I come from an unusual background. My dad, John Robbins (author of Diet for a New America, and an inspiration to millions) and my mom, Deo, are not just parents to me; they are also my dear friends. From an early age, they helped me to look at problems in the world not as monsters to fear but as opportunities for healing. "However bad things are," my mom used to tell me, "is exactly how much better they can be with a change."
I remember walking with my dad at the beach on a cold winter day in Victoria, Canada, when I was about six years old. We came to a woman and her little boy (who must have been about three) standing on the sand fifty feet ahead. She was hitting the child and shouting: "Don't you ever talk back to me again!" The boy was screaming, a look of terror in his tear-filled eyes. I felt my face becoming pale, and I clutched my dad's hand. He held my hand firmly and said something I will always remember: "When you see someone hurting another person, it's usually because someone hurt them once. People get hurt, and then lash out at others. The cycle of pain just keeps on going, until someone says 'enough.' Well, this is enough."
The woman didn't seem to notice us as we approached, my dad in the lead, holding my hand as I followed about a step behind. The boy was wailing at the top of his lungs, his cries broken only by shouts from his mother and the occasional slap. The woman was so absorbed that she was oblivious to our presence as my dad came alongside her. Then, in a strong yet gentle voice, he said: "Excuse me." She spun to face him, a look of shock on her face. "I'm sorry to bother you," my dad continued, "but it looked like you were having a hard time, and I wondered if we could help." She stared back at him, and her mouth dropped open incredulously. "It's none of your business," she snapped. My dad's eyes were steady and soft, and his voice gentle, "I'm sorry to see you hurting so much." For a moment, I thought she was going to lash out again, but then a look of shame passed over her face, and she said: "I'm sorry. I'm not normally like this. I just broke up with my boyfriend -- his dad -- and it just felt like everything was falling apart."
As they continued talking, I introduced the boy, whose name was Michael, to a toy car I carried in my pocket. Michael and I played together on the beach for a little while, as his mom and my dad conversed. After a few minutes, they came toward us, and I could hear Michael's mom thanking my dad. "It's amazing what a difference it makes just to have someone to talk to." And then, reaching to pick up Michael, "It'll be okay now. We're in this together, and everything is going to be all right." Michael looked at her, as though not sure whether to believe or trust her. "Here," I said, handing him my toy car, "this is for you." He smiled at me. "What do you say?" His mom was more commanding than asking. "Thank you," Michael replied. I told him he was welcome, and then my dad led me on down the beach, turning to wave as we walked. The mom waved back, and as she said "Thank you," a faint smile came over her face.
I never forgot that moment. For I had been introduced, at the age of six, to the power of meeting hatred with love. I had learned that there aren't really any monsters, just people who have been hurt and then take their hurt out on others. Just people who need love. Now I am twenty-five years old. I'm part of a generation of youth who have, for the most part, grown up watching five hours of television a day, with microwaves, rap music, and parents who both work at least forty hours a week. A generation with skateboards, gangs, Nike shoes, and Internet access. A generation of youth who have lived our whole lives under a nuclear shadow, with environmental problems mounting and the fabric of community fraying...
Read Part 2 of this article.
