Accusations of racism will chill a person

They’re words that sting as badly as a hit from an aluminum bat to the funny bone: “You’re a racist.”
They’re words I’ve heard twice in my life. And they’re words that change your outlook on everything.
To clarify, each time I’ve heard those words it was because I told someone over the phone that I wouldn’t put something in the newspaper. In each case, it was something that wasn’t as newsworthy as my standards required.
I don’t know if the people on the other end of the phone line intended the line to be so brutal. That’s not the point. It still hurt.
“You’re a racist” is the death knell to the conscience of a good-hearted man with compassion for others, regardless of race or religion. It makes you question if perhaps you’ve veiled yourself to how your mind truly works.
This phrase perpetuates true racism. It generates anger. It generates self-defense. It generates a certain degree of loathing.
You start thinking about all the friends you’ve had of other ethnicities, wondering if they felt the same way.
“I’m not a racist” is a statement that, when you hear it out loud, sounds more like an admission than a defense.
Racism is treating one race differently than another. Racism is using your language differently around one group than another. Racism is thinking differently about another group.
It inevitably sounds idealistic, but there is only one race here, human. If we treat one another as such, regardless of the hues of our skins, we’ll be fine.
Black History Month ends Wednesday. I won’t debate the need for this daily reminder of how African-Americans contributed to our history, although there are issues with the month’s moniker.
The key to that phrase, though, is “our history.” It’s not black history. It’s not white history. It’s a history we share, regardless of where our ancestors were born.
Throughout this month, we’ve seen leaders talk about the “black community” here. This type of separation doesn’t benefit anyone. It pushes an us versus them mentality that is, frankly, 30 years out of date.
As the comic-strip philosopher Walt Kelly once had Pogo say, “We’ve met the enemy, and he is us.”
As long as there is a black community, a white community, a Hispanic community, an Asian community or a left-handed flautist community here, we’ll never see eye to eye. We’re one community, facing and solving our common problems together.
Sure, you must value diversity. It’s what makes America such an interesting melting pot. That’s not the same as creating division among us by accenting our differences, though. True diversity is recognizing the good in everyone.
I hope I’ll never hear those chilling words of “you’re a racist” again, but I know I will some day. It’s the nature of a job where you have to say no to people sometimes. As long as I stay true to my principles of fairness and truth, I know I won’t fall victim to actually becoming one.
I can only hope everyone else fights it too.

COLUMN: It’s finally good to be a Bears fan again

From The Lima News, Feb. 1, 2007

If it’s a boy, we’re thinking about naming him Brian, after Brian Urlacher.

My wife and I both have replicas of Urlacher’s jersey, although I have trouble imagining him wearing that tight, midriff-bearing shirt she received for Christmas.

Even our 5-year-old knows that the guy with No. 54 on his back is Urlacher.

It’s safe to say our house is a Bears house as the Super Bowl comes this weekend. You’ll have to pardon my glee, but Bears’ fans haven’t had much to celebrate in, oh, 21 years.

When the Bears made their Super Bowl Shuffle video on their way to winning the Super Bowl after the 1985 regular season, I was on cloud nine. So were most of the kids in my class, who’d hopped on the bandwagon.

I recall my fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Davis, declaring the Monday after the Super Bowl that none of us would be Bears fans in 20 years.

He was wrong with me. Family ties to Chicago built that bond with the Bears, and I’ve stayed with them through tough times. There were 11 losing seasons since then, including three 4-12 campaigns. There were 11 pretty bad quarterbacks in that stretch too, including three who were so totally forgettable I had to look up their first names (Chad Hutchinson, Dave Krieg and Steve Walsh).

Twenty-one years is a really long time, even though that Super Bowl win against New England seems like yesterday for me. That Super Bowl drought is old enough to go out drinking now. It’s old enough to be a junior in college. It’s old enough to serve in the military.

My wife’s passion for the Bears is a bit newer. She never cared much for Chicago until she began watching games with me. It was one of those compromises couples make: She watches the Bears with me, and I watch “Desperate Housewives” with her.

Something magical happened with her. Most of last year, she merely watched the games. This year, she began cheering. She began yelling at the TV. She began sitting on the edge of the couch as the defense made key stops.

She also made a dream of mine come true. Even though I’d been to Chicago at least once a year nearly every year I’ve been alive, I’d never seen a game there. She surprised me with tickets around my birthday. The photograph of her and me sitting in front of Soldier Field brings back a treasured memory.

She’s been hooked on the team ever since. I’m proud to say we plan our Sundays around when the Bears play.

There’s just something alluring about those Monsters of the Midway.

I credit my grandma, who still lives near Chicago, for my fanaticism for the Bears. She’s in her mid-90s now, but she’s still sharp as the pain Peyton Manning will feel after a sack Sunday. And when the Bears are playing, you simply know you don’t call her; she’s busy watching da Bears.

At the reception for my wedding last summer, I chatted with my grandma for a bit. After we got through the pleasantries, she started our annual July conversation: How do you think the Bears will do this year?

Neither of us imagined this team would be good enough to get to the Super Bowl. After all these years of disappointment, you just stop expecting it.

I’m not expecting a win, but I’d sure like to see it. If you’re going to go to the effort of playing in the Super Bowl, you might as well win the thing. After all, it might be another 21 years of heartache before you get back there again.