May 4, 2005:
Sandy-haired man leans from a second-floor balcony shouting into the street, deliberately and contemptuously, with relish. "Niggers!", he shouts. "Fucking niggers!"
Wears the gay uniform. Blue Levi's, tight muscle shirt, buff. Stands in covermodel pose, one foot on the parapet, elbows at ease above a low railing. Popular gay restaurant, Market near Castro, packed and bustling at the height of lunchtime. Smirks, shouts, smirks. No-one stops him. "Fucking niggers!"
On the corner across the street, a black woman holds the hand of her little daughter, alone in a world of white faces, every one of whom hears, none of whom stops. She waits for the walk signal, mouth open, disbelieving.
The light changes and she's gone. Before you can reach her.
What would you have done?
Tell her you're sorry? Charge up the restaurant stairs and confront the shouting bigot? Call the police?
Because this is how it happens. Italy, Germany. Evil unconfronted wins a small victory, and the people are desensitized. Maybe it won't be so bad next time. And anyway it's not up to me.