those people

I am so tired of racists, and I’m white, so I can only imagine how tired and angry and just totally fucking over it every non-white person in this country is of being forced to share space and make nice with their friendly neighborhood racist. I tell myself that we are in a new age of racism, but the truth is we are simply seeing a modernizing of old school racism. As my much-smarter-than-me husband recently put it, “The new style of lynching is no longer one of public participation but one of public complicity.”

Twenty-five years ago my racist uncle would have had the decency to keep his racist mouth shut in public….oh sure, he was still a racist, but he never would have had the stones to go on social media to show all the world just how much he was a worthless horrible disgusting human being.

But today – thanks in no small part to our race-baiting, Nazi-sympathizing, white nationalist-apologizing President – the gloves are off and every last garbage person in this country has emerged from his hate-cocoon with a tiki torch in one hand and twitter account in the other.

And the rest of us…well, we just throw up our hands and politely debate the civility of calling out racism because heaven forbid Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi think less of us. Heaven forbid we don’t all just link hands and sing a chorus of Kumbaya. Heaven forbid we be perceived as “going low” and possibly (heaven forbid!) offend a racist therefore tarnishing our precious liberal halos.

Excuse me while I vomit.

A few days ago a 17 year old black boy was murdered by the police in Pittsburgh. As the parent of an African American boy it is not hard to imagine a scenario where it is my son in the cross-hairs of some trigger-happy racist cop. I think of that boy and then I think of my son and it stops my breath.

And the people who justify this murder? Or say it’s wrong, but then equivocate. Or post some bullshit meme about blue lives matter (which is just another example of white people appropriation, by the way). I am so done with you and I am so tired of being forced to share space with you and make nice with you because YOU ARE A RACIST.

Earlier this morning a woman came into the church where I work. She asked if she could use the telephone. She wanted to call her son to let him know that protesters who were marching to call attention to the death of an innocent 17 year old black child who had been murdered by the police were blocking a major roadway in the city. Normally, I don’t allow people to use the phone, but she seemed nice and genuine and I felt bad for her so I let her use my personal cell phone. As she dialed her son’s number, she launched into a tirade about “those people” and how they had no right to block the street and how she couldn’t understand why “those people” were mad at “us”.

I’ll admit, at first, I froze. I didn’t know what to do or what to say or how to react. I kept hearing her say “those people.” Her call went to voicemail and just as she was about to leave her son a message I snatched my phone out of her hands and said, “Those people are my son and you can leave now.”

I don’t care if I offended her. I don’t care if you refuse to invite me to your next Kumbaya circle jerk. I don’t care how low I go and I most definitely do not care if you take away my liberal halo because as far as I’m concerned Pelosi and Schumer and the rest of the can’t-we-all-just-agree-to-disagree squad can choke on it.

I want to scream.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Get mad. Do something. Stop being so fucking polite. Stop making excuses for bad people. Stop. Just stop.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

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my kids are the best, but so are their kids

I love my children. I would do anything for them. Read off the Things I Would do for My Children list and I would do it all: give them a kidney, walk through fire, take a bullet. Check, check, and check. I would even give them my last donut. I don’t think this makes me special. It just makes me a parent. As every parent reading this well knows, when you become a parent something inside of you changes. A switch is flipped and the world stops being about you.

I have three sons, and very soon I will have a daughter. My kids are the best. They are strong and funny and compassionate and brave. My kids are the best. But so are your kids. And so are kids from China and Russia and Afghanistan and Ethiopia and El Salvador and Brazil and North Korea and Sudan and Pakistan and Israel and Canada and Mexico. My kids are the best, but so are their kids.

I’d walk through fire for my kids. I’d take a bullet for my kids. It’s such a trite sentiment, but it’s also true. So is it really that hard to believe that some parents would walk hundreds of miles across the desert in 100 degree heat to cross the border even at the risk of being arrested just to give their kids a better and safer life?

I mean, if you would do anything for your kids, is it really that hard to believe that other parents would do the same? If (some days it seems like when) this country were to destabilize and collapse is it truly that difficult to imagine a scenario where you pack up your family and walk hundreds of miles through dangerous conditions to get to a safe place, even if that safe place meant you had to illegally cross the border into another country? Of course you would do it and, if you’re like me, you would take no prisoners along the way because that is what a parent does – we do anything for our kids.

Watching images of children in cages this week was difficult, but listening to the audio of crying children being taken from their parents was unbearable. There were a few times I had to turn the TV off, overcome with emotion and shame I would need a moment to collect myself. I cried too, but in those moments I found myself thinking of my kids, and not the kids in cages. I thought about my kids being taken from their birth parents and what that must have felt like for them at the ages of 2 and 4 and 5, and how it still must feel for them at the ages of 8 and 12 and 14. I imagined the terror and confusion in their little faces and even now, typing this sentence, I choke up.

This is empathy and as many of us discovered this week, not everyone has been blessed with it. No parent, no human being with empathy, could see photos of children in cages and not think, this is wrong. Full stop, no equivocating, this is wrong. And yet, for many it was right — just even — and for some it was wrong, but still they equivocated so it wasn’t really so much wrong as they just weren’t willing to fully commit to their awfulness.

People in this country like to complain about welfare and public assistance, but the reality for most of us is that we are never more than one paycheck away from needing that assistance. As our friends and family justify and support the placing of children in cages, perhaps it’s time for them to wake up and acknowledge that we are one Executive Order away from it being our children in those cages.

My kids are the best, but so are their kids.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 43 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?

escaping the dog whistle

I grew up in a small town. We had one stoplight, one tiny grocery store, one very small public library. There was a church on every corner. We never locked our doors at night. In more prosperous times this small little town would have been described as picturesque, but looking back its decline had begun long before my childhood memories. Today it is like every small town in America, desperately hanging on as it tries to reinvent itself for a future it cannot escape yet unwilling to let go of a past that will never come back.

I sometimes feel like I have spent the better part of my life trying to escape that town and everything it stood for (or maybe, against). Even on those days when I found myself seduced by its many charms—the mighty river that cut its way through the town, the endless train tracks and their promise of adventure, the great park with its ball fields and swimming pool and storybook playground—even on those days when I was besotted with every street and house, I was plotting my escape to somewhere not there.

The day I left for college I never looked back. There was the occasional visit home, a few months in my first apartment after I left college followed by the subsequent moves to towns nearby where the only thing really different was the name. The real break-up didn’t happen until 2004 when I moved to a new city in a different state. Hundreds of miles from home and it felt as if my real life could finally begin.

I have since returned to my home state and although I now live just 25 miles from my childhood hometown, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve visited in the past ten years.

I suppose what keeps me away now is the very thing that sent me away then. I needed more. I knew there was a world full of people who were nothing like me. They ate foods I had never heard of and celebrated holidays I could not pronounce. They practiced mysterious religions or no religion at all. They were men who loved other men and women who used to be men. They were black and brown and they came from a world I did not understand because until that moment I left for college everyone and everything had been white.

In my former life, everyone ate steak and celebrated Christmas and worshipped white blonde Jesus and even when they felt otherwise inclined they sacrificed love for acceptance.

It’s what they knew and it’s who they were and there was nothing wrong with that I just knew I was different. I was other.

Today when I pass through these towns of yesterday many of the faces are the same. My teachers and classmates and friends still call this place home. They don’t need me to say it, but they are good people and I believe the majority of them do not embrace the narrow-minded values that sent me fleeing almost 25 years ago. The truth is people I have not seen in two decades regularly reach out to celebrate my non-traditional family. They embrace me and my husband and my gay son and my black son and my possibly-future-criminal mastermind son.

They may still live in a world where (most) everyone and everything is white, but they recognize that there exists a world where two gay men can have a black son.

Of course not everyone has progressed. In some parts of my childhood it will forever be 1857. In some parts of my childhood I am a disgusting pervert and my boy better know his place in the master’s house. Unfortunately this 19th century mentality has found new strength in a 21st century world. Our president has dog whistled a host of phobias and racism onto the main stage of 2017. He delights in sowing unrest and playing to our basest fear—the fear of other.

To paraphrase a great president from back when presidents were still great, “There is nothing to fear, but everyone who isn’t a straight white Christian.”

Muslims are terrorists. Mexicans are rapists. Women are objects. African Americans being murdered by law enforcement are just as culpable as tiki torch-carrying white supremacists in khakis, who by the way are “very fine people”.

For decades our president has been waging a war against black Americans, starting with housing discrimination in the 1970s to his ferocious condemnation of the (innocent) Central Park Five in the 1980s to his being one of the architects of the birther movement during the Obama years to his handling of Charlottesville this past August to his calculated conflation that African American athletes peaceably protesting racial injustice is an affront to our flag and veterans.

And as our racist president single-handedly destroys our democracy, as he continues to wipe his ass with the freedoms enshrined in our Constitution, people in small towns across the country, like the town I grew up in, wrap themselves in the flag and follow him blindly into the abyss. These people are not stupid or hateful, but they are afraid, and Trump is selling fear like a snake oil salesman at a medicine show.

Whatever ails you, it’s not your fault, and he has the cure. Ban the Muslims. Deport the Mexicans. Make sure the black man stays at the back of the bus. Make America great again.

We have to be better. We have to not be afraid. We have to leave our small towns and step outside of our whiteness and understand that sometimes what is happening is bigger than us.

We have to rise up and resist and do the hard work. We have to take a knee so that a young black man like my son isn’t gunned down by the police.

I am not a red, white and blue bleeding, flag fetishizing kind of patriot. Don’t get me wrong, I love this country and I’m grateful for every opportunity it has given me—including the opportunity to write these words—but I’m more of a low-key America Rocks! kind of guy so no one was more surprised when this past Sunday while watching a clip of football players kneeling during the National Anthem I began to cry. As I watched these athletes stand up (by kneeling down) for our most basic freedoms I was proud to be an American.

This was patriotism.

It wasn’t about a flag or a song. It was about coming together to do the right thing.


Sean Michael O’Donnell is 42 year old married gay man. He lives in Pittsburgh with his husband and three sons. Sean enjoys Law & Order reruns, Christmas movies in October, and Facebook stalking. He likes donuts and beer. Sometimes he goes to the gym.  He is the author of the best-selling book Which One of You is the Mother?