Bad moment in New York

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I’ve encountered what appeared to be racism or xenophobia or prejudice only a couple of times in my travels. It certainly is an unpleasant experience because racist behaviour is an attempt to diminish your humanity. Someone behaves rudely or unfairly or makes a rude comment humiliating you just because you are of a different colour, nationality or religion or whatever. Or your clothes look strange in someone’s eyes. There’s little you can do about it. It’s not wise to enter into an argument in a foreign country – in fact anywhere. Nor will persuasion work because prejudices are so deep-rooted that even one word from the targeted person can only make things worse. I just walk away from such people. But in 2023 in New York there was a moment when I thought I was not going to be allowed to walk away.
As an Indian I know I’ve little to be proud of vis-à-vis racist behaviour. Racism of the white people stems mainly from colour. In India it’s not only colour but also that special Indian phenomenon, caste. And caste is, more often than not, associated with the colour black. The white visitor to India faces little or no prejudice because their colour is right. And they’ve, in general, higher purchasing power, which instantly commands respect even if it’s a mere show. But not the black people. Many Indians are racist in their attitude to black people, whether they’re Africans or African-Americans or other. And many Indians carry their caste/colour consciousness when they travel or settle abroad and instantly merge into the racist attitudes of that country. So, when I face prejudiced behaviour in a foreign country I do not get worked up. In India that racist could’ve been me.

Americans in general are an affable people. They could be very much absorbed in their own worlds – capitalism isn’t an easy way of life – but they’re quick to respond to you, to be friendly and helpful to the extent possible. They’ve a ready smile. Rarely do they show irritation unless you belong to that category of Indians who goes into a shop, asks the price of nearly everything, touches and pulls and pinches merchandise, haggles and walks out. I’ve seen shopkeepers putting on a wary face when Indian tourists walk in. Is that racism, I’ve wondered. I doubt if it is. It’s just fatigue. On the other hand, there was a cheerful shopkeeper in China Town, New York, who saw me window-shopping and invited me in saying, ‘Come in! Looking is free!’
So, what happened to me came as a jolt. I was in New York for a three weeks’ stay to take notes and photographs for a travelogue on the city. I was living with my friend Manohar Thomas in his Staten Island home. Every morning, I walked the two kilometres from his house to the Arthur Kill railway station, enjoying the quiet and peace, with a camera, a lunch pack and a bottle of water in my backpack, took a 30-minute’ train ride in a near-empty train to the Ferry Terminal, crossed over to Manhattan and took the subway to a station that connected me to my destination which could be any place all the way to Bronx up north or Brooklyn down south. Even though New York is huge, the numbered grid of streets and avenues on which it is built makes it somewhat manageable, provided you’ve done well your homework on the subway map. Even then it gets out of hand sometimes as you start wandering the streets. Streets and avenues suddenly vanish. Even the google map wobbles.
I was walking from Soho to Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village via Broadway, taking pictures and looking around. New York life in all its extraordinary configurations flowed around me. New York is nothing but people, people of every description, a melting pot of nationalities, the skyscrapers appearing unreal – almost as if they were virtual reality pictures pasted as a backdrop to people. It was near the W. Houston Street intersection with Broadway that I saw a young African American standing alone, lost in thought. On the wall behind him was the advertisement for an expensive brand of perfume and jewellery. There was something dreamy in his face and I took a couple of pictures. They didn’t properly capture his face. He noticed me taking the pictures but looked elsewhere.
I was wondering if I should go closer, using a visitor’s freedom say Hi, and take another picture when I saw three beautiful New Yorkers approaching. To me they represented the casual glamour of everyday New York and I took a picture. They were typical fashionable New Yorkers in the sense of being fashionable but not making a statement of it. They didn’t even glance at me. Just then I heard a shout: ‘Hey, you black fu…er, you’re shooting my picture!’ I looked around in shock. The African American was standing where he was, and he wasn’t looking at me. Then I saw the shout came from a man standing a few feet away at the bus stop. He was pointing his finger at me in rage and moving towards me threateningly.

He was a muscular man wearing a sleeveless vest and had a bottle of cold coffee in his hand. He shouted more obscenities and moved closer, raising his hand holding the bottle as if to hit me. His accent was very unfamiliar and I could understand almost nothing of what he said except that he didn’t like my taking his picture. Frankly, I would’ve been fascinated to hear his reasons. I heard the word black coming up repeatedly. It was clear that in his eyes my brownness was equal to black. The African American young man seemed to intervene on my behalf but the man asked him to shut up, calling him a black bastard. I told the man that I hadn’t taken his picture at all, that I hadn’t even seen him, that I was a tourist taking pictures like any other and I was sorry if I had offended him in any manner.

That seemed to make him only angrier. He seemed to be on the verge of hitting me. I was shaking in every limb remembering the horrendous beating up sequences in Hollywood movies. All I could bring myself to do was to hold out my camera to him and say, ‘Sir, please take a look. I haven’t taken your picture.’ I think he didn’t expect that. As I stood with my heart in my mouth thinking that he would grab the camera and break it on the ground, he stopped short. I could see he wasn’t interested in examining the camera. Perhaps he thought he would lose ground if he did. So, he just gave me a violent push and said, ‘Get out of my sight you black bastard before I lay my hands on you!’ I didn’t run but quickly walked away. I didn’t even dare to look back.

Then came the heart-stopping climax. I reached Washington Square Park, sat down on a bench and took myself in hand. As I took a deep breath, I realised that I had escaped physical harm by a hair’s breadth. I now decided to see the pictures that had got me into trouble. Here was the young man, here he was again and again, and here were the three beautiful New Yorkers. There, to my horror, I saw that the angry man was indeed in the frame, though on the edge. In the photo at the top of this piece you can see him at the right corner, drinking cold coffee. It was a wide shot, taken in a hurry to catch the women before they passed and my camera must’ve swung in a manner that took in the man. So, he was right after all. I nearly fainted when I thought of what would’ve happened if he had decided to see the pictures and found himself in one. Not only would he have kicked me around on the pavement of my favourite city but also punished me harder for daring to photograph white American women.

Because I couldn’t understand what the man said, I’m unable to fathom his precise reasons for being so aggressive. It is a fact many people do not like to be photographed by strangers. At the same time people in general do not see photography by tourists as a violation of their privacy. Yet a photographer-tourist must tread warily and with an acute awareness of people’s sensitivities. When you are out to depict a city through images you cannot help but put people in it. But it has to be done in the most unobtrusive ways, with utmost tact and care. In this case, this man had misunderstood my intentions – though in a way he was right. The racist core of his aggressiveness was exposed in the racist abuse he used. Racism is a terrible malady of the mind. Therefore, I can see him only as a victim of a poisonous mindset that he had either inherited or happened to acquire. And as an Indian I’ve no business at all to feel holier than thou about him. I like to believe that it was the all-embracing, large-hearted soul of New York that stopped him from hitting me.
Paul Zacharia is a well-known Indian writer and columnist.