Half a Life

Stephen Thompson

A few months ago I was strolling along Leith Walk, minding my own business, when someone called me a 'f****** coon'. I could scarcely believe my ears. I hadn't been on the receiving end of a racist insult, not to my face, since I was a child growing up in London in the 70s. Once the shock had worn off, my hackles flew up and I wanted more than words. I was ready to play. At this point a third party got involved, one of several men who were with my abuser. He apologised on behalf of his clearly drunk friend and urged me to forget what I'd heard and advised me to 'be on yer way big fella', but I wasn't interested in what he had to say and stood my ground. Initially I didn't know what to say, but eventually I found my tongue. 'You've got a big mouth,' I said, 'in front of your mates. Why don't we go round the corner and settle this, just you and me?' He sneered, playing to the gallery, but didn't take up my offer. Nor did he hurl any more abuse my way. In fact he didn't say another word. I continued to stare him out, and his friend continued to ply me with soothing words, and all the while, through a combination of fear and anger, my heart was beating so fast I feared it might burst out of my chest. At long last I turned and walked away, casting the odd glance over my shoulder and muttering curses as I went.

The incident completely ruined my afternoon. Fortunately I had quite a few hours to calm down before my girlfriend came home from work. I decided not to tell her what had happened as I didn't want her pity. Nor did I want to run the risk of using her as a repository for all that negative emotion. I must be the world's greatest actor, for I'm sure she didn't suspect a thing. We had our usual evening together in front of the TV, chatting about this and that. I think I even managed to laugh. Privately, however, the incident continued to burn me. ... (continues)