My spirit has been heavy and troubled so deeply that it is hard to explain. I write this open letter to you not only in reaction to this week’s events, but to be proactive, with the intent to spread awareness, deploy empathy, and elicit an authentic form of activism from each and every one of you.
While working for an NFL franchise has presented an incredible opportunity to advance my professional career, that has not been a source of motivation. I accepted this opportunity to show that it’s possible for a Black man to love others well, lead with kindness, act with integrity, and execute at a high-level.
Eric Garner, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Michael Brown, Trayvon Martin, George Floyd, and the countless others who have been victims of hate and a flawed system – I write this letter because they cannot.
I come from a background of a White mother and a Black father, where, unfortunately, statistics had their say before I was ever born and I joined the nearly 58% percent of Black children living in fatherless homes. Growing up, I watched my mother experience rejection from her white relatives and from my father’s Black family members because of her decision to be in a relationship with a Black man.
My mother, a white woman, working as a part-time teacher, Spanish to English translator, and housemaid, is an incredibly hard worker – but did not have a good credit score, and therefore, could not gain access to loans or lines of credit. We quickly found ourselves living on cash advances and in a constant cycle of debt, bouncing from apartment to apartment, leveraging move-in specials until they ran out or we were evicted. Gaining access to healthy food, internet, and public transportation was a fight. We became dependent on the system to provide for us.
My father, a Black man, who served as a Sergeant in the Army for 8 years, and earned a Master’s Degree in Theology to begin a career as a minister – fell under the influence of what many in the Black community today face, a fear of success. Why? Because it was not a cultural norm in his circle to experience that level of success and therefore, going against what was accepted. Five of my father’s brothers (my uncles) spent time or were in prison. Even though my father had access to a new life, he returned to what he had been exposed to and was in and out of prison until I was 16 years old.
Poverty, by definition, means “a state of extreme lack.” While it is clear to identify the physical signs, the true influence of poverty is psychological. One can have all of their needs met, but still, experience the psychological effects of poverty. Oppression manifests in a similar vain. I’ve heard oppression once described as smoke, where it may seem invisible until light is shined upon it.
Why do I share this?
When I was 7 years old, my mother married my step-father, a white male, who found success early in his career and financially was in a top tax bracket. As a mixed-race boy, I watched a white male, pay off all of my mother’s debt with one check, buy her a new car with cash, and pay for me to play football with the best equipment, coaches, and talent in our city all in the same week. While I was still the same person, I began to experience a significant difference in treatment from others due to the change in my socio-economic status.
Being raised by two white parents, to say I had identity confusion growing up was an understatement. I experienced racism from the Black community for being too white and experienced racism from the White community for being too Black.
I’ve been called a “brown paper bag” and “privileged house slave” by my Black peers – whose acceptance I could never seem to earn. The long stares, uncomfortable sarcasm, and unconscious doubt in my ability cast upon me by members of the White community left me to believe that no matter what, I had to overcompensate in order to prove that I was just as competent as they were.
Being an only child, I was comfortable being alone, I embraced isolation and found peace in silence, becoming conditioned to seek fitting in, cause no disruption and look to be more and more invisible each day. Though, when I found the game of football, I found acceptance, I found belonging, I found a voice and I found unity.
It seemed that every time I put on my helmet, fear was eradicated and access to opportunity was granted. From little league to high school to the college football playoff – the color of my skin was never a factor, what mattered was my love and commitment to my teammates. The game itself requires selflessness with a high level a sacrifice as the cost to participate.
What sport does for our country may be the purest form of humanity we have. As the theologian G.K. Chesterson once said:
“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”
While I still experienced racism outside of the playing field, my status as an athlete elevated me in the eyes of white people. I quickly began to see the difference in my experience as an athlete and the experience of the other non-athlete black students on campus. The access provided and level of respect were significantly different experiences.
Why is it that we can so easily rally our athletes, creating innovative and dynamic programs, yet, when it comes to rallying around justice for an everyday, hard-working Black American citizen we assume that work is for someone else to do?
Why does it matter? Because it could have been me. Would you care then?
Let us not forget that freedom is not voluntarily given by the oppressor, it must be demanded by the oppressed. What has been taking place for generations in the dark is continuing to be revealed in the light.
I fear that regardless of my economic status, character, or even my intent, the color of my skin could be perceived as a threat.
I fear the day where I will have to explain to my future children how to respond when interacting with law enforcement officials. Will I be a good enough father to protect them from the harsh realities of America?
I fear that I’ve become subconsciously numb to social injustice and have accepted oppression.
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Where do we go from here? When will injustice end?
I do not know. What I do know is this. Your voice matters. Your effort matters. Your perspective matters and each of us has an obligation to steward the platform of our organizations.
10 years from now, when you look back, how will you remember this time and how will you be remembered?
10 months from now, when you look back, how will you remember this time and how will you be remembered?
10 weeks from now, when you look back, how will you remember this time and how will you be remembered?
The measure of our lives will not be how many tickets we sell, partner deals we sign, or experiences we activate. The measures of our lives will be written in the defining moments, when our character is tested, and most importantly, in our everyday actions.
What Action Can We Take?
ACTION #1 DISCUSS – Be intentional about having conversation on racial inequity and disparity with your family, friends, and colleagues.
● Wasserman – Diversity & Inclusion Council: 3 Things You Can Do Right Now
ACTION #2 PETITION – Use your voice to contribute
● Petition · Justice for George Floyd · Change.org
● Black Lives Matter – Petitions
ACTION #3 VOTE – Understand the impact of voting for state and local government officials and VOTE!
I write this with the intent to spread awareness, deploy empathy, and elicit an authentic form of activism from each and every one of you.
Sincerely,
Jarrod Barnes
