Through a glass darkly ...

It looked ugly.

Five or six kids were standing on one side of the street, one of them throwing something at one kid alone on the other side.  The lone kid on the other side was not hit, picked up whatever it was that had been thrown, and defiantly threw it back.  Neither side moved from where they were.

I was sitting inside the coffee shop at my usual table, inside the front window.  I was looking out, watching these high school kids on lunch break as they played out their drama on the street. 

I could see that the lone kid was black.  I wasn't sure about the identify of the five or six on the other side, but mostly they looked white.

I felt shock at the scene.  In Canada.  In Westdale.  In front of me.

I felt dismay to feel confronted by such racial division and violence in a place I consider home.   That's been good to me.

Remembering another incident of racist violence some months ago in a parking lot, I knew the only action I would choose if any seemed necessary or helpful, would be to leave the safety of the coffee shop to stand with the lone kid.  No more.  But no less.  

I waited to see if I should get up, go out, and be ready to stand with him.  I wonder now, was I the only one at that moment watching, holding my breath, and readying to act?

For fully a half minute, then a minute, and maybe a few more the two groups -- rather, the group and the lone kid, stood facing one another across the street.  I couldn't tell if any of them were saying anything.  I saw a few gestures.  But couldn't understand what they were gestures of. 

I grew anxious.

And then I saw the lone kid start to saunter across the street.  Slowly.  Agonizingly slowly.  I looked for any clue in each step-- the slightest sign, as to what this meant.  Or would mean.

Then halfway across the street the group itself became less a group distinct from and against the lone kid.  The kid kept walking towards them, and they seemed suddenly to be several groups of two or three.  The lone kid as he reached the other side blended in with them.  The now six or seven of them milled about.  Were clearly all friends who had been acting out some play-drama among themselves.  And now were happily making their way down the street together.  Wherever they were on their way to.

I relaxed.

And went back to my work.

But not without wondering.
 
About how quickly I interpreted the scene the way I did.  About when and how I learned to do that.  About the sadness I felt at this change in me and in us.  But also about how good it felt to know I was prepared this time to act in some helpful way if necessary.

A loss of innocence.  

But the growth of something else in its place.  

Maybe even better than innocence.