In August 2014, this was the very first article that I posted on Midlife-A-Go-Go. While it had nothing to do with midlife itself, I felt it still had a place here because it occurred to me in midlife. I revisit this article today because I’m helping Hannah, my heart-niece in England, with a school project on the subject of racism. It’s a shame that today, 7 years later, racism is still alive and well. The world must do better.

Today I was rendered speechless.

I was called “nigger.” Apparently, that insult wasn’t enough to satisfy the two white strangers whose sensibilities were silently challenged by a black woman who had the audacity to pull her little red convertible next to their behemoth SUV as we both attempted to exit the supermarket parking lot. “Fucking nigger” came next. And then they released a torrent of words that I couldn’t understand. Not because I didn’t have full command of the English language, but rather, because in my stunned fury, blood rushed to my head and the pounding of my heart reverberated in my ears and, for a brief moment, I ceased hearing. In hindsight, I could have hit them with my own verbal assault, but when you’re shocked into silence, words escape you. So much fury aimed at me, a stranger.

Why?

They were in the wrong lane to turn left whereas I, who is not only capable of reading words but deciphering pictures as well (aaahhh…look at the pretty arrow on the pavement directing cars to turn left), was in the lane that they should’ve been in. How do I know this? The female driver, still deeply entrenched in the throes of madness, stepped on the gas pedal, jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left and rushed out in front of me as I was beginning to make a left turn. I still don’t know how she managed to not hit me and drag my right fender down the street with her.

My mind unfolds and replays the scene in slow motion as if it’s a clip from a poorly scripted movie that bypassed the theaters and went straight to video.

When I got home, my husband Maarten took one look at me and asked, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“They called me a nigger!” I replied. As I recounted the episode, Maarten, who’s white, shook his head in dismay.

It would be all too easy for me to label these two individuals as “racists,” “ignoramuses,” “bigots” and “assholes,” and they would probably wear the badge nicely and with pride. However, it’s about more than simply hurling tags at unknown people who clearly aren’t behaving like the woman and man their mothers expected them to grow up to be when they gave birth to them.

It puzzles me why I was placed in a position that warrants my anger, which is justified, and after my fury is abated and the steam has dissipated, all I’m left with are the soiled memories of two people with hatred in their hearts. They stole five seconds from my life with their verbal attack. Despite their bigoted and racist tirade, I have to wonder: If they took the time to get to know me, would they still hate me, or are their skewed beliefs and opinions about Blacks—steeped so deep in the tales of their fathers and their father’s father and beyond who long for the good old days when cotton was king and the lives of Black men, women and children were not their own but belonged to their plantation masters—such that their hatred cannot be undone?

I’m a fairly nice, easygoing woman. Sometimes I laugh too loud, I’ve been known to speak my mind and damn the consequences and, on occasion, I drink too much. But do these traits justify blatant intolerance of the most prejudiced kind?

In the end, I know that’s all speculation. Those aren’t the caliber of people I’d want in my circle of friends. I’d rather my circle remain unbroken and allow the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ to fight it out.

Today, two bigots came into my life and briefly shook my world. I wasn’t deserving of their filth and disrespect. Their tirade of hate left no physical scars, but the piercing words that pummeled my soul have wounded me. But you know what? I’m strong. I may bend, I may shed a tear or two, I may feel the swirl of revenge raging inside of me, but I will not bow down to those who seek to belittle me with their words. My mother and father taught me better than that.

In the end, today . . . I have all the words I need.