There is an anecdote, perhaps apocryphal, that G.K. Chesterton once responded to the question, “What is wrong with the world?” from The Times of London with the answer, “I am.” Now, Chesterton was a very, very smart writer, critic, and theologian, so who am I to question him? However, he died in 1936, and the world is still very, very messed up. Clearly he was not all that was wrong with the world or, maybe he was just answering for every single one of us, which begs the question, “What is wrong with us?” Chesterton went on to write an entire book, “What’s Wrong with the World”, in 1910, examining the question more deeply. I don’t have time to write a book, but, I feel that a pretty decent small-scale answer can be found in simply answering the question, “What’s wrong with me?”  Sadly, I am also no match for Chesterton’s brevity, so please bear with me.

At first glance, it shouldn’t be too hard. After all, I’m a military retiree, born and raised on an Indiana farm, and raised to behave and live according to the traditional values of my family, church, and nation; all men are created equal, do unto others . . . , etc. I mean, how bad could I really be? Generally, I think I’m a pretty good guy. My wife and friends tell me I’m a good man. Still, I know I’m not perfect. Some of my faults are obvious; I eat too much, smoke too much, don’t exercise enough. I procrastinate both habitually and accidentally (for example, I forgot this essay is due). I am self-destructive in any number of ways. I’m also fundamentally childish, petty, arrogant, vain, judgmental, insecure, wasteful, and, in all likelihood, not nearly as smart as I think I am. I guess I’m probably pretty much just like you and everybody else on the planet.

But all those things are really just the symptoms. They’re the things that I, along with you, and most of the rest of the world are aware of, and work to overcome every day so that we can be the people we’d like to be. To just stop there would really be premature. To get to the root of these symptoms, deeper self-examination is required.

One of the great things about going back to school late in life is that it has really made me at least try to be a critical thinker; to think deeply about things that I would normally just take for granted, or never think about at all. For example, I’ve been thinking about race a lot lately, which led me to ask myself, “Am I a racist?” Normally, I would just say no, of course not. After all, I don’t associate with members of any racial minorities now, but that’s because none live around me, or are in class with me (I really don’t get out much). I did spend 20 years in the Air Force though, working with people of many different ethnicities and nationalities. Many were friends, and I got along with virtually all of them. I did dislike some, but it was based on work, personality, and behavior, not their skin color. Clearly the answer was no. Emphatically no. I felt really good about that.

Then that critical thinking thing kicked in, and I really looked at my life. Just that sentence above about how I don’t associate with any minorities now, essentially admits that I don’t because I don’t have to. That’s kind of disturbing. Do I avoid places that might cause me to have to interact with minorities? Were there parts of town that I avoid? I realized that the answer to both those questions was yes. I’ll drive through the north side of town, but that’s it. When I need a haircut, I go to a chain salon on the east side, even though it made me uncomfortable. It just seemed unmanly (more on that later) to go to a salon instead of a barber, but the only barber shop I knew of is in the black part of town. I’ve driven by it literally thousands of times. It is by far the closest and most convenient barber shop in town, but I had never even considered going there for a haircut. I had to ask myself why not? The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I got about myself. Why not go there? I’m not picky about my hair. I just want it shorter. I’d even had it cut by black barbers in base barber shops. I had to face the fact that I’d never considered it simply because it’s a “black” barber shop. This was not a happy realization for me. It undermined a lot of what I’ve always believed about myself, and I decided I needed to do something about it. The next time I needed a haircut, that’s where I went.

I was uncomfortable walking into Wright’s Barber Shop. What would it be like? Would I be the only white guy in there? Would they all look at me? I imagined walking into something like the movie Barber Shop. Rap and Soul music playing, black people laughing and joking and having a good time. Then I walk in, and it all goes dead silent, every face turning to stare at me in shock. Maybe somebody drops a pair of scissors, and their clatter is as loud as Notre Dame’s bells ringing. Maybe it would even all happen in slow motion.

I was a little nervous as I opened the door. I walked in, and one of the ladies there asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, please. I need a haircut.”

“Okay, have a seat. It’ll be a few minutes.”

That’s it. No gasps of shock, no funny looks, barely a break in the conversation. I felt like a schmuck. I sat down on a sofa and looked around me. Okay, kind of what I expected; some velvet paintings on the wall, Aretha on the radio. Jet and Ebony magazines on a coffee table. After a few minutes, Mr. Wright came out, and gave me a great haircut. We had a lovely conversation, and he made me feel not only welcome, but like I belonged, like there was nothing weird about a white guy coming into his place for a haircut. Because there wasn’t.

I walked out of there feeling pretty good about myself; Apparently I wasn’t racist after all. But, if I wasn’t at least a little bit racist, then a simple haircut wouldn’t need all this thinking, all these feelings and worries, however small, would it? At least I was only a little bit racist. Of course, being a little racist is like having chlamydia: It’s better than having syphilis, but still not good. That’s a problem I’m going to have to do something about.

Then, I had to ask myself, why would getting my hair cut at a “salon” strike me as unmanly? Why would it even bother me? Deep down, I knew that men go to barbers, and that salons are for women, metrosexuals, and homosexuals. This has led me to realize that I am apparently a little bit homophobic. This is disturbing on a number of levels. Quite a few of my favorite people are gay, both friends and family. These are people that I genuinely love and respect. Even some of my favorite fictional characters are gay. I’m in favor of gay marriage, and I’m completely against these “religious freedom” laws that are so popular now, and seem to be nothing more than a thinly-veiled excuse for discriminating against gay people. I find them (the laws) offensive and distinctly un-American, so to realize that deep-down, I harbor some of these same sentiments, no matter how insignificantly or superficially, is frankly, shameful. It’s not that I have anything against them, I just apparently just don’t want to be mistaken for one of them. I was really starting to feel like a jackass, and rightly so. I’m going to have to do some work on this too. I realize that, if I were to go to a black barbershop for a haircut to explore my previously unsuspected racism, then perhaps I should try a similar experiment to test my level of homophobia. It occurred to me, however, that I don’t know of any gay barber shops. There are salons, but that’s how I ended up with this dilemma. I suppose that the next logical step at this point would be to go hang out at a gay bar. I’m just not sure that that is a step I’m ready to take. For one thing, I just don’t go to bars. I don’t really go anywhere. I like to stay home. Then there’s the whole “being in a gay bar thing.” What if someone asked me to dance? How would I react? I wouldn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. It would just be an uncomfortable situation. Or, maybe even worse, what if no one asked me to dance? I’m an overweight, greying 50-year-old man teetering on the verge of a mid-life crisis; I don’t need that kind of rejection. Clearly, this is another area I’m going to have to work on.

At least I’m not sexist. I love women. Most of my favorite people are women. I’m all for equal rights, equal pay, women in any job they want to do. I’d certainly vote for Elizabeth Warren for president. I may even vote for Hilary Clinton. I think of myself as a feminist. I try really hard not to objectify women, although I have to admit that that’s gotten a lot easier as I’ve gotten older. I just don’t seem to have the energy. I even asked my wife if she thought I was possibly just the slightest bit sexist, and she assured me I was not. “If you were, I wouldn’t be with you,” were her exact words, although she did acknowledge my penchant for some sexist jokes. Then I realize that, when I go to a bookstore, I automatically reject almost any book written by a woman. While I have enjoyed a number of books by women, they were virtually all books I was required to read, and not read voluntarily. This is a hard thing to have to admit, and I strongly recommend not having this particular revelation in a college literature class full of aspiring female writers like I did. While I survived that little indiscretion, I am at a loss to explain my dismissal of women’s writing. I know there are a lot of really smart, talented female writers out there. Why don’t I want to know what they have to say? It obviously points to yet another fundamental fault in my psychological and emotional makeup.

I take comfort in the fact that at least I’m not a religious bigot. I am a Christian, but I have no problem with Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, or any other religion. I believe we all have a right to believe whatever we believe, and I see the numerous parallels between most religions and my own, and realize that we’re all looking for the same God. I don’t for a moment believe that all Muslims are either overt, or closet, jihadists, that they are all out to get me. I certainly don’t believe in carpet-bombing countries to kill ISIS. I don’t believe we should have a “kill them before they kill us” brand of foreign policy. Except why do I feel a little frisson of concern when I see a guy in a turban getting on my flight? Why do I feel a little weirded out when I see a woman walking around with a hijab? At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if there is anyone I’m not at least a little prejudiced against.

I guess what’s wrong with me is that I am, to some degree, everything that I loathe people like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz for. I am (apparently) everything that I rail against. Socrates said, “The unexamined life is not worth living,” and I have apparently gone almost 50 years without really examining my life. I don’t think I’m alone in this. Really examining your life takes time. It’s uncomfortable. It, at least in my case, shattered my illusions about myself, those same illusions that we all spend our lives carefully building and protecting. Once you really start thinking, you realize that there are no answers, at least no easy ones, only more questions. Once I realized that I am, in reality, a bigot; racially, genderally (?), sexually, and religiously (and don’t kid yourself, being even a little bit bigoted is like being a little bit pregnant), I’ve had to ask myself why am I all these things, which has led to numerous even less flattering revelations, both about myself, and about those who have, and do, influence me. Even worse, I’ve had to realize that there are no easy answers as to how to fix all these things that are wrong with me. I’m going to have to be an ongoing project.

It has been really hard to write this without providing some sort of defense for myself; like I said before, I like to think I’m a good guy, and at this point, I’m really feeling like a jerk. I know that life isn’t easy for these folks. I’ve been the object of baseless distrust and discrimination myself, although not nearly to the level of minorities, women, gays, or Muslims. As a middle-aged, white veteran attending college full-time, I’ve gotten the hairy eyeball from many of my fellow students. Although there are very few minorities at my school, there are a lot of females and LGBTQ folks, and it took a while for a lot of them to accept me. I made a lot of them uncomfortable. The point, though, is that they did accept me. Many of them have become good friends, and I like to think they feel the same about me. Hearing the stories about their struggles, especially the LGBTQ kids with their families has made me a lot more conscious of the problems they face. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to be rejected by my family just for being me.

Conservatives make a big noise about universities being bastions of liberalism. I say, “Good.” College maybe the last place these kids will be able to let down their guard and openly be themselves, particularly if the vast majority of us don’t get over ourselves and learn to treat those who are superficially different the way we ourselves insist on being treated. If I get a few wonky looks, so be it. I’m a middle-aged white guy. There are lots and lots of people who will be more than willing to accept me and treat me decently, based solely on the way I look. It’s not an issue for me. It’s just that it shouldn’t be an issue for Muslims, LGBTQ folks, minorities, or anyone else. Not in this country.

In the end, Chesterton was right about what’s wrong with the world: I am.

I take some small comfort that at least now, I know it. I’m just one guy. I can’t fix the whole world, but I can at least try to fix myself. I’m certainly going to try. If you should happen to bump into me on the street, have a little patience with me. I’m a work in progress. I’ll try to be a little patient with you too. Maybe that’s the key to the whole damned thing.