I still want to tell you this story …

Several— like a lot of—years ago ,I became the adult friend of a teenage icon of mine. My minister’s wife was the first real-live writer I knew and i admired her, and hated the way her husband and two sons mocked her efforts, deeming her good enough only to supply quotes, aphorisms and parables for her husband’ s sermons. They stopped teasing later when she published two books.

I don’t know how they’re fixed these days but back then a minister in a local church didn’t make much money. My friend Anne had to eke out her household allowance for any treats she might want. One fall she had her heart set on viewing the autumn colours. So she saved enough money to buy a bus trip to glory (the colours) in rural Manitoba, somewhere north of Winnipeg. She arrived at the bus terminal well ahead of time to guarantee getting a good window seat on the best side. As it happened her seat remained empty until just as the door was closing. She turned away from the window as someone politely asked if the place was taken. Of course not. Anne lifted her purse and notebook from the seat and smiled up at an ageing black woman (about her own age) before turning back to the window.

The bus picked up speed as it passed the city limits and Anne sighed in anticipation. The woman responded to that sigh.

“I know,” she said, ”it’s nice to get away, isn’ti t?”

Anne nodded pleasantly while only half-turning away from the window, and agreed. “Yes, it is—and a rare treat..”

The woman ignored the hint and took Anne’s acknowledgement as encouragement and started to talk—non-stop—only requiring a little polite encouragement to keep going. Anne politely encouraged and the woman kept going.

“You missed your fall colour parade,” I said when she told me about her trip.

“I know, but I didn’t want to be rude. People are often rude to black people.“

“That, ”I accused her, “was reverse discrimination.” And I thought so, for a long time.

But I don’t now. I guess it really is about time. I apologize for me.