"No Cuts, No Colors, No Entry": A Reflection on Humanity, Ego, and the Power of Respect in Biker Culture

As I travel into different establishments across the United States, I experience the signs that say, “No cuts, No colors.” These signs are more than policies—they are loaded statements. They reflect a history of conflict, fear, and often, misunderstanding. To some, they're protection. To others, they are exclusion and profiling. But to all of us, they are an opportunity to ask a deeper question: What kind of community are we building—and who gets to belong?

I’ve met bikers, store owners, club members, independent riders, and civilians. I’ve heard countless stories from each side. One story involves a motorcycle shop owner who—well-known and respected in the community—was forced to hang that sign after a violent incident between two clubs happened on his property. He didn’t want to. But the fallout made his business vulnerable. His business was threatened, safety was in question, and he felt caught in the middle. He told me, “The right bikers will understand why I had to do it.” And they did. He still had a great turnout at his event. The people who showed up were not just there to ride—they were there to show respect. That matters.

In another situation, a restaurant owner was instructed by insurance companies to post the sign due to risks associated with club-affiliated gatherings. Again, it wasn’t personal—it was a matter of liability. But the result? More tension. More division. More fear. And even more misunderstanding.

But even then, I ask: Does the sign help? Or does it further divide us? And deeper still—does it teach us anything about humanity?

I believe it does not.

I truly feel these signs should not be up. As a humanitarian organization uniting—not to conform—I have to hear all sides. I listen to the civilians. I listen to the bikers. I listen to the shop owners, the insurance companies, the community, the business surrounding the area, the clubs, the independents, and even the lone wolves. Because if we don't listen, then we're just shouting our own truth louder than someone else's pain. And what good does that do? This is not about me.

Let’s continue with some examples, and more dialogue.

I remember when I was just getting out of a bad marriage, settling into a new life—working full time and raising my son on my own. I remember clearly when the situation in Texas was all over the news. I wasn’t part of the biker world then. I didn’t know anything about it. My life revolved around symphony rehearsals and practice halls for most of my life, not highways and chrome. But that moment on the news stuck with me. Even people who had never been near a motorcycle were talking about it. The way it was presented—how the press, the public, and even the law handled it—left a mark. I didn’t have a name for what I was feeling back then, but now I understand: it was the impact of generalization, the absence of human nuance in the story. It was the beginning of my awareness that people can be misunderstood not for who they are, but for what they wear or where they gather. I did know at that time as I watched it on the news that this was the wrong way of reporting with the lack of care for the human in any sense. It was just a blip, but I still knew about it. If I knew about that it would mean it became something larger. My head was no where near this situation, or topic.

What happened in Waco was devastating. Bikers were arrested, paraded in the media like animals at a show, and lives were lost—lives that never should have been taken. The media painted a broad, violent picture that ignored the individuals involved. The situation spiraled not just because of what happened that day—but because lack of humanity between law enforcement and the situation early enough, according to many accounts. That moment lives in the memory of the biker community because it showed how quickly assumptions and stigma can turn deadly.

And now, similar patterns are playing out in places like North Carolina, New York, the Midwest,  to California,  and all other states. Even in different countries where a conflict between  clubs spilled over into the broader community. The press response generalized every member of those clubs, overshadowing the deeper truth: this wasn’t about every biker wearing a patch—it was about individuals and ego. The press conference that followed stoked fear and fueled division, making businesses and civilians more hesitant to engage with bikers at all.

I grew up far from this world. I didn’t know anyone who had been arrested. I never saw courtrooms or police stations outside of movies. I guess I was one of the lucky ones until I went through 9  years of court stuff in the family law. I learned a ton from my resources that helped us as we learned laws, codes, and how states work. At this point in life I learned how to critical think, or as I call it "business mindset"; remove the emotions. I truly feel what I went through builds to what we are building now.

Now, as I meet more people and hear more stories, I realize that life happens—and it happens to good people. I’ve learned that the court system rarely sees nuance. It doesn’t always recognize the gray areas, the context, the emotion, or the survival instinct that shapes human behavior.

I may sound idealistic. I may wear my heart on my sleeve and try to see the beauty in every person. But I also see the darkness. Our history is full of darkness—mental, physical, generational. In families. In communities. On the road. I see it. I feel it. And I will always talk about it, even if I express things with hearts and rainbows. Healing matters. Emotion matters. The darkness is part of life. It is up to us to understand it as human because it is. The dark conversations are connected to us as humans. The human journey matters. And if we can’t talk about that as bikers, civilians, or club members—then how can we grow?

From the military to the motorcycle club, ego and hierarchy exist in every group. This conversation does have a hierarchy I found out. My two fathers were both high-ranking—one a Colonel in the Army, the other a Chief in the Navy. I understand command. I understand structure. But I’ve also seen how ego can destroy teams, missions, and communities.

History proves this. In the Battle of Gettysburg, General Robert E. Lee ignored the advice of his own officers, charging headfirst into Union lines in a move that led to unnecessary loss of life. That wasn’t leadership—it was pride.

During World War II, General MacArthur’s refusal to prepare against Japanese threats cost the Philippines greatly. I have also heard some argue that if his original plans for Korea had been followed, maybe North and South Korea wouldn’t be divided today. He was upset with Truman for removing him from rank. The story is quiet complicated to be frank on the many things he was involved in during war. As I have learned in learning history of rank, emotions, and the hard decisions we have to think about the bigger picture. Both individuals may not have been fully incorrect, but the lack of active listening to understand all sides hurt them, and we would have hoped they would have come together. The conversation is fascinating, but the ego and the psyche of these situations show the care of how we lose critical thinking in judgement, and how we dialogue with fellow individuals; does not matter what rank you are.

These moments force us to consider: How often does ego get in the way of real solutions? How often does pride silence progress?

We see this in biker culture, too. Wearing a patch is sacred. It’s earned through loyalty, trust, and the willingness to live and die for something bigger than yourself. But a civilian walking into an establishment isn’t under that code. We must understand that respect has to go both ways. You can wear a patch—but that doesn’t mean someone else is beneath you. Respect is earned, regardless of size, status, or title.

What we need isn’t more dominance—it’s more dialogue with active listening to understand. The public often doesn’t understand biker culture because all they see is fear-based headlines. And yes, the organizations and nations within biker communities must hold each other accountable, just like any tight-knit group should. But healing starts at the individual level.

It is up to us to take responsibility for our actions. It is up to us to manage our emotions and recognize when ego is hurting the bigger picture. Businesses shouldn’t have to choose between safety and community. If your presence causes their insurance to spike, then ask: What’s happened in the past that led to this? Is it justified? Or is it profiling and stigma again? Are we even asking the right questions?’’

At the same time, it’s also the responsibility of the business to hold themselves accountable—not to generalize. It is never an easy decision to make, but from my view, a case-by-case approach helps us understand the deeper meaning of how we respond to one another. If a business owner is putting up that sign without good reason, without logic, simply from bias or assumption, then that’s a reflection of their soul—and who they are. That is not okay. Because that decision hurts the community. We would hope to search for empathy before we ever consider placing that kind of sign up. We would want to figure out other ways to solve the problem—ways rooted in communication and understanding. That might be the emotional choice, but it’s also the human choice. The right one—for all sides.

The truth is, the “fight or flight” response is real—and it's something we all carry, shaped by trauma, fear, and instinct. The court system doesn’t often take that into account. Nor do the media. Nor do some club hierarchies or local communities. It’s just cold facts in a file. But behind every headline, behind every patch, behind every arrest—there’s a human story. There’s a heart. There’s pain.

I’m not here to shame anyone. I’m not here to say who’s right or wrong. I’m here to say we can do better. The signs on the doors are symbols, yes—but they’re also tests. Tests of how we treat each other, how we handle conflict, and how much we’re willing to talk to someone before judging them, or in this case...

Placing those signs up.

We don’t have to agree on everything. We don’t have to wear the same patch, or not wear a patch at all. But we do have to share the road,  the buildings,  the places,  and so forth.  We are a society and a community among the melting pot of people. And if we can’t at least meet each other in human respect, then those signs will keep going up. And the gap will keep growing.

But I believe in something else. I believe in the possibility of dialogue, even when it’s messy. I believe in community over ego. And I believe that the strongest step anyone can be is humanity.

That is what will take those signs down.

We are with this for the long run. We will have more dialogue on this as the topic grows, and more research comes to me. I pray it helps us in the most humbled way.