4 minute read
Racist Encounters in Boston: What's New?
It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon in Boston. I’d just finished my Literary Studies class and met up with a friend in the Common for lunch. We hadn’t seen each other for weeks— which was a really long time for us, given we hung out almost every other day during the summer time. And so for lunch we decided to head to a food court right in downtown Boston.
My friend and I, who both wear hijabs, ordered food from some kiosk. A middle-aged white man, who had been constantly glancing at us, approached us. “I really hope you don’t mind me asking,” he started.
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Whenever strangers begin conversations this way, I’m always kind of nervous. My heart starts fluttering in my chest and I plaster a smile on my face, trying to appear nonchalant. Most of the time it’s just an innocent question like, “What’s the name of that scarf on your head?”
Their questions are not usually fully and completely racist. Maybe just ignorant, like the person simply doesn’t know any better.
I’ve had my fair share of experiences with racists—and racists are usually blatant with their racism. Alienation and hostile language is their conversation starter.
That Tuesday afternoon, however, this racist guy decided to take it the long route, the unique route. The appear-as-if-you’re-starting-a-friendly-conversation route. The ask-theperson-about-their-ethnicity-and-then-promptly-say-they’re-ISIS route… We hadn’t realized this, however, until halfway through the conversation. He asked my friend and I if we were Hindu. We both replied no, we weren’t Hindu. “Well then were you guys Christian and then you converted?” My friend and I looked at each other. “Well, no, we were always Muslim.” “So from the day you were born you were always Muslim?” He asked confusedly, as if he couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that someone could follow a single religion their whole life. We nodded. He covered his hands with his face. “So those burqas, you have to wear them to church?”
“Well, this isn’t a burqa. This is called a hijab.” I gestured to my hijab. “And the burqa is a more cultural than religious headdress. It’s a personal preference. You don’t have to wear it.” I responded. Up to this point we still thought the purpose of the conversation was to educate and dispel any ignorance the man had about head coverings that were Islamic or associated with Islam.
He disregarded our answers and battered us with more questions. “So where are you guys from?” “Born and raised in Boston.” “No, but where are you really from?” The end-all, be-all question that every single person who is not white deals with. My friend responded first. “My parents are from Syria.” “So where ISIS is?” He spat matter-of-factly, in a tone full of accusation and hate. This made my friend and I fully, completely realize his malicious intent. At a loss for words, my friend quickly responded. “ISIS has nothing to with with us. It isn’t associated with us.”
Looking back at the story, you might think we were stupid for not having realized earlier. But when you are confronted by a stranger whom you have never even seen or met in your life, you don’t automatically assume they hate you simply because of how you look and what you’re wearing on your head. Even now, when hate crimes towards Muslims have escalated dangerously, it’s hard to process that people have a deep, ingrained hatred for you. It just isn’t the very first thought you have when engaging in a conversation with a stranger.
Our food was called just in time, and we quickly picked it up, ready to exit the building as quickly as we could. We felt targeted, trapped. “Nope, ISIS has everything to do with Islam. ISIS forces them to wear the burqas.” He exclaimed confidently even though we made a point to end the conversation. “You’re wrong,” I told him as my friend grabbed my arm, leading me out of the building.
We felt attacked and unsafe. I think it was the forcefulness of the man, the way he spoke about the burqa and the hijab as if he was an expert on it. As if he knew more than we did. His entitlement haunted and infuriated me.
We went across the street to Starbucks to grab some coffee before we sat down to eat.
I was fuming, ranting, angry, pissed off, wishing I had said more, wishing I’d stood up for myself. Wishing I’d shut this man down.
My friend and I eventually laughed off the whole situation, because what else can you do when encountering ignorant racist people on the regular? We didn’t want to give this man the power to ruin our afternoon. If we did, it meant he was winning, and that he succeeded in whatever he was trying to accomplish.
I told my friend, “That racist man has no idea what he’s saying,” and it actually turned out that he was a few people behind us in line, listening in on us making fun of him and the whole experience.
I was happy to see that he’d heard us ranting about him. When we met eyes, he said, “I know what I’m talking about. You just don’t know what you are.” You just don’t know what you are. Those words that make me want to scream and shout and shake that man until that smug look on his face falls off. The utter entitlement he had. The audacity to tell a stranger they did not know what they were.
As if he knew exactly what I was after having a two minute conversation with me and a friend. As if he was ten times more dominant than me simply because of his skin color and gender…
Whenever the topic of white supremacy and white privilege is brought up, I always want to tell myself it isn’t as bad as it used to be ten years ago. I always push the horrible, racist incidents I’ve had with strangers to the back of my head. And finally, with this encounter, I’m realizing that’s exactly what I shouldn’t do.
White supremacy is real. It has never been gone – it’s only resurging stronger than ever (even in Boston, a place that everyone likes to regard as uber liberal). As a person of color, it is my duty to speak out against these atrocities so they can no longer be ignored, and for racism to finally be seen for what it is.
By Maysoon Khan
