And He Walked the Other Way

“Has anyone ever punched you in the face?

The question caught me off guard as I walked an overdue children’s book to the library this morning. I noticed the guy walking the opposite direction on the sidewalk as I came to a stoplight. It was hard not to notice him for a couple of reasons.

First of all, he was a young black man. Longmont Colorado, where I live, is fairly ethnically diverse, but only in one dimension — 25% of the population is Hispanic. Aside from that, Longmont is a mostly white town, just like the one I grew up in in Illinois. So to see a young black man walking on the street is noticeable. So I noticed.

Second, he seemed to be slightly on edge, just judging by the way he was walking. Perhaps it was the music playing in his earbuds, or perhaps it was just my inner racist mind that said, “There’s a black kid. He’s probably angry.” I know I shouldn’t think or write that, but if nobody does, it makes it extremely difficult for others to acknowledge their own stereotypes and racism towards others.

So, there was me, one of the least-racist-yet most-aware-of-his-own-racism white guys in town, holding a children’s book, walking towards a young black man in a mostly white town.

One more thing you should know about me: I always make eye contact with everyone I pass on the street. I don’t know if that’s a white person thing or a small town thing or just that I am generally interested in smiling and greeting others, but it’s just what I do. It’s my nature. So, despite whatever feelings of unease may have been slowly drifting from my animal brain to my stomach, I made eye contact with and smiled at the young man as I attempted to walk past him.

That’s when he hit me.

Not with his fist, but with the question, “Has anyone ever punched you in the face?”

He seemed angry. He seemed like he wanted to hit someone. And I asked him to repeat the question.

“What’s that?”

“Has anyone ever fucking hit you in the face?”, he replied.

“No, never,” I said with a smile.

Let me pause here to say, I have been hit in the face.

Once.

By accident.

In Bible college.

While rehearsing for a Pirate play for the Spring Banquet.

Not a super badass story. And it didn’t come to mind until after the interaction. And it probably wasn’t relevant to the young man asking me angrily if I had ever been hit in the face. But, alas, he continued.

“Have you ever been knocked the fuck out?”

“No, I haven’t. Have you?”, I asked.

In retrospect, this was probably not the right follow-up question. This easily could have been taken as a retaliatory threat, as if I was asking him if he would like for me to knock him out. Which would have been the worst connotation for me to imply, since I have never been in a fight nor would I punch someone in a fight if I found myself in one. Honestly, standing there in close proximity to someone who seemed like he was itching for conflict, I totally could have a broken face right now.

“Didn’t think so,” he said, and walked away.

As I continued my walk towards the library, children’s book in hand, I couldn’t help but laugh about this totally unprovoked and bizarre interaction. So many questions popped into my mind, to which I have no answers, like:

Would he have just hit me if I didn’t acknowledge him as I passed him?

Did my eye contact and smile provoke him to anger?

Did my eye contact and smile and willingness to interact diffuse the anger raging inside him?

Did that just happen?

Is he following me?

I really have no way of know what that was about. I don’t know what was going on inside him to inspire the confrontation. I don’t know if I caused it, or if I avoided conflict by being open to a random, possibly angry, young man considering doing something stupid to a stranger.

But, here is what I do know. I was confronted by someone whom my animal brain told me to avoid and fear. He asked me questions that implied at least a certain level of violent tendencies. And I simply talked to him. Like a person. And he walked the other way.

I think that we too often listen to our animal brains and let them guide our way of being in the world. We avoid confrontation. We avoid interacting with people who are different than us out of fear. And we keep drifting apart.

I like to think that he walked the other way and wondered what was wrong with that old white dude. Maybe he was testing his own theory about difference, trying to prove that all white people are afraid of black people. Maybe he is somewhere, right now, asking himself all sorts of questions about race and difference and white America. There’s no way of knowing that either.

But I can hope that my smile and my willingness to do an impromptu interview with a young black man on the street about my history of violent conflict stirred something up in him for the better. It certainly has for me.