In the maelstrom of despicable, outlandish, and destructive things President Trump has said and continues to say, I think some of his scarier sentiments have gone largely unnoticed. One that rattled me especially came in one of the Republican debates: Trump’s declaration regarding immigration that “Here we speak English,” which I consider the perfect representation of his blatant validation of xenophobia.

Perhaps worse than that, however, is when Mike Pence claimed in the VP debate that there is “too much of this talk of institutional bias or racism in law enforcement.” I was (and still am) afraid for the safety of the countless minorities threatened by the ignorance and inaction of people like the vice president.

Besides the fact that I think Pence is a cold and ruthless bigot who simply does not care for the well-being of the disenfranchised, his statement points to a widespread and dangerous lack of education regarding the nature of bias and how it works on a societal level.

Before I write further, I want to clarify something: I am a well-off, white, straight male. I do not pretend to have ever been confronted with homophobia, misogyny, racism, or any of the other biases that plague American society.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes; institutional racism. From conversations with more enlightened teachers, articles on social justice, and the superb Ava DuVernay documentary 13th, I’ve learned a whole lot about the true meaning of institutional racism as well as the misconceptions surrounding it.

Many white people (men in particular) seem to think that saying “institutional racism is a problem in law enforcement” is the same as saying “all cops are racists.” It depends on your definition of “racist,” but I think that word’s harsh connotations conjure an image of outright bigots (The Unite the Right crowd, for example) rather than ignorant fools.

Anyway, if I were to say “all cops were racist,” people would likely assume that I think every single member of law enforcement is a quintessentially prejudiced person who makes a conscious effort to harm those who belong to racial minorities. That’s not true, of course, but what people like Pence need to understand is that, as far as I can tell, no one’s really saying all cops are racist. That’s not the point of movements like Black Lives Matter.

As I understand it, the term “institutional racism” refers to the numerous racial biases that permeate the members of a group or organization. This can be applied to any human institution, really, of any size; a school, a city, or the world.

I prefer to think of institutional racism on the global scale, because that makes it clear that each and every human being is influenced, to varying degrees, by prejudice. That includes me, it includes you, and it includes cops.

I don’t know if police officers are, on average, more racially prejudiced than the rest of us. I don’t have the data to say whether they are or aren’t. But that’s not critical in proving the existence of institutional racism in law enforcement. Cops are human beings; thus, they are influenced by institutional racism.

The reason why institutional racism is more dangerous in the context of law enforcement, and why you often hear the two discussed together, is simple: cops have guns. The consequences of their biases can be deadly.

What makes institutional racism so hard to fight is the fact that so many people deny its existence. I read a book a year or so ago entitled Blindspot: Hidden Biases in Good People. The title does a nice job of getting the point across; in a nutshell, Blindspot is a study of institutional racism and all its subtleties.

What it did for me, though, was help me understand my role in perpetuating prejudice and what I have to do to fight it. A common reference point within the book is Harvard’s Project Implicit test, which diagnoses your degree of underlying bias. The approach is creative and fascinating; you can take it yourself here.

My result was something along the lines of “Moderate Bias;” I don’t remember the exact phrasing. That surprised me at first, but not once I stopped to think about it. I grew up in Seattle, a largely white city; lived in a largely white neighborhood; and went to an elementary school where the only students of color were either half-Asian or half-black (the other half being white).

Considering this, it would be a bit strange if I didn’t have any semblance of inherent racial prejudice. After all, racism is all about familiarity. We’re comfortable with what we know, and apprehensive about what we don’t.

I took this test as part of a racism discussion group back in my freshman year. When we met to discuss the test, my fellow members were horrified and disgusted by their results. I wasn’t. By no means was I proud to discover that I’m a little bit racist — indeed, I was disappointed — but I see my “Moderate Bias” diagnosis as a call to action rather than something to frown about.

I challenge you, dear readers, to recognize the inner racist. Once you do that, you can make a conscious effort to resist any of those subconscious motivations. You can’t fight an enemy if you deny its existence. The next step is to help others do the same. Once everybody confronts their hidden biases — that’s when we start making real strides towards eliminating institutional racism everywhere.

From our earliest years, we are taught that actions have consequences. It’s a simple idea, and it makes sense, particularly to a growing mind still learning the way the world works. Good deeds are rewarded, and bad deeds result in punishment. It provides both a motivation and a basic framework for morality.

I lived most of my life with this concept planted firmly in my subconscious, at a level so deep I could neither recognize nor question it. It was more than part of my moral compass; it was fact. If you did something wrong, you were punished. It’s not uncommon to hear debates over the fairness of the punishment or the severity of the crime, but rarely does anyone discuss the underlying societal assumption.

Until recently, I didn’t realize that was a problem. However, as I began to dig deeper into the issues to which this idea applies — criminal justice in particular — I found myself asking a question: How, exactly, does punishment help society? And, as I learned more, I realized something: it doesn’t. After all, that’s not really the point. We punish those who do wrong not because it’s constructive, but because we have decided it is our moral responsibility to do so.

That’s not to say punishment is never the practical approach or that it’s never helpful. If misdeeds went without consequences, civilization would fall apart. It’s just that punishment and pragmatism don’t always overlap. Our recidivism rate is scary high — 49.3% according to a 2016 study by the United States Sentencing Commission (USSC).

In other words, a whopping near-50% of former prisoners are released from prison only to return to a life of crime.

A few years ago, I watched a 60 Minutes piece on the criminal justice systems of Europe. It was enlightening. Very few European nations have life sentences, let alone capital punishment. Furthermore, their prisons are almost completely unrecognizable.

Take Norway, for example. If not for the fences marking the perimeters of its prisons, you’d be forgiven for thinking they were apartment buildings or housing projects. Prisoners are often allowed to wear their own clothes (rather than uniforms), roam the complex, play catch, and live a largely normal — but limited — life.

I balked when I heard this for the first time. I thought, What’s the point of prison if criminals are living comfortably, not hurting for doing wrong? Over time, though, I came to realize the implications of that initial question. We Americans are so focused on the ruthless delivery of “justice,” of punishment, that we tend to forget about what comes next. It’s ironic, really; we don’t consider the consequences of our appetite for consequences.

Punishment has its place; I don’t deny that. Murder, domestic abuse, rape — these are intentional, despicable actions for which there is no excuse. Many of those who commit such crimes probably belong behind bars, as far away from freedom as possible. But again, the logistical realities return to chip away at that ideal scenario. It’s unlikely that the majority of rapists and murderers will stay locked up for life or be executed. In many cases, their return to society is unavoidable. Do you want them to come out even more violent, psychotic, and mentally unstable than they were going in?

Then there’s the issue of substance abuse, which should never really be treated as a crime in the first place. No, it’s not a great idea to do drugs or chug alcohol day and night, but those are really the only mistakes for which addicts and alcoholics are directly responsible.

In some cases (peer pressure, etc.), even that’s not totally true. After that first misstep, that single misstep, it’s really not their fault. Addiction reworks the brain on a chemical level. From where I’m standing, addicts and alcoholics are victims, not criminals. How on Earth can the notoriously violent, traumatic American prison system be depended on to treat those illnesses rather than make them worse?

The big, overarching distinction is this: Germany, Scandinavia, much of Europe — they’re focused on the end goal. Their justice systems treat inmates humanely because their purpose is to reduce crime. They know creating an atmosphere of harrowing mental (and often physical) trauma will not make inmates more stable, respectable citizens by the time they’re up for parole. The U.S., on the other hand, gives out punishment for the sake of punishment. Considering our justice system perpetuates so many other major problems in American society (institutional racism and social immobility in particular), that needs to change.

For this and more great articles by columnist Duncan O. Glew, visit his blog, State of the Glewnion: A Political Journal by Duncan Glew.