I grew up in Minnesota where the number of racist attacks against me, both verbal and physical, are too numerous to list. I can only think of one time when anyone witnessing the attacks did anything about it. And that was my mother.

Shortly after moving to Los Angeles, a man noticing me from his convertible sports car across the street, began yelling for my attention. As I got closer (I was out for a run), he became so enraged to discover I was black, that he went from obnoxious catcalls to yelling at the top of his lungs, “YOU’RE A NIGGER???! YOU’RE A NIGGER???! YOU NIGGER!” He tore out of the gas station he was in, wheels screeching, illegally bolted through the busy intersection, created near-accidents, and chased me down – jumping the curb I was on with his car—almost hitting me. He seemed to about to jump out…

Then a miracle happened: it seemed like everyone in that vicinity, both driving and walking, all at once, came to my defense. One guy jumped between me and Psycho-Racist and started out-yelling him. I had a woman, out for a walk with her stroller even trying to protect me. People stopped their cars and began honking and cursing at him. It was GLORIOUS! They were shocked it was happening. I wasn’t. They were outraged over someone treating me like this. I was calm. They chased the guy out of there and made sure I was okay before leaving.

None of them were brown or black, and though it shouldn’t have been, it was a surprise to me that strangers, white strangers, would defend me so fiercely. This was in the early 2000’s before most of non-black/brown society was made more aware.

I’ve talked with and interviewed many people with color—a lot of them hadn’t experienced blatant racism and I’m glad for them. I realized location (and calling) make a lot of difference in whether or not that happens. I also know that not only much of the public, but many of my white friends and family still don’t believe it exists. Part of me is glad for them also in hopes that it’s because they don’t take part in it and aren’t intimate with anyone who does.

I cried after he’d been chased off and people dispersed. The couple of people who remained tried to console me. They thought I was crying because of what Whackadoodle-Doodoo-Dude did but that wasn’t it, was used to men like him; I wept because I was LOVED BY STRANGERS. As it should be. May all our instinctual responses be to protect and defend the innocent.

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Much love,
Kimberly
HolySmorgasBlog.com