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On a weekday morning a few months ago, my brother Peter and sister-in-law Nancy (not their real names) were waiting at the bus stop outside of their home. It was a pleasant afternoon on the corner in their quiet residential neighborhood; my nephew Greg (same), an exuberant second grader with a tidy mop of curly red hair, was on his way home from school.

Once the bus had stopped and the door opened, neighborhood kids spilled away to the freedom of the early afternoon. Nancy needed to speak with the bus driver briefly. This pause apparently drew ire from the driver of a white SUV stopped in the street behind the bus, as the SUV driver began honking the horn and saying something Peter couldn't understand towards Nancy.

With Greg at his side Peter asked the driver for clarification at what he just said to his spouse, sensing that this discussion is turning hostile.

Even as he said this, the bus had already begun to pull away. As it cleared the corner and the SUV driver came into better view, an older white man, Peter noticed his hat – bold red, with 'MAGA' in thick white letters.

The sudden hurl of words were unmistakable as the driver shouted back, “GO BACK TO MEXICO, MOTHERF**KER!” The driver hit the gas and sped away immediately, tearing past the corner's four-way stop sign without hesitation.

Despite looking almost nothing alike, my brother and I share the same parents and ethnic background, which largely includes Irish, Italian, and Nigerian origins, along with other European and African locations. Our background includes sources from First Nations as well, but documentation has been hard to trace.

The beautiful workings of genetics pulled from the palette of our ancestors for each of us in turn. Where my skin is fair, Peter has a far darker complexion. My hair is dense and coily; I often wore a short Afro style when I was younger. Peter has sleek ringlets that he often twirls while lost in thought. Aside from a tidy goatee, he has very little facial hair – something I occasionally think about as I tame
my thick, coarse beard.

People who meet Peter often surmise his ethnicity originates in the Caribbean or from Central or South America. White people typically perceive me as white and express surprise when they learn my maternal grandparents were Black. It's something Peter and I have dealt with for our entire lives; it's fair – people make assumptions.

We have met many people who feel the need to assess and categorize us. While this is mostly harmless (and feels very instinctively human) it has, on occasion, given rise of instances of interactions driven by racist origins.

Aside from teasing from our peers as children, we rarely (if ever) had been the brunt of in-your-face hatred stemming from how we look. As experienced at the bus stop for an eight-year-old, however, that has now changed.

A report was made with the local police department. Although a town-wide search was implemented, the identification of the driver and SUV remain unknown.

Over the months that passed since, Peter's usual cheerful demeanor was shaken. He had not experienced viciousness this blatant before, nor had he ever thought that it would happen with his son at his side. Thankfully, Greg's young age and the immediate bliss of being home from school proved to be something of a partial shield. He seems to have been spared from truly absorbing what happened, which we consider a blessing, though we can't truly know the depth of his understanding of what took place in that moment.

Greg also does not understand – again, thankfully – what could have been. In the current political climate, it does not feel outlandish to say this could have escalated to mirror countless stories across the country – assaults, arrests, deaths.

I am on the tail end of Gen X, approaching the age of 50, and the could haves are endless. With the ballasts of decency removed, the societal ship becomes far more unstable. What if the driver was armed? What if the driver felt it was an opportunity to act on his hatred beyond verbalization? What if he contacted ICE to prompt them to show up with their masks and guns at the ready?

What then, if the ship truly sinks? I live in Doylestown; my daughter is soon starting third grade in the Bucks County School District. I share custody of her, and as a father, being close by is the only correct choice. Peter and his family are near Manasquan, New Jersey. It is a 90 minute drive under optimal conditions and closer to two hours on average. Our father lives near Peter, but at this point in his life,
needs us now in the way we needed him as children.

Should something happen to my brother or my sister-in-law, I am their next step for support. I take that responsibility with love and appreciation for having them in my life and for being in their lives, while still contemplating the realities of my own responsibilities and limited flexibility that accompanies those responsibilities. I work full-time, my spouse and I share one vehicle, and my daughter depends on
me to be the dad show shows up.

While some things are simple to remedy temporarily – my spouse could borrow our wonderful neighbor's car – others are not. An unexpected financial burden is an undeniable potential. If Peter were hurt, there are medical costs. If he were detained for simply looking like himself, there are significant legal costs and harrowing threads to follow. If he were outright murdered, the cost goes beyond simple
financial measurements.

I have no doubt my spouse would be my own support in any way possible to help my family, but if any one of those terrifying possibilities came to be, how would I explain to my daughter, who is six months younger than Greg, that I would need to be absent from her life for unknown amounts of time to go help her uncle, aunt, and cousin?

In a climate that has given people greater license to rip the ballasts away and let society sink into blatant bigotry, where the brief inconvenience of a school bus dropping off elementary-age children is triggering enough to hurl hatred at someone you do not know, it is hard to dismiss these worries and pretend there is no possibility.