Friendly encounter with war veteran in greater Minnesota is a reminder of empathy's power

In 2005, Ken Burns, the documentary filmmaker, had sent a crew to Luverne, Minn., for his film "The War," which told the story of World War II through tales from a handful of American cities. They had invited me to watch it all unfold.

At the time, I was a Star Tribune intern in a small town in western Minnesota, and I had concerns.

I'd spent a portion of my collegiate career as a freelance writer who profiled cities across this state, including Perham and Little Falls. As an intern with the Star Tribune, I'd visited Brainerd and the Red Lake Reservation. I'd covered floods in Wanamingo and a tragic accident in Cook, north of Duluth. I'd fished — and caught nothing — at a friend's cabin on Lake Mille Lacs. I knew Minnesota beyond the Twin Cities.

Those trips to greater Minnesota, however, always started with a question: How are they going to treat a Black man out there? Then, I met Warren Herreid, a white man in his 80s and a World War II veteran.

Herreid and I met when Burns' crew was filming in Luverne. I don't remember how or why we bonded, but it did not take long for Herreid to make me feel as if I'd grown up there. He introduced me to his friends. He took me around town. He helped me tell the story about Luverne's experience during World War II and treated me like someone who mattered to him. I'd barely known him for 24 hours.

I thought about Herreid's kindness this week.

I wonder and worry about the future. I crave the sweeping changes many here covet, but I also recognize the challenges in the pursuit of equity. Meanwhile, we are fighting for the preservation of empathy, which is the foundation for any real shift. You can't consider a person's plight unless you do the work to recognize their humanity and experiences.

But the pandemic has made selfishness trendy. When the world is on fire, it seems prudent to grab onto anything that feels real and secure, even at the expense of our neighbors. It's all about you and yours right now and division feeds on those principles.

I am guilty of leaning into a self-preservation that does not always make space for others. I want change and I want it now. It seems simple to me. Treat people the way you'd like to be treated and let's all move forward.

I wonder, however, if my unyielding urgency has discouraged some people with serious ambitions to combat racism, both in their communities and their own lives. In this chapter following George Floyd's murder, I know I am sometimes dismissive of those who don't get it the way I get it. What's wrong with you? That presumptiveness has, at times, replaced an opportunity for empathy for those genuinely searching. I know I sometimes withhold the same grace and patience I desire in moments of growth. And that can lead to assumptions.

Those assumptions, the same assumptions I had made on my way to a town of 4,700 in southwestern Minnesota, can erase opportunities for connections and relationships.

I had not planned to stay in Luverne for the whole week, but Herreid kept inviting me to places in town.

"Come with me," Herreid told me.

I trailed him on our way to a local grocery store, where he and a dozen other World War II veterans convened at 2:15 p.m. every day. "The Last Man Club" met at the former Glen's Bakery and Deli. Herreid told me they did not allow many folks into those gatherings but they had made an exception that day.

I was 22 years old and those veterans, then in their 80s, told me about the day they all hopped onto a train that carried them to a world they did not know. Most of them were teenagers. One of the men at the table told me he'd slipped onto the field at 15 or 16. They were boys fighting a war.

I imagined their lives then. The things they had not yet learned about themselves. A world they had not seen beyond their town. And a battle that would shape the future of the planet.

Until then, Herried and I had not discussed his military service. After a few days, however, he offered a few tales. The Purple Heart he'd been awarded. The things he saw that he could never unsee when he helped free men, women and children at a concentration camp.

Herreid trusted me. And I trusted him. He had made me feel safe and created space for me. I wasn't a journalist. I was a human being. That discomfort I'd anticipated on my trip to Luverne had never arrived.

"Before you go," he said, "I'd like to take you out for dinner. My treat."

Herreid would have never let me pay even if I'd tried.

In 2017, Herreid died. He was 96 years old.

During our time together, Herreid taught me a lesson, one I have considered throughout these difficult times.

I have to make more room to be surprised, in a positive way, by people — instead of bracing for the worst, a condition encouraged in recent years. Maybe that's the door to the empathy we all need right now.

I am glad Herreid opened one for me.