What would life be like without hate?
A look at Americans who stood up to hate in honor of Oneday event
What would life be like without hate?
That’s the question the Anti-Defamation League is trying to answer Monday as it rallies allies across the country – nonprofits, media companies, large corporations, faith-based organizations and more – to come together for its first-ever Oneday event.
Oneday is the brainchild of the ADL, which fights for “justice and fair treatment for all,” according to ADL CEO Jonathan Greenblatt.
The goal is for Oneday to kick-start one million conversations between people of different backgrounds. In the future, Oneday will take place on the first Monday of every October.
In conjunction with Oneday’s celebration, USA TODAY highlighted individuals across the United States who have stood up to hate and become voices of change in their communities. To read more vignettes, go to usatoday.com.
Portland rabbi teaches others how to speak out against hate
Days after the election of President Donald Trump, Debra Kolodny, a Portland, Ore.-area rabbi, opened an email from the Southern Poverty Law Center and felt her stomach turn.
The SPLC note horrified her: Hate crimes were on a rapid rise in the immediate aftermath of an election that revealed a deeply divided America. A lifelong activist, Kolodny had to do something.
On Jan. 20, 2017, the day of Trump’s inauguration, Kolodny organized two workshops: One for people who wanted to learn how to have constructive dialogue with family members holding differing political views and one on how to interrupt hate in public spaces. She made room for roughly 25 people in each workshop. When more than 1,000 expressed interest in interrupting hate, she found a new calling.
Almost two years later, Kolodny has taught that three-hour workshop to more than 800 individuals in the Portland area.
Kolodny preaches nonviolence and encourages active bystanders to ignore the perpetrator, instead focusing on whoever is being attacked. She wants active bystanders to let the individual know that what’s being said isn’t OK, and work to remove them from the situation.
“My mom was a feminist, my dad was a unionist,” Kolodny, 58, said of her activism bug. “I always knew I was going to be a justice seeker.”
Kolodny said it’s the responsibility of every citizen to “create the kind of world we want to live in,” and encourages people who identify as shy or timid to trust that they will, “show up when the situation demands it.”
As someone who identifies as queer, Kolodny empathizes with the fear that terrorizes many minority groups who worry they might be targeted next because of their race, religion or sexuality. She’s felt that fear, too. Sometimes, she finds herself spiraling.
“But it’s my obligation as a citizen to find strategic pathways to move forward,” she said. “And I remember that activism is a wonderful antidote to fear.”
Mother of woman killed at white nationalist rally embraces new life
While waiting in a McDonald’s drivethrough line, Susan Bro made eye contact with the driver ahead of her. He was riding in a white truck with Confederate tags.
He appeared to recognize the 62year-old through his rearview mirror as the mother of Heather Heyer, the counterprotester who was killed at a white nationalist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017. He seemed to say to himself, “Oh, great.”
Bro asked herself if she hated him for what he appeared to stand for. But she decided she could not. Minutes later, when she got up to the window, she found out he had paid for her order. He waved and smiled before driving off.
They were not, as it turns out, natural enemies.
“People are far more complicated than they are simple,” Bro said, recalling the incident. “I would love to have a conversation with him sometime about what his beliefs are. It wouldn’t be very comfortable for either one of us, honestly, but I’ve got a feeling he isn’t a hater, either.”
Bro lost her 32-year-old daughter during the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville on Aug. 12, 2017, when a car rammed into a crowd of peaceful protesters. In the aftermath, she was given a national platform to talk about her child’s death. She used her new voice to speak out against not only what happened that day in Virginia, but also to highlight racial tensions that continue to play out across the nation.
Once a teacher and government secretary whose contracts prevented her from participating in rallies, Bro now runs a foundation in her daughter’s name and travels to speak about social justice.
She said education is empowering and she wants to train “the next Heather.”
Bro remembers her daughter having a passion for treating people fairly even as a young child.
After her death, Bro learned how Heyer had spoken up for other children in her classrooms and on the school bus.
“I wish I had known,” Bro said. “She didn’t talk about it much. She just lived it.”