I don’t fear losing sponsors or friends or partners in my foundation, although that has already started to happen. When you step out like this, you can tell who your real friends are and who truly cares about you. If there are people in my life who don’t believe in justice and equality, it probably means that I shouldn’t even be messing with them, and that’s fine. I’d rather know than not know.
But please don’t get me wrong: I do fear the possibility that someone is crazy enough to do something to me just because I’m taking this step. The fear is less for myself than for what it would do to my three daughters. Every single day I think about that. When I’m playing with them after practice or helping them with a project, I’m living in the moment with them as much as I can. I’m doing it more than ever at this point in my life. I am taking great pains to appreciate every second, because you never know what might happen. In a strange way, it makes me feel more alive.
It wasn’t that long ago—1965—when Malcolm X was killed. It wasn’t that long ago—1968—when Martin Luther King was killed. It wasn’t that long ago—1969—when Chicago Black Panther leader Fred Hampton was killed. Fred Hampton knew that the path he was taking would involve sacrifice, and one of those sacrifices ended up being his own life. And a few months ago this young woman, Heather Heyer, goes out to protest some Nazis, with her whole life in front of her, and she’s killed. I’m in no way comparing myself to them. I bring them up to illustrate that, from my perspective, it’s no wonder more people haven’t stepped up. The fear that your life could be snatched is real. Aaron McGruder, the comic artist who created The Boondocks, said that he came up with the character of Huey Freeman, the elementary school militant, precisely so we could have a Black voice they couldn’t kill.
I asked Angela Davis, someone who has gotten enough death threats in the last fifty years to wallpaper the Smithsonian Black history museum in DC, how she has dealt with the fear of someone visiting violence upon her head. She wrote me back and said, “Yes! I’ve experienced that fear, but over time, I’ve learned to accept it in a way that does not immobilize me. Despite all the death threats, I’m still here. Therefore—as the saying goes—I must also be a witness for those who did not make it.”
I truly like that idea of being a witness for those who did not make it. That’s very powerful, even sacred.
The Seahawks locker room has been so supportive, because they know my principles and my convictions. They know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have reasons. I think they feel like what I’m saying makes sense in a country where we have Klan marching without hoods. Who can disagree with human rights? Who can disagree with fighting injustice? Who can disagree with fighting inequality? If demonstrating for these things makes you uncomfortable, the question should not be “Why are you doing this?” The question needs to be turned around: “Why are you not?” We don’t all have to agree. Disagreements are fine, even healthy. But when crowds are marching with torches and assault rifles, intimidating people from speaking out, and a woman loses her life, the whole narrative changes.
I told my coach, Pete Carroll, “I feel morally wrong to be silent. I feel like silence right now would be an act of dishonesty to people who look like me and people that look up to me. At this point in time, it just doesn’t make sense for me not to do what’s right. And I know that this might be hard for you to understand, because it’s hard for a white man to understand what it feels like to be Black.”
Pete Carroll listened, looked at me, and said, “I can’t disagree with you.”
He later said to the media, “Michael has really dedicated the last few years of his life to try to understand what’s going on around the world. He has traveled everywhere to try and understand people’s issues and concerns. It has really captured his heart, and he has really turned his focus to doing good work, and helping people, and doing everything he can for things that he thinks where he can help. I support the heck out of his concerns and his issues and all that.”
In an odd, funky way, football has prepared me for this more than probably any sport or other job could, save ones that hold the regular risk of physical danger. When you take the field, you have to go out there with the mentality that any play could be your last, and you have to be at peace with that. You have to not just live in the moment but be in the moment. Full situational awareness.
There have been times I’ve felt afraid. Having our first baby I was afraid, because our daughter Peyton was so tiny and fragile, and I worried that
