By Kenneth L. Hardin

As a child, I was taught that if you partially close your hand to point a judgmental finger at someone, there are three fingers pointed right back at you. This lesson has created more problems in our society than it has resolved because it doesn’t make anyone take responsibility for their actions or accept any level of accountability. Too many people are so afraid to call out the obvious idiocy in the actions of others for fear of not being liked, accepted or included. They see wrong but will turn a blind ear and a deaf eye to it so that they don’t violate another ridiculous infantile directive of not burning a bridge.

That’s not how I rock or roll. If I see something wrong on a bridge, I’ll set it on fire after I cross it, swim back through the debris and doggie paddle in the flames to ensure its not resurrected. I don’t fear repercussions or concern myself with whether I’m admired, accepted or invited to the cookout. What I do care about is that my grandson can sit in Chick-fil-A and not worry about the police chasing someone into the building like last week or being struck by random gunfire from a high-caliber weapon like the week before that. I will walk away from anyone or anything before I care whether my desire to live a safe existence makes someone else clutch their pearls in horror because of something I’ve pointed out.

Unless you just met me this morning, you know I’m no stranger to free, uncensored and unfiltered commentary. I feel comfortable with it because nothing I say, although I do pepper it with coarse language at times, comes from a place of malicious, self-serving intent. I’ve spoken up and defended many who don’t have a voice, whose voice is ignored or those who fear theirs will be manipulated and used against them. I’ve called folks out by name because I don’t engage in throwing a rock and hiding my hand like so many cowards and snakes in this city live by. It’s interesting that in all the times I’ve called out wrong and those who’ve authored it, no one has ever questioned its veracity, just that they didn’t appreciate my tone or saying it publicly. The last time I looked over my birth certificate, I didn’t see the words, “Uncle Tom Sellout N*gger” or “angry disruptive Black man” but I’ve been called both equally by the brother man and the other man.

With the gun violence that has permeated this city and become a permanent fixture just like the large mural on Fisher Street, fingers can be pointed in numerous directions. The first one needs to be pointed at the failed leadership of the J.C. Price American Legion Post. I grew up in its shadows but over the years it’s turned into a dark cloud of death and destruction. It needs to be shut down. Two years ago, I was approached about assuming the commander role. I put a four-page revitalization plan together that would’ve eliminated this scourge of repeated deadly acts, but one lone individual stood in the way and the executive board failed to act.

Where are all the Black churches and culture-hustling pastors, who seem more concerned with tithes and offerings through sermons of fire and brimstone instead of ministering to a community in crisis? I recall one of these members of the city’s de-escalation team telling me that I needed to stop worrying about what was going on in this world and focus on getting to the next one. OK Rev., tell that to the family of the young girl cut down by the hundreds of bullets flying around a couple of weekends ago at J.C. Price or to any of the other loved ones of murder victims in this quaint little historic crime ridden village of the damned. I know I’ve violated the unwritten code of the hood that I’m not supposed to publicly criticize anything Black. I’ll risk my membership status being revoked if it means senior citizens don’t have to dive on the floor and crawl under furniture every night to escape gunfire.

Until good-hearted white folks stop painting all people of color with the same brush and cease the ridiculous notion that one or two skinfolk will lead the rest to the promised land, things might be less stressful for you. There is no magical Knee Grow, who speaks well, that has a magic potion solution. These young shooters don’t care how many parks you build, sports camps you offer or festivals you put on. Until there’s equitable representation, people who have more than a financial interest in the hood, an equal distribution of resources and stopping the babies from having babies, all we’ll have is finger pointing.

Kenneth L. (Kenny) Hardin is a member of the National Association of Black Journalists.