Racism and Prejudice are Alive, but Very Unwell

"Get out of here! Go back to where you came from, you f**king immigrants. Scumbags! Why are you here? What the f**k are you looking at?"

These venomous words, laced with a hatred that echoed from a dark and twisted place, were hurled at my family and me on what was supposed to be the beginning of a dream vacation. We had just driven 10 hours from Toronto to New York City, our hearts full of anticipation for what the Big Apple had to offer. This was to be the first stop on a two-week adventure, a journey we had planned for and looked forward to with eager hearts. But as the night would soon teach us, instead of a bite out of the Big Apple, the Big Apple would take a savage bite out of us.

After arriving at our hotel, nestled in the heart of Central Park, the concierge recommended a charming little pizzeria just a few blocks away. It was late, around 9 PM, and we were all famished, especially my 5-year-old son, Ari. His little face, both tired and hungry, mirrored our own exhaustion from the long drive. The warm night air seemed to beckon us as we stepped out for the short walk to the pizzeria, ready to enjoy our first taste of New York.

The city was alive, its streets bustling with energy! The hum of cars, the bright yellow taxis weaving through traffic, the tantalizing aromas wafting from nearby food trucks - everything felt vibrant, electric, like a city that never sleeps was welcoming us into its embrace. We entered the pizzeria, ordered our pizzas, and sat down to eat. My son eagerly bit into his slice, his innocent joy a beautiful contrast to the frenetic pace outside. My wife sat across from me, her eyes reflecting the warmth of the evening, while I took a moment to soak in the scene—New York in all its glory, so full of life, so full of promise.

But then, out of nowhere, like a clap of thunder on a clear day, it happened.

"What the heck are you looking at?"

The words sliced through the air, jarring me from my reverie. At first, I didn’t even realize they were directed at me. The voice, dripping with malice, was like a cold splash of water, shocking and unwelcome. When I finally understood that this vile barrage was aimed at me, I turned to the man, maintaining my composure. "I'm sorry, I'm not looking at you at all. If anything, I’m looking out the window." My attempt at a calm explanation only served to ignite his fury further. He unleashed a tirade of profanity, each word spat with venom, each syllable laced with an anger so raw, it felt almost tangible. He was very intoxicated either from alcohol, drugs or potentially both.

I could feel the heat rising in me, a primal instinct to protect my family, to stand up against this unprovoked assault. I was on the verge of getting up when my wife’s hand gently touched mine. "Kree, please don’t." Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of reason, pulling me back from the brink. In that moment, I remembered what was at stake—not just my pride, but the safety and well-being of my family, especially my young son, who was now looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. I had everything to lose in this altercation and he had none. Discretion is the greater part of valor in this scenario.

The man was seated across the restaurant, and though he wasn’t making any move towards us, his words were like daggers, each one aimed at our sense of peace, our right to be there. My wife’s touch anchored me, reminded me that I wasn’t just a man—I was a father, a husband. And in that role, my first duty was to protect them, not just from physical harm, but from the emotional scars that could be left by this encounter.

As I sat there, my pulse still racing, I looked around the restaurant. Everyone was uncomfortable, their eyes darting between us and the man who continued to spew his hate. There was another father nearby, his young son sitting beside him, both of them looking as horrified as we felt. And yet, no one did anything. Not a word, not a gesture, most critically nothing from the store owners and staff. The silence was deafening, a complicit agreement to let this moment pass without intervention. It was as if the entire place had been paralyzed by fear or apathy, or perhaps both. This is when we fail ourselves.

I felt a deep sadness, not just for us, but for the world we live in. A world where such vile words could be spoken in public, in the presence of children, and where no one would stand up to say, "This is not okay." My heart ached as I thought of my son, who had never heard such language before, who had never seen such unfiltered hate. His small voice broke through my thoughts, "Dad, why is this guy doing this? I’m afraid."

Those words shattered me. As a father, there is no worse feeling than seeing your child afraid, seeing the light in their eyes dimmed by the darkness of the world. In that moment, I was transported back to my own childhood, to a time when I was around his age, living under the shadow of an oppressive and sinister apartheid regime in South Africa. I knew all too well the pain of being on the receiving end of hate, of being made to feel less than human simply because of the color of my skin. And now, here was my son, at the tender age of five, facing a similar darkness through a different experience.

I recount that dark moment of my childhood in an earlier piece here : https://www.dhirubhai.net/posts/kree-govender-12b2651b_this-content-has-been-simmering-in-my-soul-activity-7074207555715039233-9f2p?utm_source=share&utm_medium=member_desktop

We quickly finished our meal, though the taste of the pizza had long since turned to ash in our mouths. I called the hotel, explaining our situation, and soon after, the store owner finally ushered the man outside. But he wasn’t done. He stood by the window, wobbling from his intoxication, continuing his vile tirade, his face twisted with anger, his words like poison directed at me. I knew we couldn’t walk back to the hotel—not with him out there, not with my son and wife by my side. We managed to hail a taxi and escaped the scene, but the damage was done. The joy and excitement we had felt upon arriving in New York had been replaced with fear and a lingering sense of violation.

That night, as we lay in our hotel room, my son huddled close to us, the weight of the day pressed down on me like a heavy blanket. Sleep was elusive, my mind replaying the events over and over, searching for answers, for understanding. The next morning, I woke up with a need to clear my head, to run and try to shake off the darkness that had settled over me. Central Park, with its sprawling greenery, seemed like the perfect place to find some solace.

As I ran, the anger and hurt began to dissipate, replaced by something unexpected—empathy and pity. This man, this stranger who had thrown so much hate our way, was clearly battling his own demons. Maybe it was the sight of a family of color, happy and together, that triggered something in him. Maybe it was the alcohol and drugs that fueled his rage, or perhaps it was a lifetime of buried pain and resentment that had finally found a target in us. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with us and everything to do with him. What I do know for certain is that an intoxicated mind speaks a sober truth and his was dark and pain fueled. Over the coming days we witnessed many homeless, drugged people, many hallucinating and having conversations with people that seem to exist only in their minds. Upon reflection I realized that this could very well be the case for this man - that this was all a vivid and visceral hallucination.

I realized then that I had a choice. I could hold on to the anger, let it fester and grow, or I could choose to let it go, to see this man not as an enemy, but as someone deeply broken, someone to be pitied rather than hated. When I returned to the hotel, I shared these thoughts with my wife. We agreed that while this experience had shaken us, we wouldn’t let it define our time in New York. We still had so much to see, so much to experience, and we refused to let one man’s hate cast a shadow over our entire trip.

We chose to rise above, to continue with our journey, cautious but not fearful, aware but not deterred. Because in the end, the true power lies not in what happens to us, but in how we choose to respond. We chose to respond with grace, with empathy, and with a determination not to let hate win. Prejudice, racism and hate maybe very much alive but it is truly unwell and it's time is coming to an end. Let us rise with consciousness.

Key Lessons:

1. Empathy Over Anger: It’s easy to respond to hate with hate, but true strength lies in trying to understand where it comes from, even if it’s painful. In the face of such negativity, choosing empathy can be a powerful way to reclaim your own peace.

2. The Importance of Action: In moments of injustice, silence is complicity. We must find the courage to speak up and stand against prejudice, not just for ourselves, but for others too. This experience reminded me that even a small act of kindness or a word of support can make a world of difference.

3. Resilience in the Face of Adversity: Life will throw challenges our way, but it’s how we respond that defines us. We must choose to rise above, to continue on our path with determination and grace, refusing to be weighed down by the darkness we encounter.

4. The Power of Choice: Every day, we have the power to choose how we let the world affect us. We can choose to be victims, or we can choose to take control of our own narrative. Our choices shape our experiences, and in choosing love and empathy, we reclaim our power from those who seek to take it away. We choose what to give power to. The mind can be both a wonderful servant or a demented tormentor. You decide.