Bridging the Gap

Differences.

They’re a constant in life.

The way we experience daily life differs from the way others do. What’s matters to us might not be of concern to them, and vice versa.

This gap is as wide between Denver and Dakar is it is between South Central LA and Beverly Hills. And it can be as present amongst our neighbors as it is amongst those further afield.

The freedom some of us might take for granted is far from certain for others. And we are blissfully unaware of the fear others face taking on what might seem to us to be mundane tasks.

These experiential differences often exacerbate divisions between corners of our society. They can provoke radical movements, some of which can turn ugly and violent. And they can serve as a barrier to unifying solutions.

This final effect is perhaps most concerning. For while our society increasingly values productive collaboration over The Self Made Man these days, it’s hard to work together without common understanding. And it’s hard to find common understanding without knowledge of differing perspectives.

To bridge this gap, the prevailing wisdom is to take a walk in someone else’s shoes. To live as others would live. To see the world from their eyes.

This is what Baba Amte did in India. A lawyer by trade, Amte encountered a leper on the side of the road one rainy night. Amte ran away in horror, but later returned and comforted the dying leper. Then he created a lepers’ colony and moved his young family to it — even though none of them had leprosy.

This is also what Daryl Davis did right here in America. Davis, a black blues musician, met with Ku Klux Klan leaders and attended their rallies. He took these actions so that he could understand the perspective of Klan leaders — even if some of those perspectives shook him to his core.

(Thank you to Mark Manson for sharing Davis’ story in a recent article.)

Of course, not all of us have the commitment or courage to do what Amte and Davis did. Indeed, it was quite dangerous — possibly even reckless — for these men to do what they did.

But we don’t necessarily have to walk in another’s shoes to understand a new perspective. Sometimes all we need to do is take a run in our own.


At the start of a sweltering summer day, I prepared for my pre-dawn run.

These early morning jaunts through my neighborhood have become a staple of my workout routine in recent years. During the stifling Texas summers, they’re a borderline necessity. When the sun rises, so does the risk of heatstroke if you’re exerting yourself.

Yet, this time as I set out, I did something peculiar. I left home without a shirt.

The previous time I had gone running, I found myself sweating through my shirt. Even with temperatures at their lowest point of the day, and the sun well beyond the eastern horizon, the midsummer night air wasn’t exactly refreshing.

So this time, I decided to run shirtless. What can it hurt? I asked myself. It’s dark out anyway.

I made it to the halfway point of my run, and made the turn for home. But moments later, a pickup truck traveling in my direction slowed down and started pacing me.

As I turned my head to the left to see what was going on, the driver rolled down the window closest to me. He hollered Keep it up. Then the truck sped off.

This incident completely freaked me out. And the last mile of my run that morning seemed to take forever.

By the time I got back home, I resolved not to run without a shirt again. I’ve stayed true to my edict, and I’ve yet to encounter any incidents like that again.


What was it about this incident that left me so badly unhinged?

Well, for one thing, I did not appreciate the unwanted attention I received. If a woman on the sidewalk had hollered the same thing to me this male pickup truck driver did, I would have been just as freaked out.

I was not seeking to get noticed that morning — or anytime I go running.

Sure, I might wave to passing runners. But otherwise, I’m in my own realm. I abhor being recognized, unless I’m in the path of a passing vehicle.

But there was something more that bothered me.

As I replayed this odd situation over and over in my mind, I kept asking myself the same questions.

What if this pickup driver had a gun? What if he had ill intentions he was hell-bent on acting upon?

These are odd prospects to consider. But so is a pickup truck pacing a runner on a road before dawn.

This is exactly the type of scenario that can lead to a drive-by shooting, or an abduction. And while there was no rational reason for those fates to befall me that morning, immoral actions are all too often irrational.

As I thought of these prospects of foul-play, I recognized just how vulnerable I was in that moment. I had hardly any recourse to protect myself. And that realization was terrifying.


Yet, as unnerving as my running incident was, I realized it would have been even worse for others.

For I am a white man. The chances of bad fates befalling me are relatively low.

Sure, I could end up in the wrong place at the right time. There’s always a chance I might get robbed, or get injured in a car accident. If I drank alcohol or hung around bars more, I would also increase my chances of something bad happening.

But by and large, I can go through my day carefree.

If I were black, Hispanic, Arabic, Asian, or Indian — well, sadly, I wouldn’t be able to say the same. If I was running without a shirt and happened to be one of these ethnicities, I would likely have been on high alert from the word Go. If noticed a pickup truck pacing me, my first instinct might have been dread, not confusion. The tension I would feel would be instant and palpable.

And if I were a woman of any ethnicity in this scenario — in a sports bra or fully-attired — the terror meter would be up to 11. There have been enough stories of women being abducted during early morning runs that many have abandoned the practice entirely.

In fact, the thought of venturing out alone at night alone — for any purpose — can terrify some women. There have been too many nefarious stories to make even a few steps under the stars seem prudent without a can of pepper spray or a firearm.

I’ve encountered this trepidation firsthand. When I worked evenings as a news producer in West Texas, some of our female reporters occasionally asked me to walk out of the building with them at the end of my shift. This made them feel safer then venturing into the parking lot alone.

I always obliged — not because I knew their fear firsthand, but because I empathized with the fact that it existed.

I still can’t say I know the fear women, or men of other ethnicities, face in these instances. But the more I think about my running incident, the more I recognize how paralyzing it must be.

And the more I want to do what I can to eradicate it.


Bridging the gap in our perspectives and experience doesn’t require the drastic odysseys of Baba Amte or Daryl Davis. It doesn’t require getting yourself into scenarios that unveil our vulnerabilities, as I did.

It only requires two things: Understanding and action.

We must be able to understand that what seems mundane to us might be terrifying to others. Even when we cannot internalize the fear ourselves, we must be aware of its presence.

And with this knowledge in mind, we must act to protect those who face these terrors.

We’d be well-served to believe women who come forward as victims of abuse. We’d be well-served to hold police when they put the lives of unarmed minorities in danger.

When walking down on the street, we’d be well-served to look upon those who look different than us with friendliness, not scorn. We’d be well-served not to stare at women based on the contours of their bodies or the dearth of their attire.

We won’t always get it right, of course. Incidents between police and citizens can be complicated, and sometimes unarmed minorities might not be innocent bystanders. Some women who come forward with accusations might have an axe to grind, instead of a true story of victimization. Some of the people we encounter on the street do indeed have nefarious thoughts on their minds.

But these edge cases are not, by themselves, significant enough for us to burn all bridges of understanding. They’re not prevalent enough for us to sever all hope of a more united, connected tomorrow.

The truth remains: There are plenty of people with innocent souls who must contend with paralyzing fear, day-in, day-out — simply because of the rotten way the world treats them for how they look.

Our collective assumption biases shatter innocence, sow division and provoke tragedy. It’s a poison pill for progress.

Yet, there is another way. We have the power to change our perspectives, and reshape the future.

We must do so.

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