The American Race

Why Have We Stopped Seeing Ourselves as One People

I was born in 1970, just two years after the Civil Rights Movement came to what was supposed to be its final victory. By then, the big fights had been won. The Civil Rights Act had passed in ’64. The Voting Rights Act followed in ’65. And by 1968, right after Dr. King was assassinated, the Fair Housing Act was signed. That was supposed to be it. That was the finish line. The end of legalized hate. A beginning of something better. So I was born into what was supposed to be the healing.

When I was coming into my life, race wasn’t something we talked about. Not in a good light, not in a bad one. It just wasn’t a focus. My parents didn’t teach me that Black people were bad. I can’t say I didn’t learn racism — I did. I learned about it. I heard horrible things. But here’s what I mean by that.

My grandparents and my great uncles all served in World War II. No exceptions. Every single one of them, and all their friends. WWII veterans. Those guys weren’t soft. When they spoke, the room changed. Men, white or Black, knew who they were. And so did everyone else in the room. We could feel it. Because a man who’s seen war doesn’t need to speak loudly. He just needs to speak. They didn’t waste words. Everything they said had weight. When they spoke, people listened. Not because they demanded respect but because they already had it. Earned it.

When those men returned something to a store, they got their money back. No runaround. No store credit games. Just straight respect. Because our country back then was being raised by American men. Men who taught their sons to be patriots. Not Black gang members. Not white junkies. Patriots. Men who carried themselves like they had something to protect and taught the next generation to do the same.

They call it The Good War. Maybe it was. Maybe it had to be. It was clear who the enemy was. It was clear what had to be done. But even then, even in that war we still talk about with pride, not every good man was treated the same when he came home.

Black soldiers were there too, fighting and dying just like anyone else. Maybe harder. And a lot of white Americans forget that. Hell, a lot of white soldiers back then had never even spoken to a Black man before they put on a uniform. Some had never even seen one up close. That’s how divided this country still was. Yet there they were, driving the same equipment, marching on the same soil, hearing the same bullets crack overhead. And respect doesn’t care what town you came from or what color your skin is. Out there, in the mud and smoke, respect had to be earned, and they earned it.

I remember learning about the Tuskegee Airmen, all-Black fighter pilots who flew escort missions through skies filled with German gunfire, and did it with more skill and fewer losses than most white squadrons. One mission that stuck with me was when they escorted bombers over Berlin in March of 1945. Despite brutal flak and relentless German fighters, the Red Tails, as they were called, didn’t lose a single bomber. Not one. That kind of precision and courage earned them the trust of crews who once doubted them. They were elite. They were heroes. But they came home to segregated bases, disrespect, and a country that still treated them like second-class citizens. Still, they served. With excellence. With pride. Because they believed in something bigger.

Another story that deserves more light is what the Tuskegee Airmen did during the Ploiești oil field raids and long-range escort missions in 1944. These were deep-penetration missions into Romania and Germany, through some of the deadliest airspace in Europe. Despite flying older planes and facing the worst conditions, they protected bombers headed straight into Nazi heartlands. Some of those missions lasted over six hours, with little radio contact, no backup, and no room for error. But they didn’t flinch. They flew tight, disciplined, precise. Their skill and courage saved countless lives, even when they knew they wouldn’t get the same recognition as their white counterparts. That’s heroism. Not just for what they did in the sky, but for what they endured on the ground when they got home.

And I didn’t learn that from a schoolbook. I learned that from my white father. He could’ve bought me any model plane to build, but he made sure I had a little bottle of red paint. Told me not to forget what it stood for. Told me the Red Tails weren’t just pilots. They were men. And that every man who risks his life for this country deserves to be seen for who he is, not what he looks like. That was the moral of those stories he passed down. That it’s not just about who flies the plane, it’s about what they stand for. And that stuck with me.

Same thing with the 761st Tank Battalion, the “Black Panthers.” Fought under General Patton. Fought like hell. Took heavy casualties. Won battles others couldn’t. One mission in particular stands out, the Battle of the Bulge. In late 1944, amid freezing temperatures and relentless German fire, the 761st helped to break through Nazi lines in support of Patton’s Third Army. They fought for 183 straight days, liberating towns, rescuing fellow units, and holding ground under impossible odds. Their tanks rolled into Bastogne when the Allies needed them most. But they didn’t come home to parades or headlines. They came home to silence. Doors still closed. Rights still denied. And I’m not bringing this up to throw blame around. I’m saying it because it happened. It matters. And it should be remembered alongside the white men who also gave everything they had.

My father and uncles served in Vietnam. We can find pictures of Americans of all colors fighting side by side with other Americans, Black, white, Native. Together. It was the American race. I’m sure there were tensions. And yes, the Black population wasn’t being treated fairly in a lot of cases, but I still think we were on the right road. The government could’ve done better. Black squadrons and platoons were often given the worst assignments, the lowest recognition, and the highest risks. That’s not up for debate.

But people were trying. Society as a whole was still getting used to the idea of real equality, not just on paper, but in everyday life. There was still widespread racism and terrible things happening in our country. That kind of change doesn’t happen clean. It happens awkward. It happens with mistakes. And a lot of people were doing their best to adjust, even the ones brand new to this democracy. Some of those young white men in Vietnam had never even spoken to a Black man before they were assigned to the same unit. That’s the truth. But they fought beside each other. They bled next to each other. They died on the same soil. And when it mattered, Yes, Some of them were checking skin color. Grateful no doubt, in a terrible, confusing time. a lot of white men realized respect was earned in those moments, and in those skies. That was reality.

So why did I bother learning about these things, about their courage, their sacrifice, their American-ness, if I was just going to be hated by the very people I was raised to call my neighbors? My brothers? My fellow citizens? Why did I bother learning to respect an entire race of men who fought beside my forefathers, men who bled on the same soil, died under the same flag, if I was just going to be discarded by the very neighbors I was taught to stand beside? What was the point of being taught to honor that kind of service if, decades later, my skin alone makes me a target and a presumed racist in my own country? What’s the point of holding on to this belief, this deep respect for fellow Americans of every color, if I can’t find an ounce of respect from anyone of color in today’s world? That’s the heartbreak I carry. That’s what I’m trying to figure out now.

There was a time when we called wrong wrong, and right right, no matter who did it. A time when parents taught their kids to behave in public, when community meant you looked out for your neighbors, and when dignity mattered more than defiance. That time feels like it's slipping away. Not because of race. Not because of politics. But because too many people are defending the indefensible, and too few are brave enough to say anything.

Peaceful protest is a right. Looting is not. Standing up for justice is noble. Beating up store owners and filming it is not. Somehow, these differences are getting blurred in the name of activism.

Entire malls shut down due to organized retail theft. Employees instructed not to intervene, even as stores are destroyed. Children watching adults celebrate criminal behavior on TikTok. When crime becomes entertainment, what future do we expect?

Social media has trained a generation that the loudest voice wins. We are now broadcasting fights in school cafeterias, robberies as "life hacks," women encouraging their children to steal, people threatening strangers and then blaming the fallout on racism. This isn’t about skin color. This is about a rot in values, one that cuts across every neighborhood, especially the ones where lawlessness is being defended instead of stopped.

We've reached a point where asking someone to follow the rules can get you labeled a racist. A stranger reports a crime? Racist. Asks someone to follow posted rules? Racist. Speaks up when uncomfortable? Racist.

What kind of society are we building where accountability is bigotry and silence is safety? Psychologists call this projected victimhood. It’s when people weaponize historical pain to avoid present-day responsibility. It’s real. And it’s costing us the ability to talk honestly, fix problems, and trust each other.

You can’t teach a child decency by modeling defiance. You can’t tell them not to steal while filming your own crimes. You can’t demand respect while glorifying disrespect. This isn’t about poor neighborhoods. This is about what we tolerate as normal. And if we keep calling this behavior culture, then we are dooming a generation to repeat failure instead of breaking it.

Let’s be honest. There are neighborhoods in America that law-abiding people avoid. Not because of skin tone. But because of what they know they’ll see. Screaming matches in public. Open drug use in playgrounds. Businesses boarded up not because of poverty, but because of theft. Cops who hesitate to act because every move is filmed and twisted. That’s not a race problem. That’s a behavior problem. And if you hate hearing that, you might be part of it.

Equality is not one group getting special treatment. Equality means we all play by the same rules. If a white club isn’t allowed, neither is a Black-only club. If one group can say anything, while others get cancelled for repeating it, that’s not freedom. That’s cultural tyranny. We didn’t march in the streets to swap places with our oppressors. We marched to be free of oppression, period.

This country has bent over backwards to address historical injustice. That work matters and isn’t done. But when the effort to right old wrongs becomes a license to commit new ones, the dream of unity dies.

To the parents defending chaos, you’re not empowering your kids. You’re teaching them that no one will ever love or respect them enough to tell them the truth. To the influencers making excuses, you’re not helping your people. You’re helping yourself. To the leaders who know better, it’s time to speak up.

And to the rest of us, we must find our courage again. Because silence isn’t safety anymore. It’s surrender. This isn’t about race. It’s about what we’re willing to live next to. And if that offends you, maybe ask why.

This is part one. Stay tuned for part 2.