Many years ago, I worked as a counselor at a youth center in the southwestern part of the United States. Most of my clients were of Native American or Hispanic ethnicity and were referred to me by the police. Occasionally, however, I would be asked by the local schools to see students from other ethnic backgrounds who were having difficulties communicating with the school staff.

One such student was the 14-year-old son of an elected official who had been a model student all the way through school. His behavior had changed in just a day’s time, and it was obvious to everyone that something had happened, but he would not talk to anyone. The school’s counselor suspected drugs and recommended that his parents send him to me.

I ruled out drugs on the first appointment because I realized he was covering up something that went much deeper than that, and so we spent the hour just getting to know each other. I saw him again a week later, and although he seemed a bit more relaxed, it was obvious he wasn’t going to share anything with me, so we spent the hour playing a game of pool. The third session started out the same as the second did; however, when I suggested we play pool again, he lifted his head and, for the first time in our relationship, looked me straight in the eyes.

“If I tell you something, will you tell my father?” he asked, in a manner that indicated he was ready and needed to talk.

I assured him that whatever he told me would remain confidential… however, as I spoke those words, my heart began pounding, for I knew he was about to confess something to me that perhaps I did not want to hear.

He began by asking me what I thought of Native Americans, and I told him that I saw them on an equal level as all other people.

“My father says they are like dogs,” he responded emotionlessly and then proceeded to tell me the details of a Saturday morning joy ride on his motorcycle a few weeks prior.

His father had given him a dirt bike for his birthday, and he loved riding it out in the wide open spaces just outside of town. He was usually all alone and could do whatever he felt like doing, without fear of someone reporting him to his father, whom he both admired and feared.

He was tearing up the dirt at a high rate of speed when suddenly, just ahead of him, he saw a drunken Native American passed out on the ground. He had plenty of time to stop or to slow down and go around him, but instead, without putting much thought into it, he sped up and ran over the man’s head… just like one might do to a mangy old dog.

He realized immediately that he had done something wrong, but instead of reporting it, he returned to his home and washed down the motorcycle to get rid of any evidence. The following day, he searched the newspaper and found the report of a Native American male found dead in the area he had been riding. The police believed it to be gang-related, and so no further investigation would be done.

“Well, I guess that pretty much explains things, doesn’t it?” I responded, after a brief pause. “But where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” he responded quietly. “I don’t know.”

“I want to keep seeing you,” I assured him, “but I would like you to talk with a friend of mine as well, who may be better qualified to help you. Would you mind if I told your mother to make an appointment with him?”

“I guess it would be okay,” he answered, “but please don’t tell her why.”

I assured him that I would not and made the call to his mother as soon as he left the office. I told her that I did not feel qualified to help her son and recommended making an appointment with a psychologist I knew.

He came back to see me a few weeks later, and we played a game of pool. I asked him how it was going, and he said things were improving… A few days later, he was killed in a tragic accident when he supposedly lost control of his dirt bike and slammed into a tree.

In the years that have followed, I have worked with many people who have taken wrong turns in life and ended up on a dead-end road. Some have been able to turn themselves around by admitting their wrongdoing and making a new start with whatever they have left; others have tried to convince themselves that they really were not at fault and that things would get better in time; and still others, who find it hard to forgive themselves, end up destroying themselves.

This young man’s story haunts me not just because of its tragic ending, but because it reflects a pattern I see repeated throughout human history—both in individuals and in entire societies. Like him, we as a species have often acted on inherited prejudices, convinced ourselves that certain groups are somehow less human, less deserving of dignity and life. We have committed atrocities while telling ourselves they were justified, or that the victims somehow deserved their fate.

The boy’s father’s words—”they are like dogs”—echo through generations of human cruelty: the dehumanization that precedes genocide, the racial hatred that fuels violence, the tribal thinking that allows us to see others as expendable. This dehumanization doesn’t begin with the act of violence; it begins with the language we use, the stories we tell ourselves, and the prejudices we pass down to our children like poisoned heirlooms.

But perhaps most tragically, this case illustrates how the weight of our collective and individual sins can crush us. Just as this young man could not live with what he had done, societies too can be consumed by the guilt of their past actions—or conversely, destroyed by their refusal to acknowledge that guilt at all. We see this in the way nations struggle with their histories of slavery, colonization, and genocide. Some, like the boy who tried to wash the evidence from his motorcycle, attempt to cover up their crimes. Others, overwhelmed by the magnitude of their wrongdoing, seem to lose their way entirely.

The path forward—for individuals and for humanity—lies not in denial or self-destruction, but in the courage to face our failures honestly, to make amends where possible, and to ensure that the prejudices and hatreds that led to these tragedies are not passed on to the next generation. The boy’s story ended in tragedy because he carried his burden alone, unable to find a way to live with what he had done. Perhaps our species can learn from his fate and choose a different path: one of acknowledgment, healing, and genuine change.

After all, the difference between wisdom and destruction often lies not in the mistakes we make, but in how we choose to carry them forward.