As for being Muslim? Damn. The number of assaults against Muslims in the United States rose like crazy between 2015 and 2016. According to the Pew Research Center, it’s worse now than it was after 9/11. That means assaults, vandalism, and broken windows. Those people who march with the tiki torches think they’re tough. But they’re afraid. They are afraid to face what the United States has done to other countries around the world, resulting in thousands upon thousands of people seeking to come here. They are afraid of confronting their own bigotry. They are afraid of their own irrelevance.
There are people who might give me a break if I only talked about Black Lives Matter, because I’m Black. But when I start talking about rights for other people, I’m marked. I think we get attacked for standing up for others precisely because doing so opens an avenue for change, and change threatens the status quo and those in positions of power. And that can bring you all kinds of unwanted attention. Unwanted attention that’s a little bit more serious than jumping offsides in the fourth quarter or being on TMZ.
Central to this intersectional practice is collaboration. Collaboration is how a message has the potential to catch on like wildfire. You can’t build the Statue of Liberty by yourself. You need legions of people who want to build it with you. You need sisters and brothers willing to carry the bricks and the cement. You need everyone to offer up their special skills. You have to ask, “Do we all believe in this goal? If so, then who knows how to design? Who knows how to hammer? Who knows how to spread the word?” This goes back to Fred Hampton, who said that the goal of any movement is to help people believe in themselves and understand that they have the potential to remake the world. Most people don’t see that in themselves.
Intersectionality is why I made a decision to turn down a trip to visit Israel. I wanted to go, but not if it meant seeing only one side. It wasn’t easy for me because I knew how bad the backlash would be. I knew that when I made this decision some people were going to say, “That guy is the enemy. I don’t want to cheer for him no more. I don’t want to buy his jersey no more. He is dead to us.” That was a given. But I also didn’t know if someone might go as far as saying, “I want to kill his family. I want to do whatever is needed to fucking keep him from talking again.” But my reasons for turning down this trip and doing so as publicly as possible were in step with my morals and my beliefs. I want to take the opportunity to explain, because it’s a microcosm of how the intersectional approach works in my mind.
Eleven NFL players were slated to be part of a “goodwill” delegation to Israel, all expenses paid. When I was asked to do it, my first thought was, “Hey! Free trip to Israel. First-class tickets! Why not?” I didn’t really do any background research on what the trip was, where I would be allowed to go, and who I would be able to talk to, so I can honestly say that was my fault, and I will never make that mistake again. A few weeks before we were set to leave, the Times of Israel ran an article about the trip that described it as a highly organized, Israeli-government-designed operation with the aim of turning me and the other NFL players into “goodwill ambassadors,” who would return to the United States to “fight perceptions” of the country. I learned that the trip would pretty much isolate us from the Palestinian people. I had to ask why they intentionally did not want to expose us to the entire country. I had visited other countries all over the world, and none had ever asked me to be a “goodwill ambassador.” To truly be a goodwill ambassador, you need to see both sides so you can represent what is happening.
It made me concerned about the entire trip, but before I decided not to go, I knew I had to educate myself on the situation over there. I had to be humble enough to realize that I knew very little about Israel and Palestine, so I went on a crash course about the history of the region. It was like cramming for a final exam. I locked myself in my room. I spoke to scholars and academics. I picked up a stack of books from every angle so I could do my own research. The life-altering point was reading a book called Freedom Is a Constant Struggle, written by Angela Davis in 2015. I learned that Black Lives Matter activists had created all kinds of bonds and communications with the Palestinian people, and that there was a mural of Michael Brown on the Palestinian side of the separation wall that Israel built around Gaza. They were even communicating over Skype about how best to deal with tear gas: instead of using water to flush your eyes, use milk. I can honestly say that, as a man, I cried when I read about this connection. In such a dark time in our country, I felt inspired. Pele asked me, “Why are you so emotional about this?” And I told her I hadn’t known how bad it was, and the strength of people in impossible situations had touched my soul.
That’s when I knew I had to step up and not only refuse the trip but also tell the truth about why I wasn’t going. I think it bothered some people that I didn’t go, but I’d seen some things in my reading and research that I couldn’t un-see. I’d seen, in my mind’s eye, the kids, the women, the men, the checkpoints,
