Joey Votto's Awakening: "Only Now Am I Beginning To Hear. I Am Awakening To Their Pain, And My Ignorance. No Longer Will I Be Silent."

Joey Votto, Cincinnati Enquirer, June 7, 2020:

My Awakening

On May 28, I received an emotional text from one of my few African American teammates. He asked me to watch a video of a black man being killed under the knee of a white police officer. My instincts provoked an instantaneous defense of the officer. Perhaps the man was resisting arrest? Maybe there is a story the video isn't telling?

"Watch the f---ing video."

I deemed his response offensive. I told my friend not to yell at me and wished him goodnight. He apologized.

***

A week before George Floyd's death, before any protests or uprising, I finished reading a copy of "A Long Walk to Freedom," the autobiography of Nelson Mandela. I took in the history of his 27-year prison sentence for leading a fight against overt racism in South Africa. I admired his willingness to sacrifice for the cause of freedom for all. I considered him a hero for backing up his words with actions.

And then I tucked the book away on a shelf in my library.

***

I was raised in Mimico, a small neighborhood just outside of Toronto, Canada. One of the most culturally diverse cities in the world. In 2002, the Cincinnati Reds selected me with the 44th pick in the Major League Baseball draft. At 18 years of age, I began my professional career, traveling around America on buses, growing up in clubhouses that were predominantly divided between white Americans and Latinos. Most of our minor league teams had a few African American players, as well, and perhaps because of where I was raised, I found myself most comfortable with the group of Americans who weren't white.

For five years, I shared hotel rooms with my African-American teammates. We shared pizzas, played video games, and listened to music together. We developed friendships. I look back on these years as some of the best of my life.

But I also witnessed glimpses of racism that should have opened my eyes to the realities of being a black man in America. My teammates, my friends, the ones that I shared great times with, faced prejudices that I never did and when they shared their experiences ...

I did not hear them.

***

The day after I rejected my teammate's request to witness George Floyd's death, I finally opened the video. I wept. I texted my friend back and apologized. He graciously accepted, and then I moved on. I had acknowledged his pain. I had done my part.

Everything inside of me wants things to go back to normal. I don't want to protest, raise my voice, or challenge someone. I don't want to have heated arguments, break up friendships, or challenge previous norms.

But I hear you now, and so that desire for normalcy is a privilege by which I can no longer abide. That privilege kept me from understanding the "why" behind Colin Kaepernick's decision to kneel during the national anthem. That privilege allowed me to ignore my black teammates' grievances about their experiences with law enforcement, being profiled, and discriminated against. And that privilege has made me complicit in the death of George Floyd, as well as the many other injustices that blacks experience in the U.S. and my native Canada.

A week after I returned Mandela's biography to the library shelf, I dismissed a black friend's plea for support. Only now am I just beginning to hear. I am awakening to their pain, and my ignorance. No longer will I be silent.

#BlackLivesMatter