As a staunch ally of people who don’t look like me, I was too shocked to come up with anything more pointed.

Last week I was sitting on a bench in an upscale neighbourhood waiting to meet a friend, when a wizened little old lady sat down next to me. Picture a tiny bird-like woman, immaculately dressed, fancy jewellery, caked-on makeup, trying to appear young or middle-aged. In my eyes she looked 90 years old or more.

If my description seems less than charitable, it’s probably scarred by hearing her ugly remarks a bit later.

Almost immediately this lady engaged me in small talk. The weather. It was hot. Fatigue. Shopping is tiring. Back to weather. No rain. We need rain. Etc.

As the minutes ticked by, she seemed to be increasingly relaxed with me, sharing her thoughts about the neighbourhood: It’s not as clean as it used to be. Not so many nice stores like before. It’s not as nice around here as it used to be.

I’m just listening to this. Noncommittal. She’s entitled to her opinion, after all.

Meanwhile it’s quite busy around us, many pedestrians, going back to work after lunch, coming out for lunch, meeting pals, pushing baby carriages, etc. A variety of ages, genders, races, sizes and shapes. A nice diverse bunch of folks, all passing by.

Suddenly she says from out of nowhere: “I’m afraid of Black people.” I turned and stared at her, frowning.

She continued, “One time I was sitting here and I looked up and a Black man over there was looking at me. I looked away. When I looked back, he was still looking at me. I’m afraid of Black men.”

I gathered my wits, such as they were. “I’m afraid of white men,” I intoned.

That got her attention. She started, “No, but –”

“Yes,” I went on, “if I’m alone at night, and a strange white man approaches me, I’m very frightened!” (Forget that I’m never alone on the street at night anymore; I just wanted to stop her in her tracks by any means necessary. I dreaded where her own ‘confessional’ was headed.)

But she wouldn’t be sidetracked; her rant escalated. “There are too many Blacks. Too many Blacks here,” she declared, shaking her head for emphasis.

My jaw dropped. At that point I couldn’t stand her words anymore. I stood up abruptly. “Have to go now,” I said sternly, and I ducked into a nearby store for a couple of minutes to collect myself. I was so angry, I was actually breathing hard. When I ventured back out, the bench was empty.

I felt frustrated. Why couldn’t I have said something more… scathing to her?! Why didn’t I attempt to counter her statements somehow? (Clearly my “fear of white men” bit didn’t stop her!)

But perhaps there’s no use trying to talk racists out of their beliefs? What do you think? Have you ever been in a similar situation? If so, how did you handle it? I’d really like to know, so maybe I could respond better if there is a next time. Which I hope there won’t be!

Thanks for reading!