.jpg)
Sometimes, I find myself talking to Seru about things he’ll never truly understand. “Hey Seru, now I will tell you about the massive organizations created out of hatred. Have you heard of KKK? The name sounds interesting, isn’t it? The Ku Klux Klan is composed entirely of white, Anglo-Saxon, Christian American citizens. The group is anti-immigrant, anti-Catholic, anti-miscegenation, anti-Semitic, homophobic, natives, racist, segregationist, white nationalist, white supremacist and xenophobic. They are very proud people.”
As I say these words out loud, I realize how strange and tragic it is that humans have not only learned to hate, but have built entire organizations around it. The Ku Klux Klan—three simple letters, yet behind them lies a history of violence, terror, and deep, organized prejudice. What began after the American Civil War as a secret society of men in white robes quickly grew into a symbol of fear, intimidation, and cruelty. Their targets were anyone who didn’t fit their narrow idea of who belonged: Black Americans, immigrants, Jews, Catholics, LGBTQ+ people, and so many others.
For generations, the Klan marched through towns, burning crosses and spreading fear. They wore their hate like a uniform, passing it down from father to son, mother to daughter. They justified their actions with twisted pride, convinced that their way was the only way, their blood the only blood worth honoring.
And yet, as I look at Seru, I see a creature who knows nothing of such boundaries. Seru doesn’t care about the color of your skin, the language you speak, or the faith you hold. He doesn’t judge who you love or where you come from. His world is simple: kindness is met with affection, cruelty with caution, but never with organized malice.
How strange it must seem to him, this human habit of dividing and excluding, of forming clubs and clans not for belonging, but for keeping others out. Seru’s “organization” is made up of anyone willing to share a meal, a smile, or a patch of sunshine. There are no secret codes, no rituals of hate—just the universal language of trust and play.
When I reflect on the Klan and groups like it, I feel a deep sadness. Not just for the pain they’ve caused, but for the love and connection they’ve missed. Imagine what the world could be if, instead of building walls, we built bridges. If, instead of organizing around our fears, we organized around our hopes.
Seru reminds me that belonging doesn’t have to come at the expense of others. It can be open, generous, and kind. The Klan’s pride is rooted in exclusion; Seru’s joy is rooted in inclusion. He teaches us, in his quiet, tail-wagging way, that the truest pride comes not from standing above others, but from standing together.
Perhaps, if we listened more to the Serus of the world, we’d remember that love is always stronger than hate—and that the best organizations are those built on acceptance, not fear.