Automatic, Problematic

The lights whizzed by as they were consumed by the darkness around them. I was unable to make out the street signs, even from my window seat. Nate sat next to me, and Kip was next to him staring out his window. Their roommate, the birthday boy, was in the front with the cabbie. For a kid celebrating his 21th birthday, you’d think Titus would have been a little drunker on our way out, but he chatted the cabbie up like he was on his way to the office. The driver was Sri Lankan, if I remember my accents right. He seemed like a decent, honest man. I wondered how often the man drove his cab this late, gathering bizarre stories. His tall beige turban intrigued me as well.

On our way towards the bar, we almost hit a couple walking across the intersection. As he left the scene of the incident, the driver said, “I hate black people. They always walk in front of my cab when I have a green light, they can’t drive, and when they’re in my cab they’re loud and don’t tip! Not to mention, they are lazy.” He seemed to quiet down but then added, “And they always stare at my turban. Do I stare at them in their dingy durags? No. I don’t. Black people infuriate me.”

Titus looked back towards me and laughed. Obviously the cabbie didn’t see the black kid get in last and sit right behind him. “Yeah, don’t you agree, Greg?” Titus asked me. Of course what the man said could be said for some of the black people in DC, but they were still stereotypes. I didn’t fit any of those stereotypes other than the fact that I don’t tip. Reserving funds was a must.

I passionately wished to respond and challenge the small minded immigrant, but the night was young and getting kicked out of a cab was not on my list of fun activities. So I played along and said, “Yeah, I hate those damn niggers. They’re no good.” I always joked about my race, but if any of my black friends heard me say that, they’d probably excommunicate me. Not because I agreed with the racist cab driver; because I said nigger around white folk. But for me, comedy always came before political activism. Mom never did think I had my priorities straight.

My companions laughed for a bit, soon falling silent. I continued to stare at the man’s turban through the greasy plexiglass, wondering what might be under it. It was as big a mystery as what his wife looked like under her burqa – maybe bruises and scars he gave her. Why did he smell so strongly like curry when it was well after dinner time? How did he end up driving a taxi for a living? How did he end up in this country for that matter? He couldn’t have been a first-born American; he didn’t sound it.  Within seconds my forehead succumbed to a burning sensation.

“Greg, you alright?” Nate asked. “You’re scowling.” I raised my cold hand to my face, attempting to distribute some of the heat. I didn’t talk for fear of my own unpopular remarks slipping out; instead I flashed my friend a reassuring “everything’s gravy” smile. Returning my gaze to the window, I saw our destination to the left. Good. I needed to drown my frustrations.