The Oncoming Hope

I am not a Pakistani.

I am not a Muslim.

I'd add that I'm not a cunt, but if the first two statements failed to register, why should the third?

You said that your daughter can't get a job because of me. Because of me? Really? I'm sure I am personally the one who stopped your daughter from succeeding at school or at university.

I'm sure that I'm the one who suggested that backpacking abroad is more important than learning a trade.

I'm sure I'm the one who gave her an unjustified amount of self-esteem in the form of "It's OK. I'm wealthy. Your performance is irrelevant."

You said, "Don't worry. I won't touch you. Because you're filthy." I thank you for that. Who knows if I'd have the courage to speak back if you hadn't said that. But all it took was for me to say "I'm not a Muslim," for you to charge down the street after me. You said that you wouldn't touch me. But why should I trust you?

And so the conversation progressed, all too predictably:

"You fucking Paki Muslim cunts have ruined this country!"

"I am not a Pakistani. I'm American." You can surprise yourself at the oddest of occasions. I've never identified myself as American before. Too many contradictions.

"You're a fucking Muslim cunt!"

"I'm not a Muslim either. I'm Hindu."

"No, you're a fucking Paki Muslim Cunt!"

Now there's a logic I cannot argue with.

It was 11:00 in the evening in Islington, on one of the clearest, most beautiful nights London has ever seen. You can complain about the cold, but you can't deny how beautiful the stars are on any icy evening. And all this from a black man.