His gravelly voice is drifting down the street, antagonistic and unafraid, as if inviting dispute. By the time I understand the few intelligible words mixed in between his sporadic yelling, it is too late to cross the street.
“They’re f****ing ruining this city! They run around at night and attack me! Targeting white people, but no one cares! My life matters too! What about me? White lives matter!”
The stock phrases he employs seem to be regurgitated from conservative politicians’ talking points. He stands in front of the Gray’s Papaya on 72nd Street and Broadway spewing his vitriol at all who pass.
The humidity of late July is making my limbs heavy and I become acutely aware of my appearance. Having just attended a Black Lives Matter demonstration at Bryant Park, I have a sign tucked under my arm that reads “Justice For Breonna.” I could flip the sign around to hide its message, but having spent the last six hours marching all over the city demanding immediate change, such a move feels hypocritical.
Few people are on the street as the pandemic rages and many Upper West Side residents have fled to country houses. As I approach the corner, I grow nervous in anticipation of conflict. I keep my eyes trained forward and make my best effort not to look in his direction. He instantly notices me.
My refusal to acknowledge his existence inspires his resounding desire to get my attention. His yells grow louder and he begins firing off a slew of racially charged insults. Many people are now staring at him and with the new audience, his theatrics ramp up. Once I am almost across the street, I glance back over my shoulder. Our eyes meet and his face contorts with outrage, he shouts:
“You’re a f***ing ni**er! I’m not scared of you!”
He repeats the n-word and shakes a clenched fist at me from a safe distance. The dispersed sidewalk crowd is captivated and eager eyes dart back and forth between the man and me, expecting my retaliation. No insult I could use would have equal weight as invoking over 400 years of oppression. I just keep walking.
Suddenly an elderly white woman dressed in formalwear enters the fray. She is standing on the corner I am approaching holding a Trader Joe’s bag on each arm. With a voice far more intimidating than I expected she shouts at the man,
“Shut up! Black Lives Matter!” She then turns to me, “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
Although only her eyes are visible, the warmth of her gaze is palpable and I can hear genuine concern in her voice. I can feel that she is shocked by the hate I have come to expect. I nod at her and offer a “Thank you.” We go in opposite directions and the man’s voice fades away.
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You can find Ciaran at The All Street Journal, a community dedicated to the advancement of New York Black Lives Matter.