FacingRacismLR

The Anger is Mine
Richard McKinney’s story by Tom Steiner.
Richard is 48 years old.
I didn’t start out hating Islam. I grew into it. It was an anger that lived and fed off of itself
throughout my life. As my life unfolded, my anger flourished and dominated my life.
Anger got me an early discharge from the Marines. Anger garnered me a diagnoses
of PTSD that ended my military career. Ager led me to a failed attempt at professional
fighting. Anger fueled many confrontations and ended a career as guard at a local
prison. Anger was three wives and lots of trouble with the law. Anger was the seed of
my hatred.
As anger evolved into hatred it became as vital an organ as my heart. I was afraid to let
it go for fear it was the only thing keeping me alive. It is what got me up in the morning.
Hatred dictated my every thought. Anger slowly eroded every other emotion until
hatred was all I had left.
Hatred led me to a 55 gallon drum half filled with gas, half filled with oil, and two
burner phones for detonation. I had it all planned out. I was going to place it behind the
back stairs of the Islamic Center and set it off on a Friday during the Jumu’ah when the
place would be full. I would be parked across the street watching it all happen.
Nobody knew anything about my plans. This was going to be my statement and my
statement only. I knew I would be caught and that did not bother me. The bombing just
seemed that easy to do. I had learned a long time ago that it is easier to take a life when
you have no feelings for that person except anger and hatred.
The news probably would have blamed PTSD for my actions. However, those who
know, PTSD is triggered. PTSD is usually a spontaneous reaction. Bombing the center
was not just a thought on Monday and put into action on Friday. It was a plan that I had
been working on for several months. I put a lot of thought into it because I wanted to
do it right.
So, what stopped me?
My daughter was in grade school. She came home one day and told me about a
schoolmate of hers whose mother came to pick him up. She was wearing a burka and
hijab. I went off. I did not want my daughter around “those people.” She just looked at
me like I was crazy. She could not understand why I was so upset. And the light bulb
went off.
Hey, listen, you are screwing this girl’s life up. This is how prejudice gets passed on.
It was a moment of lucidity that I had not experienced before. But I had no idea what
to do next.
Like most Americans, everything I knew about Islam was based on the news, TV, and
the military. And then I did something I never thought I would do.
On a Friday, I walked into the Islamic Center and asked them to teach me what they
think and feel Islam is. I was given some brochures and sat in the back reading them.
Still in the grips of hatred, my first impression was that these brochures were nothing
but propaganda.
I did not want to believe what I was reading. I wanted it to be lies. I wanted to see that
these people condoned murder and torture. I needed to see the uncaring of humanity.
At one point in the evening, I realized that all this had nothing to do with racism. It was
xenophobia. I was in a room full of Arabs and my only thoughts were of a picture of
me on CNN with a sword through my throat. How stupid was that? This is Midwest
America. Nothing like that happens here.
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