THE LIGHT AND THE DARK IN DC

This happened yesterday:

A trusted, long-time museum employee, a security guard, noticed an elderly man approaching the museum's front steps. The employee smiled and held open the door so the man could enter unencumbered, without any trouble. The museum guard didn't know he was opening the door for an 88 year-old white supremacist with a long record, criminal and otherwise, of racist and anti-semitic acts. The employee, 39 and well-liked, also could not see the firearm hidden beneath the old man's jacket. All the employee saw was a human being who, at an advanced age, could use a hand.

The old man, however, could not see a helpful museum employee with a smile on his face. Instead, all he saw was a man whose skin looked different. Darker. Not as pink or chalky as his own.

The museum was The Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, on the National Mall, just steps from the White House and Capitol. The museum's one of our most popular; it realistically and movingly displays the horrors from one of mankind's ugliest times.

The guard assumed the best in this man, and treated him with respect, like he did most folks. The old man could see only color, and hate; and the hate wasn't even in the guard who smiled and helped him.

But it didn't matter...

Upon being greeted and allowed in, the old man raised the hidden firearm, right there, and shot the guard almost point blank. Another guard, some distance away, immediately reacted and shot the racist. Both men fell. Both men were brought to the same ER. The guard died hours later. As I write the hateful, old man still lives.

And if - or when - he, too, dies, he will not take this brand of hate with him, unfortunately. It will wander, darkly, among us, still. There's only one possible way to explain a sickness like racism: fear. Fear of anything different. And we know the more afraid of something one becomes, the more ominous that something appears. This is so shameful. And so able to be healed. And it starts here. With me. With you. It starts with being interested and curious about what we don't know, instead of being smug and insular about what we do.

I remember thinking I knew everything (still can feel like that, on a low day). What's so funny about that is that if it were true there would be no reason to go on, to do anything, to try anything, to read, watch, listen, feel, because there would be nothing left I didn't already know. How miserable an existence that would be.

Newness keeps me alive, brings me energy. Without new then everything's old. This would not be good, not even for a minute. No matter how comfortable, presumably, the "familiar" is, the last thing I want is a life filled with the familiar. To live is to learn. To learn is to experience something new. And new experiences give me a reason to be.

Racism provides no reason to be. Celebrating one another's differences does. I like celebrating. I like different. I like being.