such a cold, calculating perspective? That we must put forth all these justifications and sweeping generalizations to compensate for our apathetic viewpoint? Well, he had a record, the officers were doing their job, you can’t think at a time like that… Do we refuse to acknowledge the one thing that connects us with Alton Sterling, his humanity?

I’m not saying that we shouldn’t try to piece the situation together to invoke reform or debate. What I’m saying is that it shouldn’t be where our thought processes automatically go. We become less human when we take away the humanity of another person after they have left this earth. We become nothing more than collections of water, meat, and labels.

Our society needs to treat US/WE/THEM/ALL with more precious respect and reverence. And not just the lives of our friends and family, but those we don’t know because, like Alton Sterling, we are all sons and daughters, fathers and mothers.

I hope for a day when our national frame of reference shifts. Until then, I shake my head at what we’ve become. 

I want to get some things clear:
A rapist does not have to drive a white van.

A rapist does not have to be a bum.

A rapist does not have to be strung out.

A rapist does not have to be Hispanic, or Latino, or Black.

A rapist does not have to wear a wife beater or have any gang paraphernalia,

Hell, a rapist does not have to be a guy…

A rapist can have a 401 K.

A rapist can have a trust fund.

A rapist can have a kid, who is cute as a button, and can have pictures of this kid framed all over his house, which leads me to my next point…

A rapist can wear Vineyard Vines (or in my case, a blue button down, which I fixated on as I came to), can be from the suburbs, and look like the complete package.

A rapist can be your friend.

Looks can be deceiving.

I learned that the hard way.

And now that our nation is finally sensitive toward having that “hard conversation,” as they referred to it, in countless post-rape talk and group therapy support sessions, there are still some things that are yet to be cleared up.

Rape is never a joke.

No, you did not rape him on the court.

You did not get raped by that test.

Your best friend did not “rape you” when you shriek, in jest, as her or she hugged or touched you in a way that you wholeheartedly welcomed and appreciated.

Rape is not funny,

Even if you don’t intend to poke fun, you need to choose your words wisely, because so many people in our country, like myself, are secret survivors in a silent sisterhood (or gender-inclusive community, at large), who are struggling to get through each day without a reminder of what was taken from them.

The word “rape” is a trigger.

We do not want to be reminded of what we endured more than already necessary; our brains naturally provide us with waves of flashback to those heart-wrenching moments, on a near-daily basis (depending on the person)…things will never be normal for us. Even in our complacency, survival and endurance epitomize the new normal.

Being pulled into those flashbacks by inappropriate, ill-fitting comments, regardless of the intention, can be trying to any survivor, who already withstands uncontrollable memory-stimulated flashbacks as a means of coping and purging.

When I hear people use the word “rape” in an inappropriate, joking manner, I can’t help but flash back.

I see myself trusting a “friend” to sleep on his couch for the night due to roommate issues.

I see the texts I sent him, making him promise that he would respect me if I stayed over. That he would respect our friendship, and just let me couch surf as he would any other dude. Preventative measures, because as a girl in this patriarchal world, I knew I had to protect myself.

I see myself accepting a glass of some sort of alcohol from him, because I was too sober to deal with his drunkenness, and just wanted to sleep.

I see the pixels of those texts, engorging then retracting, now fuzzy and obsolete; meaningless promises spinning down the rabbit hole with my dignity as I immediately black out.

I see myself from an out of body POV, hanging above, waking up, on his couch…my pants are on the ground, I am in his boxers, I have no recollection of the previous night, but I am in extreme pain.

I see the bruises running up my sides.

I see the tears streaming down my face.

I see his goddamn blue button down…one of my triggers, a fixation, as I come to.

I see a loss of dignity, an onslaught of probes, prods, things being taken from me, to ensure that I’m all right because HE took something FROM me.

My “friend.”

Not a stranger…a white, preppy trust fund kid from the suburbs, with a good job and a 401K.

One of my close guy friends said it was my fault…that I “asked for it” by sleeping at a guy’s place.

Do guy’s “ask for it” when they spend the night at each other’s places?

Did I ask to be stripped of my ability to trust?

Every day when I look in the mirror, I still see bruises. Even though I know they are gone, I can still see them crawling up my side, like vines.

We, as a society, need to be more sensitive to the plight of survivors.

We are not victims. We are coping, adjusting to a new normal, riding the waves of traumatic recall, and ultimately surviving to thrive.

We are not untouchables.

The word “rape” cannot just be thrown around in jest. Similar to “retard,” and “gay,” it must be used with consideration…people are and have been constantly affected by such words. These words are our lives, or they have been, and it is not acceptable to use them inappropriately…think before you speak, because people fear judgment, and that is why they remain silent. Rape is a serious experience, and just because we choose to remain silent, does not entail cowardice; self-healing is a priority, and nobody should take it upon his or herself to judge those who have survived rape until they walk a mile in their moccasins. Do not throw around the term…it can cause unthinkable amounts of hurt.

For those who are survivors of rape or sexual assault: it is not your fault.

I know that isn’t always reassuring to hear, but after having a few assholes try to weigh you down by saying otherwise, you need to know, that nobody has a right to you, your voice, or your body except you.

We need to reevaluate our perspectives on rape culture. We need to realize that not all rapes are the “stereotypical strangers,” but that they can hit closer to home then we might think. The best way to prevent is to inform, and I think we can start by sharing our stories, anonymous or not. But remember, you are never alone.

It took me seven minutes and 56 seconds to know when I was experiencing the best moment in my life.

It can be hard to quantify or operationally define such a moment. But I knew when I had mine, I knew it more than I knew my own name.

I sat soaking wet, voice hoarse, and blood pumping. My face was burning and I could not differentiate my sweat from the lake water that had been splashed upon me. We sat in our boat, drifting forward from the momentum that pushed us through the finish-line in just under 8 minutes. I looked in front of me at my fellow oarswomen, as a laugh erupted.

The girls in the boat started laughing with me, as each of us continued to gasp for air.

This many months later, I cannot remember what exactly their praises were, or what I returned. What remains with me, however, is the emotion that flooded our boat more than the water had.

The elation that wrapped around the five of us, holding us in that boat, was seemingly impenetrable. I called for my port-side rowers to take a few strokes to send us back to the dock. On the row back, all I could think about was that last 2000 meters.

Not only from the start of the race, but from the start of the season – my boat and I had been ready. Nervous, but ready. I sat at the stern of the boat, facing my rowers at the beginning of the race. My eyes were entirely fixated on aligning the path of our boat to run perfectly parallel to the buoys.

With a wink to my stroke seat, our boat launched and the force exerted in those next few minutes never once ceased. Occasionally seeing other boats gaining on us, I pushed us past our limits and into a space of pure, unbound power.

The agony that seeped out with each stroke was an agony driven by ambition and desire to succeed. As we pulled up to the dock and exited the boat, I could smell a difference in the air.

I looked at my rowers and congratulated them, as we had just become the second fastest boat on the East Coast.

Monika is also part of a phenomenal organization all AIESEC. In conjunction with our partnership with their organization, please see their blog here:

As I cringed and opened my email, my first reaction is the all too familiar “I must not be Mexican enough for their program.”

Followed up with incidences of colleagues using of my racial status in quotations, I am left feeling both arguments of not enough. Not enough Mexican. Not enough White.

If you ever wondered what it is like to only be half…I reopen the calloused wounds of rejection from minority programs. It was the perfect program; exactly the kind of work I want to do as a clinical researcher, making the kind of changes I want to contribute to the world. I thought for sure as a dietetics major, I would present a unique opportunity for this northern hospital to diversify its research mentor program.

But despite my laundry list of accolades and good marks in clinical and pre-med classes, I am searching for another minimum wage summer job with salsa playing painfully in the background. This is not to say that there are other factors at play, but society has successfully trained me to shy away from applications that have a minority requirement despite not only being a first-generation Mexican-American, but also college student.

Clearly, the bootstraps mentality is not enough.   You can’t talk about being a minority without exploring the unique experiences that transverse the stereotypes society expects. Never have I been deemed a fiery Latina ready to serve a silver bullet of tempered Spanish with flirty hips swaying and tantalizing tendrils of voluptuous hair.

Instead, my quiet demeanor only adds to the perception that I am a white lady; to be feared. I am called ma’am like a southern belle, born and reared. And yet, this is not the narrative I ever expected. It is so important that we stop expecting people to fit racially driven stereotypes. The field of dietetics is somewhere around 95% white female. While my aim is not to dismiss individual stories, we must build up the people who are going into this field whether they are white or not, female or not.

With racial groups, come cultural food norms.

And yet, when we talk about healthier options, our discussions are riddled with white norms. We are replacing unhealthy “white foods” first. Not only does that spells dismissal for thousands of people needing guidance from registered dietitians, but in an instant a child is taught you don’t eat like me, so you don’t deserve the same health as me.

Doctors, firefighters, and even dentists persuade children to grow up and make waves in their field. They persuade them to grow up to be big and strong, brave, and have a healthy smile. When will minority children reach the collegiate classroom with their own stories of dietitians who helped them, who told them they too could grow up to be movers and shakers in the field? But wait. Maybe that’s  not it at all. Maybe they didn’t see the STEM in dietetics. Maybe they missed all the pre-med classes, the clinical training, and understanding of medical diagnosis.

It doesn’t seem as far-fetched as I consider a recent blog that cried out for doctors to have nutrition training when we have an ENTIRE field of professions armed with their evidence-based practice to change perceptions about food.

For now, I will brush off my recent rejection letter. I might indulge in a pint of ice cream-moderation of course. But, I will hold onto my Mexican Bootstraps. I will continue to seek out opportunities to be a mover and a shaker in my field, in my research, and in my future practice. But tonight I will wonder, maybe if I had been named Guadalupe then things would be different.

There’s  a story that has greatly inspired me over time. A boy, whose teacher asked the class to write down what they wanted to be when they grew up for homework. The boy then went home and wrote down that he wanted to be on TV.

He turned in his assignment the next day to his teacher, she looked down at him, and then proceeded to call his mother. She told his mom that he wasn’t taking his assignment seriously and that he needed to write down what he actually wanted to be when he grew up, something realistic. Knowing that he was probably going to get a ‘whoopin’ as he arrived home from school, he tried to sneak in, yet he was caught and his mom told his dad to deal with him.

So his dad takes him outside and reads the paper and instructs his son to write down whatever his teacher needs to hear, turn it in, and then keep this piece of paper within reach and never forget it.

So the boy turns the paper in to his teacher and continued to work towards his goal every day and hasn’t stopped yet. That same boy is now the host of Family Feud, the Steve Harvey Show, Little Big Shots, his own radio show, has hosted numerous events, and made a living off his childhood dream.

That same boy is Steve Harvey. It is that same drive, perseverance, and passion that I truly believe burn deep within me and push me to challenge myself each and every day. To risk it all for others, and to continue to fight the good fight. I come from a family of 9 children. A family of more than enough kicking and screaming, bunk beds, and forced sharing.

I am 3rd to youngest, only to my two little twin brothers. A family where each one of us is in our own zone, and had chosen our own paths early in life. But with this I learned what it is like to have your voice drowned out among the noise. When often no matter how hard you try sometimes your voice isn’t heard even though it may be unintentional. It’s no secret that I am a black male, but it’s lesser known that black males only make up 2.7 percent of UGA’s student population.

Out of Georgia’s 30% black population, UGA does not accurately represent the demographics of the state as the flagship institution.

In a school with 35,000 other students it’s very easy to get lost in the wind, and get pushed into the crevices of this great institution. Too often left behind in the march ahead, or silenced among the masses. Coming to UGA and having to adjust to the demographics implored me to find ways to make this campus more diverse in terms of race, truly because I thought many were missing out on what a great college it really is based on stigmas.

I joined organizations like the Black Male Leadership Society, where I later went on to become President, and the Student Government Association, where I’ve been Chief Justice the past two terms. I used the connections I then made to be able to advocate on behalf of minority students and find unique ways to change the campus culture. It is what I have spent a lot of my time doing at UGA and have truly enjoyed every moment of it.

But I wasn’t always the one on the front lines of this battle. I was once deemed as shy or quiet.

Blending in among the crowd like a grain of sand on a beach. It was in the 8th grade when I learned a valuable life lesson as I failed to make the cut for the basketball team. I only wanted to be talented in basketball because it was what seemed cool, and what others seemed to care about.

It had never occurred to me at the time that my eloquent voice could be used for advocacy and impacting the lives of many in a positive way simply because it wasn’t flashy. That is when the switch clicked.

I knew I needed to use my voice for others. But by the way, I did go on to play basketball in high school, in case you thought I sucked. The decision to run for Student Body President came from a place of purpose, a place of passion, a place of hope, and a place of calling. It is that fundamental belief that we are all created equal and no matter how small, or how different we may be, we all belong and not only deserve, but are guaranteed a voice.

If you have ever played in a band you know that although some instruments may be louder and seem to drown out others, each instrument is critical to creating the ultimate sound. I run so that I may speak for the forgotten. To give a voice to the voiceless, and to bring together each and every student on this campus, from all walks of life, to unite as one and speak as one.

From a young age in school and with friends I knew and still feel to this day what it is like to be left out.

And even if one student felt that way, it would break my heart. I will never make promises that I can’t keep in ensuring that each student will have each individual issue taken care of. But I can say that I will spend every ounce of drive in me to strive toward that goal. It isn’t always about jumping to a storybook ending; sometimes you just have to write the first word.

Saying that we are ALL IN  is a very intentional statement. In choosing to run, I have given up internships and organizational opportunities, taken off work, and sacrificed time with family and others. I say that not because I want you to feel sorry for me, because this has been an active choice everyday. I want everyone to understand that sometimes things are bigger than yourself.

It isn’t always about you.

We are all just pieces of a whole picture, stories and snapshots of memories that tell a greater story, and I am here to lift all voices up. I have been told over and over in my life that things couldn’t be done. That I wasn’t going to succeed in areas of my life, and that my dreams and aspirations were too lofty or unattainable. But over and over again, I have proved each and every one of them wrong. I hope to do so again. I want to be an inspiration to each and every other student just like me.

I want to light a fire in every person I come into contact with and to help ignite their passions for what they believe in. Because then and only then, can they be satisfied with the outcome knowing that they gave it their all. I implore anyone who reads this to never give up, write your own destiny, be yourself, find your talent and use it to positively impact someone else’s life, and always, go ALL IN.

There aren’t any blacks in Buenos Aires. I heard this many times before arriving. I heard it even more after arriving. Even so, I was prepared for it. My mother felt assured that I would be alright once I arrived in Buenos Aires, because she gave me personal hygiene supplies as if I were Noah and the plane was the Ark. She packed me two deodorants, two containers of shower gel, two contact solution containers, two tubes of toothpaste, the list continues. So I stepped on the plane with confidence and left the United States for the first time.

I lost that confidence after the first day. Normally, a person takes a shower, washes his hair with shampoo, and uses conditioner. In my case instead of bottled conditioner, I use a hair grease that is a little bit stronger. When I finished my first shower, after a long day and an even longer flight, I realized that I had forgotten one thing: the hair grease I needed at that exact moment. I didn’t have anything to hydrate my hair.

I saw the reality of my situation the first time I tried to buy this type of hair product. After the shower, I immediately went to a mini-mart around the corner of my house. I walked through the aisles searching for something sufficient. I saw different kinds of foods, a lot of one kind of beer—Quilmes, products for babies, lotions, shampoos, conditioners, but nothing of any use to me. I went to talk to the store clerk, but at the time my Spanish was poor. I didn’t know how to describe a product blacks use in the United States. I used the process of elimination in my responses.

She repeatedly asked me “yes or no” questions, such as if I needed lotion, or shampoo.

Eventually she told me that they didn’t carry any products such as the one that I was describing. All of the personal care items were in the shampoo aisle. I wasn’t worried. Actually, I was sticking my chest out, because I had my first authentic Spanish conversation with someone who worked in the city. Besides, I could always go to a supermarket and find one there.

There was only one problem. If I didn’t hydrate my hair, then it would convert itself into a desert. My scalp would be like cracked earth, and my hair would harden into shrubbery. Everything would be lifeless. I looked in all of my luggage in order to see if there was something that I could use. My mother prepared me well. In a suitcase I found Vaseline.

So, in order to temporarily resolve this problem, I put Vaseline in my hair. I do not recommend it. As it turns out Vaseline is very greasy and very uncomfortable in human hair. The result was that the hair looked less natural, and faintly resembled the hair of a mannequin—plastic. However, I was out of options.

My priority the following days was to find a product that would agree with me, because while the Vaseline sat in my hair, I became increasingly paranoid that someone would notice that my hair looked a bit weird. Next stop was a supermarket on a street called Honduras. My program director told me that this supermarket had everything that I could possibly need. It was like the Walmart of Argentina.

I was charged with excitement, because the Vaseline was also beginning to itch.

At my first opportunity, I walked to the supermarket. I was astounded when I walked in. It actually did look like a Walmart. This was very unusual. Although Buenos Aires is a modern metropolis, it still has fruit vendors on every other street corner, and stores that specialize butchery. Large anything, in general is the exception.

Yet, there was the super-sized parking lot with a small army of cars in it. Inside there were scores of families only looking to buy enough to last them the day. It was even more chaotic than Walmart! The organization confused me, because it had an escalator in the middle of the store that was adapted to be large enough to easily lift shopping carts.

I spent 30 minutes lost in the lanes before I found the hair products. This time I was sure that I would find the product that I needed, because there was a small mountain of products. I searched the large aisles. I saw some of the same products that I had seen in the mini-mart such as shampoo, hair conditioner, lotion, but I also saw some new and promising products such as “tratamiento capilar,” and “fijador”.

These gave me hope.

First was the fijador because there were far more images of guys on the labels. The men seemed confident and stylish, feelings I yearned for. I snuck a peek to have a better understanding. It was styling gel, which doesn’t just fail to solve my immediate problem, but is also completely useless on my type of hair. All of a sudden the second seemed promising. I snuck another peek. The texture was much more smooth and soft than Vaseline. I examined the word “tratamiento.”

I had no idea what the instructions were trying to tell me. Something felt off. I had a feeling that my current problem could transform into an even worse predicament, so I concentrated really, really hard on the instructions. “Dejálo actuar entre tres y cinco minutos…” I searched for the definition of “dejar” in my cellphone. My God! This product wasn’t something that I could put in my hair for two or three days at a time; it wasn’t even something I should put on my head for two to three minutes! It was hair treatment! I knew that something like this existed in the United States, but here it was just as popular as shampoo!

I walked through the supermarket. I didn’t see any more hair products, but there was a light in the middle of the chaos. There were families that were trying to obtain food for dinner that night. Families that went to the supermarket together, in order to buy that which the children needed. Teenagers that were gazing with slacked jaws at bottles of Fernet. It was a social island. There was no one that could help me find what I was searching for or who could understand what I was trying to describe. Even more, there were no products for blacks, because I was the only black person in Buenos Aires, I thought. It was true; the supermarket had everything necessary for the people of Buenos Aires.

Still I had one more option. My eyes fell to the pharmacy. The complication was that there was not enough time in order to go and search more, because at this point I had begun the study portion of the study abroad. I had a lot to learn. By second week in Buenos Aires, I went to the pharmacy with confidence that I would going to find something for myself. Unfortunately, it was the same story as the supermarket. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing looked even close to a product that I could use.

There was only the dangerous capillary treatment and styling gel. Moreover, I was desperate for a change. The Vaseline had submerged into my capillaries, leaving my hair an unmovable mass. Without more options, I looked at the styling gel for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide if gel would be superior to Vaseline. Almost anything is better than Vaseline. I resigned. There was no hair grease, and so I bought the men’s styling gel.

The next day I went to a ranch with my program group. In a terrible mood, I told my friends who were black about my misery in the city. They laughed. However, they gave their sympathies. One girl told me that she had enough hair grease to share, and for the first time in a week my confidence came surging back into my body. Later, we went to my friend’s apartment. The apartment was located far from my house, but it was worth it. We exchanged hair grease for a drink. That night I washed the Vaseline from my hair. Rain had finally come to the desert.

In light of this experience, I can imagine the feelings of immigrants arriving to a new country being somewhat similar. A thousand thank-yous to my friend who was prepared. She helped me when the stores of Buenos Aires simply couldn’t. It is challenging trying to live in a place with people being completely different from yourself. Humans are social beings.

We need a community in order to support, and understand each other’s difficulties. For this reason, I understand why there are entire neighborhoods of specific ethnic groups. By luck, I had my friends. A small group of four people was sufficient to resolve my problem.