Why I'm Scared: A Conversation About the Death of Discourse

The question hit me sideways: "I'm scared! It feels like the communication disconnect has become so great that the masses are no longer capable of discernment. Flame throwers who exist almost solely for the purpose of raising eyebrows are now seen as serious intellectuals."

I'd been thinking about Charlie Kirk's assassination, about my daily walks through my Texas neighborhood, about whether someone might decide I'm the enemy today. But typing those words to an AI assistant unlocked something I'd been wrestling with for decades. Not about tennis, which is my business. About something much bigger: how we lost the ability to hear each other, and what that's costing us.

The Fear Is Real

I live in an affluent suburb outside Austin, Texas. For the first time in my life, I wonder if someone's going to open fire on me from a window or passing car during my daily diabetes walks. Not because I've done anything wrong. Because I'm a Black man in a time when being Black means different things to different people, and some of those people are willing to kill over those differences.

I'm grateful my daughters are mixed race and light-skinned. My grandson is even lighter, with bright blue eyes. That shouldn't be a survival calculation any parent has to make. But here we are.

The Charlie Kirk assassination changed something. When alleged shooter Tyler Robinson climbed on that Utah rooftop with a rifle, it wasn't just about one conservative influencer. It was about the endpoint of communication breakdown. When discourse fails completely, violence becomes the language people choose.

The Weight of Family History

This isn't academic for me. My grandfather shot and killed my grandmother in a schoolyard full of elementary children. Not "society" or "systemic racism" or "toxic rhetoric." My grandfather made that choice. One person, one decision, one trigger pulled.

That knowledge shaped everything that came after. My parents divorced. Their approach to raising me became systematic protection through perfect assimilation. We were one of only two Black families in Concord, Massachusetts. The message was explicit: my behavior represented my entire family's standing in the community.

I rarely wore jeans to school—dress slacks and button-down shirts instead. I was told literally to "turn the other cheek," no matter the provocation. Even if physically attacked, I couldn't defend myself. Everything depended on perfect behavior.

But here's what I didn't understand until decades later: while my parents thought they were teaching me survival through compliance, I was unconsciously learning to recognize and navigate systematic hostility. Every rule about perfect behavior was simultaneously training in barrier identification. Every instruction about "representation" was education in how systems work to exclude people.

The Impossible Middle

I am a self-proclaimed Never Hillary and Never Trump person who keeps feeling pushed back toward the middle by any silo I approach. Living in Texas, surrounded by far-right neighbors, naturally many would assume I'm progressive. In fact, I'm very much a centrist who doesn't agree with even 75% of the rhetoric being put forth by either side.

Life is more like tennis than football. Tennis is an individual sport. In tennis, you can't blame your doubles partner when you miss the shot. You can't point to the other team when you double fault. It's just you, the ball, and the choice you make in that moment.

I don't have a team. And that stance takes real strength right now, because both teams are demanding you pick a side.

My Cousin's Journey

My first cousin Joseph C. Phillips—Joey to our family—has been living this impossible space even longer than me. We're 3.5 weeks apart in age, share the same grandparents involved in that schoolyard shooting, and have been processing that family trauma together our whole lives.

Joey played Martin Kendall on The Cosby Show. He's also a prominent conservative commentator, author of He Talk Like a White Boy, and has serious political credentials: National Co-Chair of the African American Steering Committee for Bush-Cheney '04, member of the Republican National Committee's African American Advisory Board, and 2005 Abraham Lincoln Fellow at the Claremont Institute. He also designed and taught a course titled "Black Conservatism in America" at the University of Kansas's Dole Institute of Politics.

We did a video podcast together called "Brooks Brothers"—named after our mothers' shared maiden name, but also playing with the assumptions people make about how we present ourselves. Two Black men who dress well, speak precisely, think independently. The kind of guys who get called "Brooks Brothers Republicans" as if that's supposed to be an insult.

Being at Joey's son's wedding—his oldest, Connor, a 2019 West Point graduate—the day after Charlie Kirk's assassination felt surreal. A family celebration that deliberately stayed focused on joy. Remarkably, Charlie Kirk's name never came up during the three days in California. But Joey's been a prominent conservative voice for decades—does he worry he could be next?

Two Generations, Same Conversation

In 2020, during peak protest activity, we recorded an episode called "How Black Can I Be?" that included our kids: my oldest daughter Halie, Joey's youngest son Sam—a six-time All-American gymnast who competed at Nebraska and now at the University of Illinois—and our nephew Garrett.

What emerged was two generations grappling with the same impossible question of "authentic" blackness:

Halie: "I think being very light, I kind of got that middle experience where I saw the difference between how I was talked to, how my white friends were talked to, and then how my darker skinned black friends were talked to."

Sam: "The black people in the larger group... excluded me just because... they saw how I dressed, they saw my skin tone, and they just deemed that I wasn't black enough."

Garrett: "They'd always ask if my parents were divorced... because I guess minorities have a higher rate of divorce."

Each describing the exact experience Joey and I have lived—too Black for some white spaces, not Black "enough" for some Black spaces. The conversation revealed something crucial: this isn't new. We've been having this discussion for generations.

During that show, Joey shared a Frederick Douglass quote that captures his worldview: "Do nothing with us. Your doing with us has already played the mischief with us... all I ask, give him a chance to stand on his own legs, let him alone."

That's the same personal accountability philosophy I learned from my grandfather's choice. Not systemic solutions—just equal treatment and the space to succeed or fail on your own merits.

The Communication Crisis

What terrified me during that conversation was recognizing how the current information environment strips away context and nuance. Everything becomes literal. Every statement becomes a battle cry. The space between "I disagree with this policy" and "this person is evil and must be stopped" has vanished.

People who exist primarily to raise eyebrows are being treated as serious intellectuals. Meanwhile, those trying to build bridges—like Joey's work in conservative politics, or my work developing systematic approaches to youth communication—get dismissed because we don't fit neatly into anyone's political box.

Charlie Kirk, Candace Owens, and everyone this side of Stephen Miller on the right say things solely designed for effect. Unfortunately, it seems much of the population takes everything at face value. When someone gets shot five days after giving a campus speech, suddenly all those "it's just political theater" explanations feel inadequate.

But now the rhetoric has escalated beyond performative outrage. Stephen Miller calls Charlie Kirk's killing the result of a "vast domestic terror movement" and promises to "channel all of the anger... to uproot and dismantle these terrorist networks." Steve Bannon declares, "We are at war in this country and you have to have steely resolve."

When prominent conservative figures literally use "war" language, my fear isn't paranoia—it's pattern recognition.

The Professional Connection

My life's work has been developing systematic approaches to communication in youth sports. For 35 years, I've been an elite tennis coach and entrepreneur, focused on helping coaches, parents, and young athletes communicate more effectively.

What I discovered in that late-night conversation was how my tennis work connects to the broader communication crisis. The echo chamber problem I face when validating my coaching concepts through my own cognitive lens—innovative, systems-focused, comfortable with complexity—mirrors what's happening in political discourse.

I realized this through a memory that had puzzled me for years: Cory Ann Avants, a phenomenal junior player I coached who won USTA Nationals and reached the Junior US Open semifinals. Despite her success, she was remarkably resistant to tactical changes I knew would elevate her game further.

Years later, when we both used personality assessments, I discovered we were exact opposites. I'm ENTP—she's ISFJ. She needed evidence-based reasoning before trying new tactics. I was offering intuitive insights and "trust me" guidance. She required step-by-step progression with proven results. I provided big-picture strategic thinking and experimental approaches.

The performance cost? A Grand Slam-level junior might have reached an even higher ceiling if my elite tactical insights had been translated into her learning language.

But this communication mismatch is systematic across youth sports—and it's destroying young athletes' careers. Research shows 70-80% of children quit organized sports by age 13-16, with 30% citing negative adult behaviors as their reason for quitting.

The underlying cause isn't "it's not fun anymore"—that's the symptom. The real problem is communication breakdowns between adults and young athletes.

The Volume Problem

Here's the pattern I've observed: Communication mismatch leads to frustration on both sides. Coaches think players are being stubborn. Players feel misunderstood. Parents see their children struggling. Everyone gets frustrated. And when frustration peaks, volume becomes the last resort.

"If quiet explanation doesn't work, maybe LOUD explanation will," goes the desperate logic.

Sound familiar? It's the same escalation we see in political discourse. When people can't make themselves understood, they don't examine their communication approach—they just turn up the volume. Eventually, some people move from shouting to shooting.

The Scaling Solution

What excites me about my tennis communication work is its potential to scale beyond sports. The systematic approaches I've developed for translating between different cognitive processing styles—what I call "communiplasticity"—could apply to any high-stakes communication environment.

Parents spend $300+ billion annually on their children's development. They'll pay almost anything to eliminate communication barriers that threaten their child's potential. But the same principles that help coaches communicate with different learning styles could help political opponents find common ground.

The difference between my approach and current "dialogue" initiatives is that I focus on systematic communication translation rather than just bringing people together to talk past each other. You don't solve communication problems by hoping harder—you solve them by developing better tools.

Why I'm Still Hopeful

Despite my fear, I remain optimistic. Here's why:

Individual choices still matter. Tyler Robinson pulled that trigger in Utah. Not "the radical left" or "toxic rhetoric"—one person making one choice. That means other individuals can make different choices.

The conversation is happening. That Brooks Brothers episode proves people across two generations are grappling with these questions thoughtfully. The authentic conversations happen outside political silos.

Solutions exist. The communication tools I've developed for youth sports work. They reduce frustration, improve outcomes, and help people with different cognitive styles understand each other. These approaches can scale.

The center holds. Despite pressure to pick teams, people like Joey and me keep modeling what teamless thinking looks like. We prove it's possible to maintain individual responsibility while acknowledging systemic challenges.

The Path Forward

We need better skills to understand one another. Not just good intentions or moral lectures—actual systematic approaches to communication translation.

The work starts with recognizing that authentic discourse requires abandoning the demand that everyone think alike. Joey can be a committed conservative while I remain a centrist. My daughters can navigate questions of authenticity without accepting anyone else's definition of "black enough."

What we can't do is continue elevating flame throwers over bridge builders. We can't keep mistaking volume for clarity, or performance for genuine expertise.

Because the stakes are literally life and death now. When Stephen Miller talks about dismantling "terrorist networks" and Steve Bannon declares "we are at war," they're not just using hyperbole—they're providing a roadmap for escalation. That's what makes me scared to walk in my own neighborhood.

But communication can also save lives. Every young athlete who stays in sports because an adult learned to speak their language. Every family that avoids breakdown because they developed translation skills. Every political conversation that ends with understanding instead of violence.

The choice is ours. Personal accountability, systematic solutions, and the courage to stay in the impossible middle where real progress happens.

That's why I'm scared. That's why I'm still working. And that's why we need better skills to understand one another—before the war rhetoric becomes something worse than words.

This conversation began on a Monday afternoon, five days after the assassination of Charlie Kirk. It continued through family memories, professional insights, and the recognition that the communication crisis destroying American discourse has solutions—if we're willing to do the work.