Parenting
Another Form of Illness
Some sights are seared into your memory, and you wish you could erase them. I recently viewed footage of a police officer taking the life of an unarmed man. I wish I could turn back time and unsee it.
My skin prickled. My throat tightened. Tears came to my eyes.
Witnessing such events casts a heavy burden of responsibility. It forces me to confront uncomfortable truths. There will be parts of my mind that might lean toward justifying the violence: “He was a threat. He had a record. He was dangerous.” There’s a temptation to distance myself and my family from the victim, to dull the horror of the moment. But this line of thinking is not just misguided; it’s fundamentally wrong.
We cannot find solace in dehumanizing those who have lost their lives like this—people like the countless others whose stories are similarly tragic. If we allow ourselves to think this way, we miss the crucial point and fail to stand in solidarity with one another.
As a white woman, I can never fully grasp what it means to be black in America. Yet, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t feel devastated by these events. We cannot allow our friends, our family, our community to bear this suffering alone.
I urge you: don’t rationalize these deaths. If you find yourself holding onto terms that make this violence seem acceptable—like “thug” or “criminal”—watch the footage again and remind yourself that regardless of the past, there should still be a process of justice involved. What happened to the due process? Watch it again. You can’t unsee it, and you shouldn’t want to. Human suffering ought to awaken something deep within us.
I’ve shared my experiences with breast cancer before, but this is a different kind of illness—one that infects society as a whole. It’s easy to pretend it isn’t there, lurking beneath the surface. Yet, these acts of senseless violence are symptoms of a deeper disease. We cannot begin to heal until we acknowledge that we are indeed afflicted.
My own battle with cancer taught me about the importance of understanding what causes pain. We must confront the reality of racism. We have to be open, vulnerable, and admit our need for help. We need to nourish our spirits with compassion and truth. This means being willing to sacrifice our comfort, our false sense of peace, and our quiet lives.
When I was ill, my loved ones shared in my suffering. They felt uncomfortable, they prayed fervently, and they gave their time and energy to support me. They didn’t ever need me to shout, “You don’t understand what I’m going through!” They were there, feeling my pain alongside me, which made me feel connected and supported in my struggle.
I want to advocate for my black brothers and sisters, for friends who must teach their children to be cautious in a world that doesn’t always value their lives. I want to share their pain because I truly believe that “No one is free until we are all free,” as Martin Luther King Jr. said.
While I’m on my path to recovery from my own illness, I’m deeply troubled by the societal disease that continues to rage on. Watching the video feels akin to receiving a grim diagnosis.
But what can we do? Honestly, I don’t have all the answers. When faced with such monumental problems, I often feel insignificant—just a drop in the ocean.
Yet, last night, I attended a performance by the Unity Arts Collective, part of their “Building Bridges Tour.” While waiting for the show to start, I read the program that highlighted how this initiative was born from the civil unrest in our communities, aimed at uplifting youth and fostering unity. The organizer, Jamie, stepped onto the stage and expressed her commitment to being part of the solution, using music as a means to heal.
As I sat there, I watched a diverse group of students pour their hearts into their performance. The final song, an anthem of hope, resonated deeply. One young girl, despite her physical challenges, took center stage and captivated the audience. As the music swelled, we all rose to our feet, joining hands across divides. My son instinctively reached for the hand of a man sitting next to him, and I held the hand of a woman nearby. Together, we lifted our arms in unity.
That moment was healing. The music, the passion, and the connection filled the room, and I found myself overwhelmed with emotion. This is what healing looks like.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, I kept repeating the words, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.”
We must watch the videos, confront the uncomfortable truths, and reject the narrative that tries to make victims into “others.” We are all in this together.
As one of my favorite authors, Ava Rivers, often reminds us: “We are all interconnected.” This is a crisis, a disease. How many more lives must we lose before we truly open our eyes and hearts?
Summary:
In this reflective piece, Lila Thompson explores the societal illness of racism, comparing it to cancer, an affliction that requires acknowledgment and collective healing. She emphasizes the importance of empathy and solidarity, urging readers to confront uncomfortable truths and support one another in the fight against injustice. Through personal anecdotes and a poignant experience at a community performance, she illustrates the power of unity and the need for change.