Jun 24, 2009 - 04:30 AM
By Neil Crone
I found myself in the middle of one of those surreal moments last week.
You know, when you see or hear something that is just so far outside your normal operations manual that you don't even really react to it until it's too late? Moments when all you can do is stop and stare and wait for your brain to catch up. Like when you suddenly find yourself face to face with a bank robber or a completely inappropriate remark or a sober woman who actually finds you attractive.
Dog and I were in the car, en route to one of our favourite countryside walks. We were stopped at a light when a pickup pulled into the left hand turn lane beside us. Through the open passenger window I heard the driver utter these words to his passenger, "...there's no blacks or Pakis up here, so that's good. We do got some chinkies though. Lots of chinkies."
I was stupefied. Atrocious grammar aside, you just don't expect to hear that kind of thing outside of a Klan rally. To my stunned ear, he may as well have been saying: "Detonator's set and primed. Come two o'clock, there'll be nothing left of this town but a smokin' crater."
And it was said in such a completely matter-of-fact way, as though he were pointing out quaint, local landmarks to a visitor. "That's the Co-op over there, Legion's just down the street. There's no blacks or Pakis up here, so that's good..."
What seemed to compound the ugliness of these remarks was that these were young men; probably somewhere in their late 20s to early 30s. Men who should have known better. Men who have, supposedly, grown up in a much more enlightened and culturally diverse age than their parents and grandparents.
Sadly, they're also young enough to procreate and hand their ignorance down to the next generation. Bigotry, the gift that keeps on giving.
Again, I seemed to be swimming underwater for the few seconds it took my mind to process what was happening. By the time it did register, the light had changed and the pickup had pulled away, leaving me slack-jawed, angry and impotent.
I suppose I could've given chase. But to what end? To engage the fellas in a little dialogue, pointing out that they were not wholly to blame for their erroneous views of other races and cultures? They were merely the unfortunate product of living in a cloistered, homogenous community for too long?
No thanks.
Somehow I don't think a guy who uses the words Paki and chinkies, with no more care than if he were ordering a pizza, would take kindly to being labelled homogenous. Especially from a guy driving a yellow bug with a flower in it.
Although I might make a nice footnote to his next truck-buddy conversation; "I don't mind the blacks, Pakis and chinkies so much no more... it's them homogenous actors that are the real pain in the ass. Sure wish we didn't got them."
Durham resident Neil Crone, actor-comic-writer, saves some of his best lines for his columns.
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