Remember the Minneapolis Trucker?

Remember how the media and most people reported the event?

Here’s how some of the headlines read: 

Truck Driver Sped Toward Protesters.

Large Truck Drives Through Crowd Of Protesters.

Truck Driver Nearly Killed Protesters.

Truck Driver Arrested After Barreling Through Minneapolis Protesters

Truck Seen Speeding Toward Protesters.

Truck Driver Who Drove Into Crowd Arrested.

 Many of the social media posts were too vile to repeat. To a much lesser degree, I was vilified and called a thing or two by some, even family members, because I questioned the narrative that he was a terrorist. The commonsense facts just didn’t add up.

Why would he honk? Why would he brake? Why would he swerve away from people? Most of all, why oh why would he stop, at all?

But for some reason, people crave chaos and drama.

Some of the people interviewed painted some pretty tall tales. One young man lied through his teeth saying people were slaughtered with bodies flying everywhere that he helped load in a truck. Whereas the cameras clearly showed, nothing at all like that happened.

Turns out the DOT dropped the ball. They didn't close the net before letting thousands of pedestrians plant their butts on the interstate.

The trucker, Bogdan Vechirko, had just delivered badly needed gas to Lonnie McQuirten’s BP station. “He’s a great guy. That’s it” said, Lonnie.

Mr. Vechirko was simply doing his job, working—feeding his family.  Then, caught by surprise because the interstate was scheduled to close at 8 o’clock—not 5 o’clock like it did.  

He was cruising along at highway speed of around seventy or so, when all of a sudden, the people appeared. He did a wonderful job stopping that big rig without hurting anyone. Yet, he was beaten to a bloody pulp; his windows were smashed in by raging lunatics and he may have suffered trauma deeper than the flesh wounds, that will haunt him with nightmares the rest of his life.

What if it were you? Many of us have been on that same stretch of highway.

What if you looked down for a second and when you looked up there were a thousand folks in front of you?

We’ve all had it happen.

We’re driving along peacefully and all of a sudden, we slam on the brakes because of a traffic jamb or a deer or dog or something.

Image having 85,000 pounds, and now all you can do is brake and horn and clutch and downshift and brake some more as hard and as fast as you can…until, finally, you come to a stop, and thank God no one got hurt…whew.

But wait, something’s wrong.

The windshield is caved in from people. People! on the hood. The side windows explode, the door flies open and the next thing you know, you’re ripped from the cab and dropped seven feet from seat to pavement.

You land on your side. The wind gets kicked out of you so you can’t even breath. Then it’s a blur. Fists and feet pummel, over and over and over again. 

All you can do is gasp for air, try. to. breath. 

You're drug by your shirt, until it rips right off. Then they drag you by a leg across the hot pavement; rocks, stone and glass cut your back. Your chest and face are covered in blood. Your mouth is swollen and numb.

Finally, after an eternity of a minute or two, you hear shouts to “BACK AWAY” you hope and pray, "Dear God let it be police." 

The unyielding mob kicks harder with more vigor, more vile, more hate. Forced to use pepper spray, law enforcement manages to part the raging waves.

Somehow, they get you to your feet.

The mob roars with a ferocity that makes you dizzy. They pummel you and them, with rocks and bottles and all kinds of debris as you stumble and limp your shirtless, bruised, bleeding body some fifty feet— that seems like fifty miles—to the cruiser.

Finally, safe inside. Through quivering lips and watering eyes, you start to thank the officers for saving your life, but they turn around and say, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say…”

You swallow hard. Everything goes silent. You don't even know why you were beaten—let alone, be under arrest. 

Whoever said tough truck drivers, can’t cry, is a liar.

They arrest you. You.

What about the mob that beat you? The ones who smashed out your windows? They’re depicted, painted, coddled…as victims.

Are we in America, still?

Soon you hear, you're called a racist. A terrorist. The media discovers you made a few donations to the republican party, they see red and want your head.

Stop. 

Think. 

Close your eyes and picture the scene…

Image it’s you, handcuffed, black and blue and bleeding with tears running down your cheek in the backseat.

Or image it's your son?

Your daughter?

Your husband?

Your wife?

Your friend?  

Dear friend, please, let’s slow down. Stop. Take a breath. Say a prayer Put ourselves in another’s shoes…before we leap.

Oh and if by chance you see Mr. Vechirko, take off your hat, bow your head, and tell him you're real, real, real sorry.