By Patrick Hardeman

Fear is the most successful machine ever built in America. It’s polished, automated, and efficient. I allowed that machine to minimize my opportunities and growth. When you’ve been told “you’re nothing” since childhood, it takes Olympic strength just to believe your own worth.

I saw adults who envied my athletic abilities turn their jealousy into criticism -finding ways to make me second-guess the very breath in my lungs. Every inhale became suspect. Every exhale, a reminder that I was being watched, measured, and diminished. That’s what fear does: it doesn’t just control the body; it infects the spirit.

This mechanized fear doesn’t need a manual. It’s passed down. It’s the quiet conditioning of white fragility, a system that trembles at the thought of Black excellence. Just the glimpse of us reaching greatness sets off alarms in their souls – as if our rise equals their fall. How ignorant. How sick.

In high school, not one teacher or counselor ever mentioned college outside of sports. They saw my body as a commodity, not my mind as a vessel. I loved learning – it was my escape from the constant abrasion of surviving. But that didn’t fit their design. The system prefers predictable outcomes, not liberated thinkers.

And while society loves to chant that “teachers are underpaid heroes,” no one seems ready to discuss accountability. Too many teachers have participated in the slow breaking of the Black and Brown community – through neglect, bias, or the quiet comfort of low expectations. Many fought for higher pay while teaching less, helping create the very budget issues that now cripple our schools. Gym programs are gone, arts programs cut, and our children’s health – mental and physical – pays the price. All the accolades, none of the failures. All the celebration, none of the consequence.

Washington State’s school system even championed the “No Child Left Behind” policy, which really meant no child was allowed to stay behind – even if they weren’t prepared to move forward. Students were pushed through, regardless of whether they had the skills or understanding to thrive. It was never about learning – it was about numbers, image, and funding. Now we have millions of young adults walking into the world with a fragile grasp on basic knowledge, unequipped to navigate their emotions or their realities. And those same students are now mothers and fathers, trying to raise children while still healing from a system that failed to raise them.

There’s a moral numbness in America so deep that the world pretends not to notice it. Somehow, we’re not allowed to be angry. Our rage must be dressed up, made palatable, softened for fragile ears. Anger, for me, isn’t just an emotion; it’s a risk. One wrong tone, one unfiltered truth, and suddenly I’m the problem.

So I channel it. Into clarity. Into discipline. Into an unbreakable calm that terrifies those who confuse silence with submission. Because let’s be honest – this country demands that we act better than the people who commit harm against us. That’s the sickest part of the machinery. The more we show grace, the more violent their reactions become – as if humility and accountability are toxins they can’t digest.

If you wonder why so many of us are exhausted, look at the cost of simple existing with dignity. Think about how hard you’ve worked in your life – then imaging walking an extra mile for every accomplishment, just to be accepted, just to ease the discomfort of those whose power depends on our restraint.

As Bob Marley said, “Let your actions be remembered through times as your music.”

So I ask: when the beat of history plays your song, will it sound like courage – or the silence of complicity?

When history calls your name, will it echo with courage – or with the silence of someone who looked away?

I don’t write for applause or approval. I write for those too afraid to acknowledge my writing. I write for those who sit in meetings, choking on truth, afraid of what will happen if they complain to HR. I write for those who risk losing family and friends just for speaking reality out loud – because those same people are part of humanity’s problem.

I write so fear loses its efficiency. I write so silence stops being the only safe place to hide.

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