My daughter had shown me the way from hate to acceptance, which made me a better man. After I abandoned the white power movement, I’d built a successful IT consulting business, made new and wonderful friends of all stripes, and traveled to places I had never been. That same love had led me, finally, mercifully, to quit drinking and begin to be the father I always wanted to be. Looking at myself in the mirror, I’d been forced to examine how I could have put my beloved little girl through the heartbreak of having an alcoholic parent when I knew how angst-provoking and scary that was from my own experience of growing up in an alcoholic home. As the product of that environment, I was angry and insecure. I had trouble trusting and feeling and talking about important stuff. Was that what I wanted for Autumn? Had I been so narcissistic—or just plain fucking addicted—that I had put her happiness and her precious future at risk because of my own selfish craving for something—anything—to sedate my fearful, restless spirit?
My daughter, the person I loved most in the world, the little girl who gave me breath when I couldn’t find my own, was my savior. Searching my soul, I realized that my whole life until then had been about myself—what I wanted, how I felt—without a thought about how I was affecting anyone else, even the people I loved, who loved me.
Thinking about it, I recognized that the parallels between alcoholism and extremism were striking. Both were consequences of a victim mentality, or persecution mindset, and resulted in detachment from reality and emotional numbness. It was always someone else’s fault, something someone had done to you, everyone else who was screwed up. I knew what it was like to get fucked up with my buddies and how the group mentality and booze desensitized me and made me into the shit person I was. I’d put my dependence on hate behind me. Now it was time to make up for the damage I’d done with my addiction to booze.
The only way I could live with who I’d been to that point was to change it, to lay myself bare, to confess my weaknesses and regrets, wholly and without reservation or restriction. I would make my apology to my daughter and the world by devoting whatever time I had left on this earth to being a good father and an honorable citizen, one who was committed to righting social wrongs and forging acts of loving kindness. Someone Autumn could be proud of.
Life After Hate
Once the fog of alcoholism cleared from my head, I started writing the next chapter of my life. As a member of a white power band, I had made some of the most violent, hateful records ever recorded—records that were still galvanizing racists years later. There was no way I could undo that damage. My words and songs lived on the internet for anyone to access. I could, however, speak in a new voice, a voice that railed against violence and hatred with even greater volume than my racist songs had.
Deliberating ways to do that, I came up with an idea to start an online magazine as a platform for both perpetrators and victims of hate. I envisioned publishing stories from other former racist skinheads and street gang members, and maybe even former jihadists, as well as survivors of violence. I’d call it Life After Hate. The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea, and I began hitting up people I knew who’d left the movement to ask them to be part of it. Between my IT consulting and working toward a bachelor’s degree at the University of Wisconsin, I laid the groundwork for the magazine. When it became evident that I needed help with the new venture, I reached out to my friend Angie Aker.
Angie and I had met a few years earlier through a dating site. We hadn’t worked out romantically, but we stayed in touch over social media. Angie was a social activist and prolific writer. With that in mind, I approached her and gave her the rundown on my idea for a new venture, then asked if she might be interested in being the cofounder of Life After Hate. Angie loved the idea and jumped right in.
With Angie on board, I decided it would make sense to add another former white power skinhead into the mix. The name Christian Picciolini came to mind. Christian was a former member of CASH, the Chicago Area Skinheads, and he had briefly managed my old band. I knew he’d published a couple of essays denouncing the white power movement. I looked him up on Facebook and explained what we were doing. He was involved in another endeavor that took up most of his time, but he agreed to lend his name and support us with a couple of articles. That was cool with me.
After that it was full steam ahead. We decided to launch the magazine on the holiday honoring Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. What could be more fitting? I worked on early versions of the launch webpage and sent out a proposed mockup that included articles by Christian and Angie, as well as pieces by Tamara Westfall, an old raver friend, and Dimitry Anselme, a teacher I’d befriended. By design, my name was nowhere on the site. As things were shaping up, I had become concerned about being the face of Life After Hate. Ideally, I wished to build a platform where I could use my story to promote a message of peaceful coexistence for all people, but I didn’t want my identity to become that of “a former white supremacist.” I preferred a behind-the-scenes role that would help forge my positive agenda.
The others saw it differently and insisted my name be featured prominently as the creator and founder of Life After Hate. Christian was particularly adamant: “Give credit to yourself for an amazing idea.”
Grudgingly, I agreed. Angie, Tamara, and our web consultant, Dan Knauss, worked ourselves silly preparing for the launch. After months of building and testing and planning and designing and writing and promoting, LifeAfterHate.org went live, as scheduled, on the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday in 2010.
LAH was well received from the onset. We received thousands of views and instant feedback from both people who were affected by violence and others who were desperate to change the path they were on. We decided to change our idea from a quarterly to a monthly publication. Opportunities flooded in from people and organizations wanting to collaborate. A local newspaper published a story about us that caught the attention of Tanya Cromartie, a peace activist with a program for inner-city youth called Summer of Peace. She asked me to speak to her group and I accepted. It was my first time speaking publicly about peace, the first of many.
I could barely keep up with the demands of my new role. The country was in the midst of an era in which domestic terror attacks and mass shootings had become the norm. The demand for information and answers was mind-bending. I was pushing out too many stories and fielding too many speaking invitations to count. We’d gained so much momentum so quickly that I took a hiatus from my studies at UWM to free up more of my time for my peace advocacy work.
In June 2011, I was invited to attend the Summit Against Violent Extremism (SAVE) in Dublin. My name had been thrown in the hat by another former white supremacist and accepted by the sponsor, Google Ideas, after a lengthy phone interview. The event was life-changing. The discussions centered on finding the most effective ways to address radicalization. A dozen countries and forty groups were represented. I met other former violent extremists from around the world, from former jihadists to former leftist militants and militant Israeli settlers to former IRA and loyalist fighters. We were a gnarly-looking bunch, tattooed and battle scarred and some with missing limbs. The bond we shared was nothing short of profound. No matter where in the world we came from or what form of extremism we had fallen prey to, our stories were essentially the same. We were hurt people who had hurt people and were now dedicated to healing ourselves and others.
At the other end of the spectrum, I met mothers who lost children to terror attacks; a woman who lost both legs below the knee in the London Tube bombing; a woman who reconciled with the IRA bomber who killed her father; people who survived kidnapping, rape, and every imaginable horror that a human being could endure. I was in awe of all of them and inspired to push forward with an idea to grow Life After Hate into a proper nonprofit organization.
Two months later, it became a reality. In August 2011 Life After Hate was official. We had a board made up of former white power skinheads, an executive director—me—and a mission “to inspire c
ompassion and forgiveness for all people” through education, guidance, and counseling. It couldn’t have been more prescient.
One year later, a gunman walked into the Sikh Temple of Wisconsin and murdered six people. The killer was a white supremacist named Wade Michael Page.
SIX
THE SHOOTING
Give up your head, but don’t forsake those needing protection.
Martyr Guru Teg Bahadur
Pardeep
Sunday, August 5, 2012, began as a beautiful sunny day. Jaspreet awoke early and headed into work to finish up reports that were due the next day. She was gone by the time the kids and I got up. “Where’s Mom?” my daughter Amaris asked. I explained to her and her younger brother, Jai, that Mom had to go to the office for a while, but she’d be home in time for our regular Sunday family dinner.
The day promised to be a busy one. My plan was to drop off the kids at the Gurudwara before 11:00 so that Amaris could attend Punjabi class and Jai could play with his cousins. While they were occupied, I would run the household errands that had been stacking up all week.
The Gurudwara, or “door leading to God,” our Sikh house of worship, was a network of family and friends who were always looking out for each other and each other’s kids. Dad was president of the temple and Mom was there more than she was home. I respected our faith but never completely grasped it, probably because I wasn’t as practiced in the Punjabi language as I should have been. That’s why it was so important to me that Amaris attend Sunday school, so she could learn our native tongue and develop an understanding and appreciation of Sikhism.
Amaris was having a hard time getting started. She was moving like a turtle and complaining about everything. She didn’t want to go to Sunday school. She couldn’t find anything suitable to wear. Her hair didn’t look right. Worst of all, her socks weren’t cooperating. The crease had to form a perfect line across her toes before she put on her shoes. I thought to myself that she was either a perfectionist or suffered from a mild case of OCD. Jai, on the other hand, didn’t care if he wore socks, much less that they fit perfectly. It took five minutes for him to brush his teeth, wash, and dress. I was discovering that boys were easier to raise than girls.
The morning was getting away from us. The Gurudwara was only ten or fifteen minutes from our house, but I needed extra time to be able to greet everyone there and say a small prayer in the prayer hall before I ran errands. Precious minutes came and went as Amaris lollygagged and carried on about the condition of her clothes. “Amaris! Let’s go!” I said.
Finally, I got both kids in the car and buckled up, and off we went. Despite the late start, we still had enough time to get everything done we needed to, and I was feeling good. I had played in a basketball tournament the day before and, although our team didn’t win, we did well. I was in my mid-thirties and appreciated still being able to compete without breaking a bone. I was reflecting on the final game when I heard Amaris cry out. “Dad! We need to go back! I forgot my notebook for class.”
We were only five minutes from home but behind schedule nevertheless, thanks to my fussy eight-year-old. I started going through options in my head. Should I turn around and risk being later than we already were? Or proceed to the Gurudwara with a daughter who was unprepared for class? I weighed the pros and cons of each. I was leaning toward staying on course when Amaris reminded me that she had forgotten her notebook the Sunday before. I couldn’t let that happen again and have my parenting called into question.
All the way home I let Amaris have it, about her forgetfulness, about dawdling, and, because I’m a cheapskate, about how I was wasting gas. But I could never stay mad at her for long. All she had to do was flash her sweet smile and all was forgiven. Thankfully, we got home quickly. Amaris ran inside as fast as her little legs would take her. She returned with her notebook and we headed to the temple again.
I quickly fell back into the spectacular mood that the picture-perfect Sunday brought. The kids were giggling in the backseat, and I jammed out to the music playing on my Bluetooth. The windows and sunroof were wide open and the wind felt warm on my face.
Coming up on our exit, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw a riot of flashing lights. There had to be a dozen police cruisers racing up behind us. I’d responded to my share of emergencies when I was a cop, but I found it alarming that they were weaving through traffic at such a dangerously high rate of speed.
I pulled over to the shoulder to allow them to pass. As they did, I noticed squads from several different jurisdictions. I thought to myself that whatever the emergency, the response seemed a bit dramatic. The posse of police cars exited the highway ahead of us and quickly sped out of sight. I drove on, hoping that whatever occurred wasn’t too serious.
When I reached my intersection, I saw a large, black police SUV barricading the road leading to the Gurudwara and an officer redirecting traffic away from it. I explained that I was taking my kids to the temple for Sunday school. “Can I pass through?” I asked. The officer shook his head stubbornly. There was a shooting nearby and the scene was not yet secure, he said. No one was getting through. My first thought was that a cop had been shot. I asked if he knew an alternate route to the temple. I didn’t know another way there. “No one is allowed near it,” he said. “There’s been a shooting. The scene is not secure.”
The officer’s words were crystal clear, but I asked him to repeat what he said. I told him that both of my parents were at the temple. Dad was president and Mom always arrived early on Sundays to help prepare food for the Langar, our communal meal. He seemed sympathetic, but he had concerns of his own, such as keeping people away. People like me. “Was the shooting at the temple?” I asked. “Like ten minutes ago. I’m sorry,” he said, returning to his work.
I understood his reluctance to engage in more conversation, but questions were pounding in my head like a bad migraine and I needed answers. I pulled into a grassy area off the intersection and parked the car. Feeing panicky, I told myself I had to stay calm for the sake of my kids.
I was only parked for a minute or two when a friend called and confirmed my fear. He said he had just heard there was a shooting at the temple. The temple was in lockdown. Were my parents there? Had I spoken to them? Yes, they were there, I said, feeling nauseous. No, I hadn’t spoken to them.
The phone didn’t stop ringing after that.
The next call was from Jaspreet. Trying to stay calm, she told me she had just spoken to my mother. Mom was whispering. She said she was hiding in the pantry in the kitchen of the Gurudwara with about a dozen other women. They had been cooking when they heard what sounded like gunshots in the distance, but they’d dismissed it, thinking it had to be something else. A moment later, two kids who had been playing outside the temple ran into the kitchen crying that there was a man outside with a gun. Mom grabbed the kids, and everyone who’d been in the kitchen pushed into the tiny pantry, the only place to hide. Just as they were about to close the door, a woman ran in, bleeding, saying she had just been shot inside the main entrance. Mom told Jaspreet she had tried calling me but couldn’t get through. She would try me again, but I shouldn’t call her number because any sound could tip the shooter or shooters to their hiding spot. “They are out there,” she had said ominously before hanging up.
I took as many calls as I could answer, hoping to get more information. When the number on the caller ID was my father’s, I quickly switched on my Bluetooth. “Dad?” I cried. My heart dropped when the voice on the other end was not that of my father but of the head priest, Gurmail Singh. His first language was Punjabi, but I understood enough to know that he was saying my father had been shot. It was serious and he needed help right away. “Please put my father on the phone,” I said. “He can’t talk now,” the priest replied before the line went dead.
My heart hammered with anxiety. I cupped my face in my hands. My father had been shot and my mother was in imminent danger. I felt completely helpless and didn’t know what to
do. Just then, I heard whimpering in the backseat and remembered my kids were there. They had heard everything over the Bluetooth speaker. Amaris was crying and Jai was mad. “Dad,” he said. “I will get the bad guys.” Suddenly it occurred to me: if Amaris hadn’t forgotten her notebook, we would have been in the temple. I switched the speaker off and turned to comfort my children.
In all the confusion, I hadn’t noticed that others were gathering on the grass. I was grateful to see the familiar faces of some of our family members and friends. I spotted my cousin Kanwar, who taught Sunday school at the temple. “Watch the kids, please,” I said to friends. I told Kanwar I thought we could make it to the temple through the woods. It would be quite a distance, with no set path, I suspected, but it was worth a try. He agreed; we couldn’t just stand by idly.
We set out into the woods but were quickly thwarted by thick brush, making the way forward impossible. Turning back, we were spotted by the officer at the intersection. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “Get out of there or I’ll arrest you!”
Feeling completely defeated, I walked back to the car. Jaspreet was there by then, and soon my brother, his wife, and her parents arrived. They didn’t know anything more than the bits and pieces they caught on the news, which was very little.
Minutes dragged by like hours when, finally, mercifully, my mother called. Her voice was shaky, but at least she was alive. She whispered that she was still hiding in the tiny, sweltering kitchen pantry with the others. They had been in there a long time with no water. The woman who’d been shot was bleeding and all they had to treat her were kitchen napkins. I asked if she heard gunshots. Mom said the shots had stopped a while ago, but she believed the bad people were still inside the Gurudwara.
The Gift of Our Wounds Page 12