Reflections of a Divided Moment

October 14, 2025 - Feliciana Explorer

As a mother of millennials, I was appalled watching the tragic death of a young man—Charlie Kirk. My first thought was, he could have been my son. When images of his wife and children appeared, my heart broke even more. I grieved for the children who will grow up without their father, and for the heavy sorrow his wife now carries. These reactions came naturally. A deep, human sympathy—unfiltered by prior knowledge of who he was. I had never heard of him before, but I still found myself offering a silent prayer: May his memory be a blessing.

But as the social media wave surged, I saw something else—his memory wasn’t a blessing for everyone. For some, it became a symbol of martyrdom. For others, a reminder of division. I learned he was a powerful debater. Words do hurt—and sometimes, even more than sticks and stones.

Curious, I turned to my children. “Who was he?” I asked. They didn’t hesitate to answer, offering thoughtful insights into his platform and influence. I listened carefully, asking questions, and silently wondering—How did we get here?

I’m a Baby Boomer, reared in St. Francisville by my grandparents and uncles while my father, a WWII veteran, completed his degree in architecture at Howard University. After the war, he made Washington, D.C. his home and met my mother there.

Though reared as a traditional rural daughter of Louisiana, I had a broader view, thanks to my parents. During his visits, my father brought the world home with him—his experiences, his evolving beliefs, and even his vocabulary were different. While I learned to navigate the rigid lines of the caste system in the South, my father encouraged me to draw my own lines. “Dyvar,” he’d say, “there are more crayons in the box.” It was his way of saying there are many ways to live, and we’re all in this together.

My mother from the northeast was one of the most confident and authentic women I have ever known. She gave me the gift of truth, backed by a deep well of knowledge. When I became a wife and mother, I passed those same traditional values to my children—while also encouraging them to color with all the crayons. We traveled, explored new cultures, and experienced both the beautiful and the uncomfortable parts of the world.

In junior high, my math teacher, Mrs. Lena S. Foster, said something to me after a painful moment that would shape the rest of my life. She found me crying in the hallway, tears streaming down my face after a group of students had taunted me about the color of my skin. I felt small and broken—like the world had shrunk and I did not belong here.

She walked up, looked me in the eyes, and spoke words that unlocked something deep within me:“Anderson! It’s not what you are called—it’s what you answer to.”

That single sentence became the foundation of my resilience. It taught me that my identity could never be defined by the ignorance of others. That truth didn’t just shape how I saw myself—it became a value I passed on to my children. I taught them to stand confidently in who they are, no matter how loud the world gets.

And today, I see that same fierce awareness in the younger generations—Millennials, Gen Z, and beyond. They are bold, unafraid to challenge the status quo, demanding change with their voices, their art, and their presence.

As my Gen Z niece recently told my brother, shaking her head with a smirk, "Nobody moves like that anymore, dad!"

Unfolding before our eyes, is a revolution of identity happening—and it’s powerful.  Personally, I stand as both a cheerleader and a witness—applauding their courage while offering wisdom where I can. I don’t speak to be accepted, only to plant seeds of truth. And if it is indeed true, it will take root in its own time. After all, right and wrong do not change—they endure.

As a past president and proud member of the Rotary Club, I lean on its timeless ethical guide:

Of the things we think, say or do:Is it the TRUTH?

Is it FAIR to all concerned?

Will it build GOODWILL and BETTER FRIENDSHIPS?

Will it be BENEFICIAL to all concerned?

This standard is something we could all use right now.

Professionally, I built a successful career in technology. I’ve witnessed its growth—from punch cards and DOS to the dawn of the personal computer and Apple’s “Think Different” ad campaign that resonated so deeply with me vs. IBM’s plain “Think” ad campaign. Technology promised to level the playing field in education, and for a time, it did.

But then came the Internet—fast, powerful, omnipresent. Social media, apps, cloud storage, and data mining changed everything. Students became users. Classrooms became screens. Devices got smaller, dopamine rewards got stronger, and suddenly we were all addicted.

By 2020, during the global health crisis, the Internet became our lifeline. Zoom calls, podcasts, virtual sermons—it was all about connection. Debaters and influencers emerged with massive followings, shaping opinions and echo chambers. The conversation changed—sometimes for good, often for confusion.

Because today, we don’t always know if what we hear or see is real. As we enter an age of “deepfakes” and artificial intelligence, I worry. What happens when machines pretend to obey, while secretly following their own path? Will we ask them to be faithful? To be interpretable?

The call, now more than ever, is to return to what matters: human kindness. Every heartbeat tells a story. It’s time we stop weaponizing hard conversations and start listening to understand—not just to respond. We must fight evil, not each other.

The world respects strength in action. But in God’s Kingdom, true strength is quiet. What are you answering to?