The man’s conversation was basically a set of talking points. He presented them to me in the form of questions and what at first sounded like concerned observations. They were focused on his perceptions of Black people. Not his exact words, but something like this:

“Why do Black people riot and then set their own cities on fire?”

 “Why do so many Black people shoot and kill each other?”

“The problem is fatherlessness. Why do Black men…?”

You get the picture.

I had just finished attending two weeks of training in Georgia. People were present from various parts of the country. My class had people from various states and major cities; a few from Chicago, a few from Philadelphia, Kansas City, Austin and New York.  I did not give it much thought at the time, but I don’t think white people were the majority.

Somewhere in these training sessions, along with lectures, testimonies, slides, simulators and tests, we had a few give and take sessions. In contributing a response at some point, I mentioned the African concept of ubuntu and spoke of the necessary interconnectedness of all humanity and the wisdom and benefit of infusing respect into human interactions. This seemed to immediately resonate with some of my classmates, but maybe not all.

After our training concluded, many of us were shuttled to Savannah’s airport, while others flew out of Jacksonville. We had hours to wait, so I got a cup of coffee. As I stood in line, a tall, well-dressed, middle aged, bearded white man from Chicago stood behind me. He had been in the same training class, and we struck up a brief conversation on art and Christian ministry to the deaf. Then we moved on. For the purpose of this writing, I’ll call him Ned.

Eventually, I found a seat at a table in a central waiting area. Ned was at that table ahead of me. In the seating area immediately behind him, were several of Ned’s Chicago co-workers, all of whom were Black. Here were two white men of a certain age, waiting for their respective flights in Savannah’s airport, sitting at a table just outside of Leopold’s Ice Cream, Starbucks, and the various shops in the square.

All I did was sit down and Ned started up.  “Why do Black people riot and then set their own cities on fire?”  At first, I thought it was a sincere question and began to respond accordingly, with Dr. King’s statement about a riot being the language of the unheard.

I told him about how differently white people and Black people often see the same event, complicated by the substantial baggage of factual history and generations of first-hand experience. I spoke of the Rodney King beating video so widely seen. Some white people saw that footage and said, “That’s bad.” Some dismissively said, “He should have complied with law enforcement orders.” (Of course, things like fight or flight instincts and panic of the victim probably came into play, as well as the excessive violence of the officers, some of which just happened to be caught on a recording.) But, we don’t let people beat animals like that, not dogs, not mules.

I explained to Ned how many people of color saw that same video so differently, so personally, especially given the realities of L.A. at that time. “That could be my father. That could be my brother. That could be my son. That could be me! And, in a symbolic sense, it is me!” I paused.

Ned came across as if from a place of unassailable certitude. But, when one question was reasonably responded to, then another, and I challenged his premises and conclusions, Ned started to pivot. And pivot. He hopped from one talking point to another, just like the many conflict entrepreneurs of contemporary talk radio, and I began to realize Ned wasn’t engaged in a listening dialogue. Ned wasn’t interested in a reasonable response. So, why’d he ask me?

Ned’s inquiry was framed as if spoken from sincere interest, but it was dishonest. These were not really questions at all, but statements, declarations presented as if fact in the form of questions. Talking points. Again, why had Ned asked me? I don’t know if he was trying to impress me, get my approval or recruit me. This was not much of a conversation, more of a one-way drive-by spewing that was both disrespectful and wearisome. I wasn’t having any.

I demanded, “Where did you get this information? What are your sources? Who misinformed your beliefs?” No answer. Since these are your questions, have you even spoken with any persons of color, maybe asked them?

I pointed out the absurdity of this to Ned, and the fact that he actually worked with many of the Black people seated directly behind him. Now, my volume may have gone up a bit. “Have you asked any of them?” No? “Why not invite them over and ask them now?” Ned seemed alarmed at the prospect. Like he shriveled and shrunk in fear. Ned did not want that at all. Why is that?

I confess to you I was sorely tempted to stand up and gesture with my hands and invite every Black person within reach to that table, and repeat Ned’s questions to them, myself, and invite them to respond to his face. But, I hesitated. The man was already defensive, not listening, and maybe afraid. Me? I was both angry and disgusted. So, I ended the conversation, stood up and started to walk away.

I took a few steps, looked back, and saw Ms. Tatiana from Chicago, who was seated behind Ned, as she looked at me.  I am not sure if she even heard that conversation, but she stood up, we walked toward each other, and we hugged.  I don’t even know what that hug meant, but I’ll take it.

After I got home, I sent Ned a Tim Wise essay, “Stop Lying About Black Women and Families,” as a source of both different and more accurate statistical information. Perhaps he’d find it helpful. Ned has never responded.

Oh, and Ned? If you come across this writing and can find it in your heart to listen, we can have another conversation. There are some things you really need to know.