Carefully, almost reverently, he stepped up to the open hatch of the spacecraft.

An acrylic shield kept him from crawling inside, from settling into one of the insubstantial seats and brushing his small fingers across the countless switches and dials that peppered the control panels. But no matter. He would steep himself in what he could see: the ship’s seared outer skin, its dimly lit interior, its pitted windows, the blackened areas around its reaction control jets.
 
And the knowledge that this battered craft once circled the Moon.
 
The penitent was my six-year-old grandson; the cathedral was the Henry Crown Space Center at Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry. The icon was the command module of Apollo 8, at rest 50 years after its single, historic mission.
 
I took a photo of this moment, and we shared a sense of awe. Words, usually my playground, were hard to come by. We simply stared together into history.
 
As it turns out, words were a struggle for the Apollo 8 crew as well.
 
By any measure, 1968 was a particularly rough year. It saw the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. North Korea captured the USS Pueblo, and the Soviets quashed a reform movement in Czechslovakia. North Vietnam launched the bloody Tet Offensive while Chicago launched a bloody putdown of protesters at the Democratic National Convention. Indeed, protests marked much of the year as young people increasingly rose up against the Vietnam War, Olympians Tommie Smith and John Carlos took a courageous stand against racism, and students clashed with police in the streets of Paris in what became known as Bloody Monday.
 
So when Apollo 8 launched atop the monstrous Saturn V rocket on December 21, 1968, the whole world was looking for something positive, something affirming. That so many put their hopes for saving this horrid year in one of the most dangerous ventures ever attempted speaks volumes.
 
And speaking of speaking, astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders were in a quandry. They were slated to orbit the Moon on Christmas Eve—a task that included a live transmission back to Earth, one that would be seen or heard by more than a billion people. What would they say? What could they say that would capture this incredible moment?
 
The angst around this began long before launch. In his book, Genesis: The Story of Apollo 8, author Robert Zimmerman writes of how the question haunted the crew for weeks, especially mission commander Borman. He asked NASA Public Affairs for guidance but was told—incredibly, given the stakes—“NASA will not tell you what to say.” Borman sought input from a widening circle of writers. A few tried to draft something; all of them failed.
 
One of the writers, a PR man named Joe Laitin, gave up trying to pen an original text. Despite his non-religious views, started nosing through a Bible. His wife, Christine, whose colorful past included fighting the Germans as part of the French Resistance during World War II, found him futilely poring over the text. When Laitin expressed frustration, Christine solved the problem: “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
 
Borman, Lovell and Anders would all agree the selection was perfect.
 
On December 24, as Apollo 8 sailed above the lunar surface, a quarter of a million miles from Earth, they spoke to the largest single audience in human history:
 
Anders: We are now approaching lunar sunrise, and for all the people back on Earth, the crew of Apollo 8 has a message that we would like to send to you. In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, “Let there be light” and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
 
Lovell: And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.” And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
 
Borman: And God said, “Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear,” and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called the Seas: and God saw that it was good. And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you, all of you on the good Earth.
 
Not everyone celebrated those words from the biblical Book of Genesis. (Atheist Madelyn Murray O’Hair unsuccessfully sued over the passage.) But based on the feedback to NASA and the astronauts themselves, most did. Among the countless telegrams Borman received about the mission’s success was one that declared, “You saved 1968.”
 
Of course, the saving of 1968 was more than the words spoken on Christmas Eve. It was Bill Anders’ iconic photograph of the Earth rising over the stark lunar horizon. It was the notion that three men, supported by thousands upon thousands of scientists, technicians and salt-of-the-Earth laborers, made Apollo 8 happen.
 
It was the reminder that, by coming together, it’s possible to save something. To save us all. In today’s turbulent times, that’s worth remembering.
 
Words are important, yes. But ultimately, it’s about compassion and inspiration.
 
It’s about all of us realizing we need each other on this good Earth.

There’s a phrase turning up in many news stories these days: “So-and-So did not respond to multiple requests for comment.”
 
This is the new “no comment,” the new hand-over-the-camera-lens tactic. It’s wrong. It’s lousy public relations. It’s the coward’s way out of an uncomfortable topic. Worst of all, it does a disservice to the organization and the people it serves.
 
A wise PR friend of mine is fond of saying, “If you don’t speak for yourself, others will gladly speak for you.” In this era where messages get delivered in countless ways, many of them directly to your audience, the risks of simply ignoring an issue are far greater.
 
I call this approach, or lack thereof, a “pocket veto.” For those unfamiliar with the term: In the U.S., if the President receives a bill from Congress and ignores it for 10 days, and Congress isn’t in session at that time, the bill doesn’t become law. Presidents use this tool when they want to kill the legislation without having to explain why. (Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a master at this; of more than 600 bills he vetoed while president, more than 4 in 10 died via pocket veto.)
 
You can see the similarities. But a pocket veto in PR doesn’t make the issue magically go away. The public has questions; reporters work on their behalf to get answers. And they will get them—if not from the company, then from another source. If that source delivers wrong or misguided information, you now face the double task of correcting it and tackling the original issue—assuming you have any credibility left.
 
Ignoring media calls isn’t a new thing, but the upward trend seems more recent. Maybe it’s a result of fading PR expertise as organizations lean more heavily on marketing communications. Or maybe it’s a simple issue of capacity, with communicators stretched too thin to respond to every query from every vehicle.
 
But I don’t believe either of those explanations. I believe companies that pull this stunt are gambling that their lack of response will starve the story. With savaged newsrooms and a continuous news cycle, they reason, it’s simply a matter of waiting it out until the next big story hits.
 
That’s naïve and short-term thinking. How can your organization build trust if you aren’t willing to talk about the tough issues? Even if there are solid legal reasons not to speak in detail, then you should say so. Ignoring the issue and the questions surrounding it sends the message that you don’t care about your audience nor respect them enough to respond.
 
Make no mistake, reporters will remember your silence. So will your audience.

(Don’t know what that word means? Keep reading!)
 
A few years ago, I penned an article decrying the use of spin among PR practitioners. The word I use to describe spin is “deception.” No one in PR should dabble in deception—ever.
 
Surprisingly, I got pushback. One practitioner opined, “If I’m not spinning for my client, I’m not doing my job.”
 
I firmly disagree. And yet, to my dismay, it seems spin is a tool in increasing use.
 
While I tend to steer these blogs away from politics, I can’t help but point there this time. Every campaign season brings a cascade of exaggerations, half-truths and outright lies. Sadly, there’s nothing new in that. But what I find more disturbing today is how these falsehoods are celebrated. (Remember "alternative facts"?) Provide evidence to the contrary, and you’ll be dismissed at best, threatened at worse.
 
I can’t help but wonder if the battle against spin is helping fuel recent violence against journalists. The apparent murder of Jamal Khashoggi. The bomb sent to CNN this week. The deliberate crashing of a car into a TV news outlet in Dallas. Regular threats to reporters and affiliates.
 
The stories behind these and other attacks can be complicated. But here’s what isn’t: violence and threats against innocents is always wrong. Yet when leaders label journalists “enemies of the people” and condone violence against them, it shouldn’t surprise us when unbalanced people take them at their word.
 
So how should PR practitioners respond in such a climate?
 
As a long-time member of the Public Relations Society of America, I was pleased when PRSA and more than a dozen other communications groups collectively voiced “support for journalists who bravely seek the truth, focus on facts, and hold government, business and other institutions accountable.”
 
But is that enough? I don’t think so. I believe it’s time for the profession to indulge in some constructive omphaloskepsis.
 
Omphaloskepsis means “navel gazing.” While the term typically refers to being self-absorbed, originally it meant using one’s navel as a focal point during meditation—in short, a tool for looking inward.
 
It’s time for PR to look inward—and then turn outward. The battle against spin, which by extension upholds a free press, starts with us. We should do more to hold practitioners accountable for ensuring truth in their work. We should call them out with the facts when they knowingly regurgitate falsehoods.
 
I’m not talking about practitioners who share, say, a client’s abrasive politics or their employer’s business perspective. I’m not talking about disagreements or differences of opinion. I mean calling out communicators who willfully promote a demonstrable fiction despite proof to the contrary. I mean communicators who double down on spin by directing ire at scapegoats—the media, their critics, whoever it might be.
 
I realize this is a tall order, perhaps even dangerous. Many professionals aren’t given all the facts and sometimes must go with what they know. Others might find spin being used against them. And I realize a lot of practitioners may not want to look too deep for fear of facing a difficult choice.
 
But I feel that’s where we’re at as a profession. We’re not doing enough to police ourselves. We're not doing enough to call out those who misuse public relations. No wonder we hear calls—sometimes from within our own profession—to regulate PR.
 
If we really care about upholding an ethical code, if we aspire to be champions of truth, we must embrace accountability—ourselves first of all, and our colleagues when necessary.
 
Otherwise we’re only as good as the worst example of spin.

I mostly stopped saying “thoughts and prayers” a while ago—and that bothers me.
 
The phrase has become a target of derision, largely seen as an empty, go-to soundbite used by people who want to sound like they care but really don’t.
 
That wasn’t always the case. In fact, the phrase has deep historical roots, with references reportedly as far back as the 17th century. Hints of it appear in the Christian Bible; in the first chapter of Romans, the apostle Paul tells his readers “how constantly I remember you in my prayers at all times.”
 
The problem today is that the words have become simply that—words. For a person of faith who offers them sincerely, “thoughts and prayers” is a deliberate act in two parts. First, it’s a promise to invest time and emotional energy in another person, usually someone in crisis. Second, it’s a vow to personally seek God’s help to stop the person’s suffering or to change the circumstances causing it.
 
Unfortunately, that’s where the phrase often runs into trouble. Those who believe in a God who responds to personal prayers sometimes forget that the same God delivers miracles through people at least as often as through direct, divine action. The Bible is filled with examples of people being equipped to serve. Likewise, it’s heavy with challenges for people to make a difference for those who suffer.
 
The biblical book of James masterfully makes this point: “Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, ‘Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.”
 
In short, offering “thoughts and prayers” after a mass shooting or a natural disaster or other terrible event should be the beginning of action.
 
Thoughts, yes. Prayers, absolutely. But we have a personal responsibility to follow through with meaningful relief and change. Don’t just pray for the hungry and homeless; make sure they’re fed and sheltered. Don’t just think about the victims of horrific events; take a deliberate step toward easing their pain and stopping future tragedies.
 
Sadly, when a call to action becomes mere filler, the thoughts become empty, the prayers feeble.
 
No wonder “thoughts and prayers” has shifted from pledge to punchline.
 
There’s a public relations lesson in this. When PR is nothing but words, it’s powerless at best. Ultimately, that failure damages the reputation and credibility—and the performance—of the organization. Words must be the door to meaningful deeds.
 
Want to stop the vitriol around “thoughts and prayers”? You must be part of the change. The phrase must become more than the words suggest; it must be the start of real action, both individual and collective. Likewise, to build brand and reputation through PR, you must make sure your actions, and that of your organization, reflect what you say—and speak louder than the words themselves.

She was young and pretty, with big brown eyes and a pleasant smile. She spoke quietly, politely. And she wore a hijab.
 
That alone isn’t unusual. I know many women who wear the Muslim headscarf as part of their faith. What gave me pause wasn’t this young woman’s attire; it was how the store cashier treated her.
 
I came to the check-out lane at the end of the woman’s transaction and immediately sensed the tension. The cashier was visibly annoyed, speaking to the Muslim woman in a clipped monotone. The woman, clearly nervous, tapped tentatively at the credit card reader as the cashier became increasingly agitated.
 
But as soon as I reached the counter, a transformation occurred. The cashier turned to me, flashed a dazzling smile and said, “Hello, sir! I’ll be with you in just a moment.” Then she looked again at the Muslim woman, and her face fell back into shadow.
 
As I puzzled over this, the cashier suddenly abandoned the woman entirely, gave me another smile and started ringing up my items. She asked about my day, joked about whether my candy bar purchase was a substitute for lunch, and laughingly shared how many Snickers bars her football-playing son could consume. I kept glancing at the Muslim woman, trying to catch her eye, eager to offer a smile and figure out what was happening.
 
She never looked at me. As I watched, she silently finished her transaction on the credit card reader, picked up her bag of items and, head hung low, walked out of the store. All the while, the cashier gaily spoke to me, completely ignoring her other customer. I don’t even recall seeing her print a receipt for the Muslim woman.
 
It finally dawned on me what I’d witnessed.
 
It’s one thing to read about acts of prejudice in news stories or hear about them from friends; it’s quite another to observe one, especially in a supposedly “polite” community like mine. But for many people of color or from religious minorities, it’s a daily occurrence.
 
I’ve been troubled by the incident for days now. How I wish I’d realized what was happening sooner! I could have engaged the woman in conversation, or at least called out a pleasant word so the last thing she experienced in that store wasn’t the cashier’s cold shoulder. I could have pushed back against the cashier’s rudeness.
 
Maybe there’s more to the story. Maybe something happened before I arrived, a disagreement that I didn’t witness. But that’s not what it felt like. What I saw in the Muslim woman’s face was sadness and embarrassment. What I saw in the cashier’s face was contempt. What I felt directed at me was the benefit of white privilege—and I’m ashamed of that.
 
This isn’t a blog about organizational communication. It’s about the need for each of us to stop using skin color or religious identity or political persuasion as excuses to treat others like dirt. Prejudice like I observed creates a gulf that keeps us from connecting and communicating, a gulf that allows us to demonize others for what they think or how they look or whom they love. It’s a chasm that quickly leads to hatred and violence.
 
Most importantly, this is a blog about the need for each of us to step up and call out prejudice. I was caught flat-footed this time; I won’t be next time.

There’s a well-worn Churchill quote: “You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood for something, sometime in your life.” That turn of phrase that sounds good in a speech—and brings considerable pain in life.
 
Three examples from recent weeks leap to mind.
 
One is this week’s resignation of U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement spokesman James Schwab, claiming pressure put on him to support misleading statements about ICE raids in California. Schwab said statements about hundreds of “criminal aliens” escaping capture because Oakland Mayor Libby Schaaf warned the public weren’t true.
 
“I quit because I didn’t want to perpetuate misleading facts,” Schwab said. Interestingly, he added that he didn’t support Schaaf’s actions, but he wasn’t willing to deflect questions with falsehoods. He’s now unemployed.
 
My second example is the decision by Dick’s Sporting Goods to stop selling assault-style firearms entirely and cease gun sales to people under age 21. The decision by CEO Edward Stack came after the tragic shooting deaths at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. While many praised Stack’s call, multitudes of gun-rights advocates have assailed the company. Protests, lawsuits and fiery rhetoric on social media are ongoing.
 
Stack himself warned investors that the decision may cost some of their customers, but he is undeterred. “"As we looked at what happened down in Parkland, we were so disturbed and saddened, we felt we really needed to do something,” he said.
 
Closely linked is my third example: the student walkouts on March 14. Inspired by the outspoken survivors of Parkland, hundreds of thousands of young people across the U.S. held silent vigils and demanded action to reduce gun violence. Communities, businesses, even media outlets like Nickelodeon joined in to support the students.
 
For the record, I support these kids as well. Common-sense legislation won’t diminish the Second Amendment. Neither will it alone solve gun violence, but it’s an ingredient in the recipe to hinder it.
 
What I especially admire is the students’ courage; it seems they’ll need it. Take a cruise through online comments and social media, and you’ll discover many negative—and often vile—declarations against them. One school district in Texas threatened three-day suspensions even for students who had parental permission.
 
These are reminders that standing for truth, for principles and for positive action may be the right thing, but it’s rarely the easy thing. Enemies will abound. Sadly, in this highly connected world, a world desperately in need of dialogue, even the best communications can’t change that.
 
But let’s keep trying.

An oft-used phrase in common parlance is a misquote: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” credited to 6th century BC Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu, translates literally as, “A journey of a thousand li starts beneath one’s feet.”
 
The actual words make the statement more personal, more human. It ascribes ownership, personal reflection and resolve, even a bit of humility.
 
It’s possible, just possible, that Michigan State University’s leadership took a long-overdue look at its own feet, reflected on its poor behavior, and made the first steps on what will be a very long journey.
 
As I’ve blogged here and here, MSU’s leadership—from the exiting President Lou Anna Simon through the consistently insensitive Board of Trustees—failed to show any contrition or demonstrate any meaningful empathy for the hundreds of women sexually abused by sports physician Larry Nassar. After weeks of national outrage that ramped up considerably after the Board affirmed Simon, dismissed critics and minimized the victims, trustees assembled meekly on Friday for a tear-filled public apology. It was a remarkable change in tone.
 
From a crisis communications perspective, the trustees largely hit the right notes. They took ownership of the failures that allowed Nassar to abuse young athletes for 20 years. They promised to re-engage with the victims to hammer out a “fair and just resolution”—the university already faces many civil lawsuits from the scandal. They pushed for third-party involvement in investigations and vowed to be transparent with results. They pledged to listen to all stakeholders, including holding open forums, with a promise to change whatever needs changing.
 
Most importantly, they showed remorse, apologizing individually and collectively.
 
“I am so truly sorry,” said Trustee Brian Mosallam. He sobbed his next sentence: “We failed you.”
 
“We made mistakes. I made mistakes,” said Trustee Diane Bynum.
 
“I’m truly sorry for our collective inaction, and I’m sorry for my inaction,” said Trustee Joel Ferguson, among the most criticized for dismissive statements he made in an interview early this week.
 
Board Chair Brian Breslin seemed to acknowledge the root of MSU’s lack of contrition—fear of lawsuits—in part of his statement: “The focus for MSU needs to shift from lawsuits to pursuing the right decisions to genuinely participate in helping victims and survivors with your healing.”
 
This link includes a video of the full meeting (fast forward to the 19-minute mark for the start of trustees’ comments).
 
There were still a few caveats in the Board’s statements and actions, still a few lifeboats kept ready in case MSU eventually dislikes the course this journey might take. But for the moment, the conversation seemed to indicate a better direction.
 
Only time will tell. MSU must understand that an hour-long “sorry” session, regardless of tears shed, by itself won’t fix the damage that’s been done. Words are important, but sincere actions summon change. Much of that action will be painful—tough investigations, hard questions, fundamental changes, people (including trustees, whom I still believe should resign) owning the failures and suffering the consequences. But that pain is nothing compared to the pain endured by the women Nassar abused, a pain exacerbated by MSU’s callousness.
 
Students, families, alumni, lawmakers, the public at large, and most importantly the victims, have every reason to be skeptical. They will be watching. It’s up to MSU leadership to meet—no, to exceed—the expectations they tried to establish on Friday. That will take a consistent, relentless, heartfelt effort for years to come.

Remember when you were a child and you did something wrong to someone, so your parents told you to apologize? Remember the utter lack of sincerity you put into that apology, muttering a monotone “sorry” under your breath as you stared daggers at the ground?
 
That’s exactly the approach Lou Anna Simon took in her letter resigning as president of Michigan State University.
 
A few days ago, I posted a blog explaining why Simon needed to step down in the wake of the horrific Larry Nassar scandal. My point was that Simon’s resignation should serve as the first step in the long healing process—for Nassar’s victims, for their families, for MSU, for the university’s many stakeholders.
 
Last night, Simon resigned. And she did so through an appalling tome that laid blame everywhere but at her feet. You can read the letter here.
 
Simon makes a small effort to acknowledge the pain of the young women whom Nassar molested. Sadly, that effort is all but lost in a letter that spends its time explaining why none of this is Simon’s fault and, incredibly, all but equates the victims’ pain to Simon’s own.
 
Simon had a perfect opportunity to start the healing. She could have accepted her responsibility, as president of the university, for the failure of systems to catch and stop Nassar. She could have expressed sincere empathy for the women. She and the Board of Trustees, who in their defensiveness have been shockingly dismissive of the Nassar scandal, could have laid out an aggressive plan for rooting out the failures, holding people accountable, changing systems, reaching out and rebuilding trust—starting with her exit. Instead, the disingenuous, tone-deaf messaging continues.
 
In her letter, Simon states, “I have tried to make it not about me.” In fact, that’s all her letter does.
 
And the healing has yet to begin.

Some years ago, I served as media spokesman for a company that was closing part of a manufacturing plant and laying off several hundred workers. A local radio station invited me to do a live interview during evening drive time. I agreed, albeit with some apprehension.
 
Dialing in at the appropriate time, I listened as the host introduced me and the topic: “Today, Company X announced that it was shutting down part of its local plant, costing hundreds of jobs. On the phone is Rick Chambers, and Rick, you ruined a lot of people’s day today.”
 
Apprehension justified.
 
After a quick pick-up-my-jaw-from-the-floor moment, I answered: “Of course, that’s not what we set out to do. Let me explain what we announced today and, most importantly, what we’re doing to support the people affected.” I then took the time to explain the decision, the reasons behind it, and the many ways the company would assist its employees and the community. Throughout the interview, I underscored again and again the company’s concern for the people facing an unsettling change and its commitment to help.
 
By the time the interview ended, the once-hostile host thanked me and the company for being present, explaining the decision and supporting those affected.
 
Reflecting on that experience, I’m convinced that being transparent, publicly acknowledging and owning the pain of the decision on real people, and pledging to do everything possible to help ease that pain, did more than just turn around an uncomfortable radio interview. It began the process of healing for all involved.
 
It’s too bad Michigan State University can’t learn that lesson.
 
MSU is circling the legal and PR wagons around its leadership, President Lou Anna Simon in particular, over the monstrous case of Larry Nassar, an MSU sports doctor convicted of seven counts of criminal sexual conduct and accused of hundreds more. According to an investigative article in the Detroit News, at least 14 university staff persons were told about Nassar over the years, yet he continued to molest young athletes until his arrest in 2016.
 
What Nassar’s victims faced—a story being told in heartbreaking detail as 101 of them make statements ahead of his sentencing next week—is nothing short of horrific.
 
Yet every statement and action by MSU fails to recognize that horror. No empathy for the victims. No support for the heroic women confronting Nassar in court, in full view of TV cameras, recounting the hell he put them through. No acknowledgement that the university could have, should have, stopped this monster years ago.
 
Instead, we get a throw-staff-under-the-bus statement from Simon, who claims she told her people to “play it straight up” when the reports of Nassar’s evil acts emerged years ago.
 
Then there’s the stunningly heartless statement from MSU’s Board of Trustees on Friday essentially complaining about people calling the university “tone-deaf, unresponsive and insensitive” when they believe MSU “has listened and heard the victims” and has taken the bold move of … wait for it … asking the Attorney General for a review.
 
Then the trustees dumped a truckload of road salt in the wound by declaring Simon “is the right leader for the university and has our support.”
 
To which Simon, given a perfect opportunity to demonstrate that she and the university really aren’t tone-deaf, unresponsive and insensitive, said this: “I continue to appreciate the confidence of the Board and the many people who have reached out to me, and to them, who have the best interests of MSU at heart. I have always done my best to lead MSU and I will continue to do so today and tomorrow.”
 
Think about that phrase: “The best interests of MSU.”
 
Those interests apparently have nothing to do with supporting the victims of sexual assault. Those interests apparently have nothing to do with empathy and compassion for women who have been traumatized.
 
What those “best interests” do involve, it appears, is MSU not giving a damn about those women.
 
As a public relations professional who has counseled clients—and at times personally stood—before the business end of microphones, cameras and reporter’s notebooks in crisis situations, I understand the discomfort. I get the anxiety. But none of that excuses what’s fundamental to the practice of PR: truth, transparency, accountability, empathy, ethics, and a sincere willingness to listen, learn and take positive action.
 
Michigan State University demonstrates none of that.
 
I’m far from the first communicator to call out MSU on this debacle. (This spot-on analysis by PR guru Matt Friedman is worth your time.) Yet the tone-deaf behavior goes on. Maybe the lawyers are running the game, because the alternative is more disheartening: people in my field coaching Simon and her staff with the most unethical, outrageous counsel imaginable.
 
Lou Anna Simon must own this tragedy and resign. Every trustee should exit as quickly as feasible. Every person who knew about Nassar and did nothing should be fired. New leadership should step in, acknowledge the mistakes, own the pain, and start listening to and working with the victims.
 
Healing will take a very long time. It’s way past time for Simon and MSU to get the healing started.

Back in 1983, the year President Ronald Reagan signed the holiday into law, I wasn’t excited about Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I had my doubts that Dr. King would approve. He worked (and tragically died) for change, not for a day off. How does a three-day weekend honor his dream? How does a holiday advance the cause of equity and racial healing?
 
I was short-sighted—mostly. Over the years, I’ve come to embrace the day. I celebrate Dr. King’s life, turn a shamed and critical eye to my own shortcomings, and recommit myself to doing my part to build a more equitable world. And I applaud as many in our nation pause to consider how much more work must be done.
 
But then comes Tuesday … and Wednesday ….
 
Pretty soon, our hearts and minds turn to the weekend ahead, bemoaning the shorter break. The words of Dr. King fade into the hubbub of daily life—or worse, are dismissed, and even decried, by those who still question his work and his dream.
 
When it comes to racism and inequity, the past few years have been eye-opening for me. With the help of compassionate friends, I’ve worked at removing the blinders that, even now, keep me from recognizing privilege and seeing disparity. I’ve listened to those who face racism daily, both overt and subtle; I’ve come to understand how it puts up barriers and poisons (and often ends) lives.
 
Shockingly, as I’ve shared this journey with others, I’ve been pushed back. I’ve heard age-old excuses and rationalizations, from “I don’t see color” to “That’s just an isolated incident” to “Hey, I have black friends” to “But what about drugs/gangs/parenting/violence/all lives matter/(fill in the blank)?”
 
And then comes Tuesday … and Wednesday ….
 
That’s the challenge. That’s where the concern I had back in ’83 is realized. For many, our national commitment to equity and racial healing boils down to a single day. We post an MLK meme, we pay our annual penance, and then we move on.
 
That’s not the formula for meaningful change. That’s not the call to action that Dr. King set before us. His call is a daily commitment to not ignore the angry voices stirring the darkness of what was, to not surrender to the inadequacy of what is, but to strive with all our hearts for the hope of what must be.
 
With that commitment, let Tuesday come. Bid Wednesday dawn. Welcome Thursday and Friday and every day that we work together, that we move forward united, every race and creed, ever closer to the mountaintop.