Reflecting on Humanity
I wake up every morning, go through my chores, walk in my neighborhood with my dogs, get on Zoom calls with my colleagues and clients, drive around to grocery stores, eat at restaurants, attend concerts, complain about things I don’t like, write about people, policies, and politics I don’t agree with (like this Medium post), and live a life inhaling the air of freedom that America provides — all, as a brown-skinned citizen, standing on the foundation laid by generations before me, especially generations of a certain group of oppressed people, their sacrifices etched into the fabric of this country.
I know my place here is not isolated from history — I am here because of the unrelenting fight of Black Americans during the Civil Rights Movement. It’s not just me. Equally brown-skinned (but more well-known) people like Sundar Pichai, Satya Nadella, Vivek Ramaswamy, Usha Vance, and even Kash Patel— we all owe our opportunities, our societal positions, to the courage, pain, and lives that fueled the fight for justice and equality. The humiliation, pain, suffering, blood, sweat, death, and unyielding determination of generations Black Americans are the very reasons people like me could step forward into this so-called “land of opportunity.” Ignoring this truth is a disservice to the scars they bear and the progress they forced into being.
But the struggle for equity and dignity did not end there. Should not end there. It extends far beyond race, weaving through the lives of the disabled, the elderly, and the marginalized — those whose stories often go unnoticed, yet whose humanity is as profound and deserving as anyone else’s. And it is in their stories that we find the real essence of inclusion.
Consider the 78-year-old man standing by the entrance of your neighborhood Walmart. His smile greets every customer, but behind it lies a story of hardship. His Social Security and Medicare checks aren’t enough to cover his wife’s dialysis treatments, prescription medicine costs, and daily living expenses. This is not retirement; this is survival for him. He continues to stand for hours, not because he wants to, but because he has no choice.
Across town or across the country, your nephew — a brilliant programmer — codes late into the night. He lost his leg in a car accident, but his mind remains sharp and his ambitions undeterred. He dreams of a future for his two children, but the world often sees his prosthetic before it sees his genius.
At the grocery store, there’s a young man with Down syndrome, bagging your groceries with a radiant grin that lights up your day. You’ve meant to ask his name, but somehow you always forget. Yet, he never forgets to bring a little joy to your routine, his work ethic a quiet testimony to his worth.
Then, there’s the autistic barista at your local coffee shop. She never misses a detail — your cappuccino always has extra foam, with a double shot of espresso, just the way you like it. Her meticulous nature, a hallmark of who she is, ensures you walk out satisfied. She knows you spell your name Krystyn with a K and a Y. You notice her behind the counter, but do you notice her as a person?
And think of the veterans in your town’s Memorial Day parade. You clap for them once a year, but their daily battles — finding stable housing, affording medical care, adjusting to civilian life — remain unseen, unheard. Their fight didn’t end with the war they didn’t choose to fight; it merely shifted to new battlefields.
Or your friend, a single, pregnant woman, juggling everything with resilience. She saves every cent, but worries if it will be enough. Her choice shouldn’t be between saving her first child or her job. Because she asks herself whether her workplace will accommodate her pregnancy, whether FMLA will cover what she needs, whether society sees her as more than a statistic.
The narrative of equity and inclusion is not limited to ethnicity — it is a collective story of human dignity. It is about ensuring that anyone, regardless of age, gender, ability, background, or circumstance, has the opportunity to thrive and participate in society with dignity they all deserve. When we speak of fairness and inclusion, we are not speaking in abstract terms or empty buzzwords. These are human lives. These are real people whose worth cannot be watered down to percentages or policies.
The irony, however, is that the very concept of inclusion — this push for fairness — has become a target, attacked under various guises. First, they maligned BLM (Black Lives Matter). Then, they smeared CRT (Critical Race Theory). Next, they vilified “woke culture.” (Read my companion piece on “woke culture” here.)
And now, they come for efforts around inclusion itself. The code behind it is painfully obvious. When they utter phrases like “get rid of DEI,” what they’re really saying is, “find ways to blame Black people.” And “get rid of disabled people”. That’s the code word. The intent is clear. The result is damaging.
But here is the truth they cannot erase, no matter how hard they try. Inclusion is not a threat. It is a bridge. It uplifts everyone, giving society the opportunity to acknowledge and celebrate the diverse tapestry that makes us whole. It’s acknowledging that the challenges of an elderly man at Walmart, a disabled nephew, or a struggling veteran are tied to the same fight for fairness and dignity as the movements that elevated civil rights in America.
When We Forget, We Repeat History
History has shown us what happens when we ignore inclusion. From 1939 to 1941, during the Nazi regime’s T4 program, disabled children and adults were systematically murdered under the guise of “euthanasia.” Over 250,000 disabled people lost their lives because a society deemed them “unfit.” What began as propaganda against those regarded as burdens soon escalated into industrialized murder.
That same disregard is what allowed forced sterilizations of people with epilepsy, schizophrenia, and depression. It’s the same neglect that erased the names of disabled children from their parents’ arms, only to return ashes with fabricated tales of their deaths. This grim chapter of dehumanization is not distant history — it is a warning of what happens when society places less value on certain lives.
What is happening right now in 2025 America is chillingly similar to what happened in Nazi Germany. It all starts with such rhetorics. Do not dismiss it. Do not think it’s yet another rambling and you can share a meme and laugh it off.
Reflections on Responsibility
Our humanity is defined by how we treat those who can give us nothing in return. It’s defined by whether we greet the elderly Walmart worker with respect, whether we see the brilliance and integrity in the coworker with a prosthetic leg, whether we acknowledge that the bagger with Down syndrome at the store — because they all are doing their bit to fit in and contribute to the society around them.
Standing here, as someone who has benefitted immeasurably from the Civil Rights Movement, I know the debt we owe — I owe. To Black Americans, whose struggle began with the fight to be recognized as human and, a century later, for equality — transforming the nation in the process. To the disabled, the elderly, the marginalized, and the unseen, whose dignity demands advocacy and action.
This is not a political stance or a corporate policy — it is a fundamental human philosophy.
Isn’t Just a Policy. It’s People.
You may hate the acronym. So, change the acronym and call it something else if you so hate it. But DEI is nothing but a commitment to seeing humanity in all its forms. It asks hard questions that challenge systems of inequity but inspire hope for a future where opportunities aren’t contingent upon what you were born with or where you came from.
The attacks on DEI aren’t just political — they’re personal. Right now, they are clearly an attack on the Black Americans and Americans with some forms of disabilities. Soon, they will move the target to someone else.
But by standing with DEI, we honor not just those fighting now, but those who came before. We acknowledge the literal scars carried by movements that dared to demand fairness. And, we ensure that the beautiful diversity of human experience is seen and valued — with the dignity and equity it deserves.
If you truly believe in inclusion, then advocate for more than policies. Fight for the faces, the lives, and the futures DEI protects. Because when we talk about fairness, it’s not about appeasing a statistic. It’s about lifting lives. And in doing so, we lift ourselves.
Tomorrow is February 1.
As insulting it may be to relegate Black History to just a month, this is our opportunity to remember, learn, honor, share, and promote the history whose scarred back we are standing on.
“The time is always right to do what is right.”
