There’s nothing I could say.
Chances are, these five words have crossed our mind on occasion.
For no matter how outgoing or socially adept we are, there are instances where communication fails us. Where words seem wholly inadequate.
This could be at moments of great elation. It could be at times of extreme shock. Or it could be in periods of profound sorrow.
I remember being speechless in the aftermath of 9/11. I recalled the events of that day viscerally. And yet, I felt powerless to put those memories into words. It took more than a decade before I was finally able to share my story.
I don’t regret taking so long to find my voice. After all, I had been mere miles away from major tragedy — one which was unfolded during the age when I was most emotionally vulnerable. Trauma like that doesn’t just come out in the wash. It takes its time to heal.
But there have been other times where I’ve stayed quiet. Like so many others, I’ve had moments where I determined I couldn’t understand what others were dealing with. Moments where I stopped trying. Moments when I mistook absenteeism for action.
Those instances are far too frequent. And they fill me with regret.
Several times I week, I go for a run through my neighborhood before dawn. I devote my days to my profession, without fearing it will drive me to a hospital bed. And whenever I venture out of my home, the worst outcome I might face from a law enforcement officer is a speeding ticket.
These might seem like normal activities or expectations. But they’re actually signs of privilege.
I am not wealthy. But I am a man of great fortune. And while I enjoy the advantages this brings, I do so with great guilt.
For there are so many who have been dealt a brutal hand. Who have seen their lives threatened by two insidious cornerstones of our society — medical disease and racism.
These two strains poison the well of equity. For they each cast an uneven burden — one indiscriminately and another full of discrimination.
Both medical disease and racism can tear families apart. They can deny opportunities. And they can exacerbate the divides between us.
Those of us who haven’t experienced this devastation have no reference point for it. There’s no way to know how it feels to live with the weight of injustice crushing us. There’s no way to simulate what it’s like living in constant fear.
We are living in an alternative reality. The connection is lost. And with it, our empathy.
So, we delude ourselves into silence. We determine we have nothing useful to share with the afflicted, and we slowly fade into the background.
Often, we make such moves under the guise of respect. We determine that it would be improper to inject ourselves — and our privilege — into another’s suffering.
But there’s hardly anything more disrespectful than remaining quiet.
As I write this, both medical disease and racism are top of mind in our society.
They have both been present on our shores for more than 400 years. But they haven’t always captured our collective consciousness the way they have now.
For the events of recent months have been tragic.
A lethal virus has swept across America, claiming more than 100,000 lives and decimating minority populations. And a spate of incidents involving law enforcement and vigilantes has left several unarmed African-Americans dead.
The veil has been lifted on these systemic problems. And yet, those of us not directly affected by this round of devastation are falling back into old patterns.
We’re convincing ourselves that since we can’t relate, we can’t help. We’re focusing on saving face instead of saving lives.
I know these patterns because I’ve lived them.
As the virus intensified, I stayed silent — even as the reports of death poured in from coast to coasts. Then, as a spate racial violence spurred widespread protests, I kept myself muzzled.
But gradually, I came to my senses.
I checked in with my friends of color to see how they were, and how I could assist. I spoke candidly about inequity and my subtle role in perpetuating it. And I vowed to make changes in my own life that would make the lives of others that much less difficult.
All of these gestures were small. But they were far from trivial.
For instead of passively observing the problem, I was actively trying to be part of the solution. Instead of obsessing over words, I was putting my weight behind my actions.
These actions won’t bring back those who have already been lost. And on their own, they’ll do little to change the state of affairs.
After all, I am just one dot on a map. One data point out of 300 million.
But if more of those dots take the same small steps, it will build a movement. A movement that can support the more boisterous one making the headlines. A movement that can lead to a better future.
Lasting change doesn’t come from a singular voice.
Government officials, faith leaders and scientists might provide us with the tools to enact change. But it’s on us to take the ball and run with it.
Martin Luther King Jr. gave us the dream to end centuries of legalized segregation. Jonas Salk gave us the means to defeat polio.
But if the people hadn’t adopted Dr. King’s message, the Civil Rights Movement would have died in obscurity. If the people hadn’t taken Dr. Salk’s vaccine, polio would still be rampant today.
Not everyone who advocated for civil rights had to sit on the back of a city bus. Not everyone who got the polio vaccine had to watch a loved one wither away from the disease.
But they leaned in anyway. And they helped the world change for the better.
Now, as we face new challenges among familiar fronts, we should follow the path they blazed. Instead of focusing on what to say to make things better, we should focus on what we can do.
Regardless of our background, we have the chance to make a difference. Our actions can yield righteous resonance.
But all of this can only happen if we allow it to.
So, let us not be silent.
We might not have the perfect words to bridge the gap. But our actions speak volumes.