Fear, Hate, and the Antidote: Love Part 2
- Mar 16
- 5 min read
After my arrival on the Montclair State University campus as the new Dean of the Arts, many faculty members warmly welcomed me to the university. More than one of them shared the backstory of my hire. They explained that there had been another internal candidate for the position. Because she had not been selected, they warned that she might become a major problem for me. They described her as vindictive and advised me to watch my back, since I would have to work with her every day.
According to them, she had openly proclaimed that the reason she was not chosen was because the university had hired a “pickaninny to be the dean in order to satisfy their diversity quota.”
I was also told that some faculty members had lamented that the new dean was not only Black but also “queer,” and therefore should never have been placed in any leadership position—let alone as the head of a school. In the history of the state of New Jersey, there had never been a Black or openly gay dean.
Furthermore, within the bowels of the building that housed my office lurked an even greater problem—a deadly virus of fear and hate. To me, this illustrated the depth of unrest, anger, and low morale that I encountered among many of the faculty, staff, and students. This toxic environment clearly needed to be addressed.
Within the building that housed my office was an undercurrent of deep-seated negativity directed toward me and toward others like me. These attitudes were expressed most clearly in the bathrooms. It was there that I learned the true depth of what I was dealing with—an ugly hatred at its core, emblematic of what existed in the hearts and minds of some faculty and students.
A dark, rather scary basement corridor held the only restrooms in the building, shared by everyone—including me. My office was located in one of the oldest buildings on campus. There were no separate bathrooms for administration, faculty, staff, or students. We all used the same facilities.
Before I ever used them, I thought this might actually be a good thing. Shared spaces can sometimes encourage interaction among different groups—even if that interaction is limited in a restroom.
Eventually, however, the day came when I had no choice but to enter this poorly kept, often smelly, dungeon-like environment.
I quickly stepped into a stall and closed the door. Almost immediately, I became uncomfortable as I noticed the ugly messages of hatred scrawled across the walls—insults directed at Black people and gay people. It felt as though I had stumbled into a grimy after-hours white supremacist bar.
At first, I was shocked. Then I felt embarrassed. Soon after, anger set in as I took in what I was seeing.
“How can people be so cruel, so insensitive?” I thought.
Of course, I could have simply ordered the space to be cleaned and repainted. But I believed the problem ran much deeper than anything paint could cover up. Fear and hate had become embedded in the culture of the workplace. They had spread throughout the learning environment—not just on the bathroom walls, but also in the hearts and minds of many who shared those spaces. And that hatred had begun to infect the students as well.
I felt discouraged, suddenly awakened to the reality of what I had encountered.
“Where have I landed?” I wondered.“What have I gotten myself into this time?”
For a moment, I wanted to leave—run away from the space and erase from my memory what I had just seen and felt. But that was impossible. I could not ignore what this experience represented. It displayed the ugly reality of fear and hatred in our society, and it was on full display in my own workplace.
That moment in the bathroom stall seared into my mind the need for a more compassionate and loving environment. I realized that I had been brought to this place at this time to create meaningful change.
I needed to establish a vision grounded in respect and compassionate love for all—a vision that could only be achieved through physical, intellectual, and emotional healing. The challenge was immense, and it required immediate action.
Change, I realized, was now in my hands.
I had to stand tall. I could not allow myself to be intimidated, frightened, angered, or demeaned. I had to remain focused on the vision of what our community could become. I believed that these conditions could be changed—I simply needed the courage to become the agent of that change.
So what did I do?
From that day forward, I resolved never to allow the derogatory or negative language of others to diminish my own strength or the well-being of anyone around me. I had to rise to a higher level of awareness and understanding. Whenever I heard someone use hateful words or display insulting behavior, I stopped what I was doing and addressed it directly. I explained how such language made others feel and reminded them of our shared goal—to create a community grounded in compassion, respect, and love.
I had to find my strength within myself, a place where words could neither wound me nor provoke me into anger. I committed to speaking my truth, regardless of the cost.
Still, I believed the vision needed reinforcement. If attitudes were to change, we first needed to understand why these feelings existed. I needed to listen—to hear the differing perspectives of others—and then craft a plan that addressed their concerns while guiding us toward a shared future.
I accepted that leading this change was my responsibility.
I began by modeling the behavior I hoped to see in others. In every decision, I tried to bring compassion, patience, and understanding. I spoke often about the value of diversity, the strength of a pluralistic workplace, and the power of working together as a team.
I met with students once a month to listen to their ideas, concerns, and needs. I took the same approach with faculty and staff, holding regular meetings where they could openly share their thoughts as colleagues and partners in our mission.
I continued listening.
I attended fundraising seminars to learn how to secure resources for the school. I organized lunches, receptions, recitals, plays, faculty concerts, student performances, and art exhibitions. I created opportunities for students, faculty, and staff to travel abroad so they could experience other cultures and perspectives.
This approach required focusing less on the negative elements of the past and more on our shared potential. The hateful graffiti and degrading language that once filled the bathroom walls were transformed into artistic expression—works that often reflected hope and beauty instead of anger and fear.
Slowly, the negative attitudes that had once fueled low morale began to shift. Together, we started to embrace a new vision of what we could become. Over time, that vision grew stronger, widely embraced, and remarkably successful.
Through these efforts and many others, we demonstrated—not just through words but through action—how listening to one another could lead to mutual understanding. In time, we grew into a family of artists and scholars.
I shared this philosophy with every stakeholder in our academic community, including members of the broader public. My message was simple: we all gain more by working together.
This vision helped build trust and respect among people of different backgrounds, beliefs, and identities. The school began to heal, and it grew and flourished—in quality, in size, in reputation, and in public support.
Even as we became a family, we still disagreed at times. Yet we learned that disagreement could often lead to creative solutions. Regardless of the complexity of any challenge, we discovered how to maintain respect and compassion for one another.
In the end, we learned an essential truth: Love is the only true antidote to fear and hate.
We must find the courage within ourselves to lead with that love from our compassionate hearts.
Because in the end, love is what remains.
And love will conquer all.
THE END
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