Strange Times
It’s weird living in a neighborhood populated by West Indian immigrants. My perpetually drunk upstairs neighbour, Donna, who has been here for 35 years, was bitching about the guy who lived in my room before me. She went on about how he complained of her music at 7 p.m. on Saturdays. In the middle of her rant she asked me if I understood. Before I could react, she interjected: “Eh, you wouldn’t know; you’re black.” As a goodbye she called me boo.
In the same evening, the skinny kids, no older than 20, who camp out on the street outside, called me whiteboy and tried to provoke a fight. I could only smile.
Being a minority is tough work.
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