The 19 bus in San Francisco. Leaving Acorn Books on Polk St. near California St.
Late night. The almost empty bus rumbles out of the Gulch into the Tenderloin. An older Black man gets on at Geary.
And sits right next to me.
On top of my stack of books is Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison.
He starts a conversation. He says that book changed his life. I say my dad recommended it.
The man grew up in Harlem. The art. The segregation. The jazz. The racism. The culture. The struggle. The pride.
I'm just out of college. Visiting my dad. Grew up in the suburbs.
I listen to his stories. We trade anecdotes about San Francisco and New York and music and books and life.
As he gets off the bus, he nods to Invisible Man. "Your dad's a smart man. More young White kids like you need to read books like that."
With a friendly smile, he steps off into the night.
I am 24-years-old. I have just had my first intellectual conversation with a Black person.
Ten minutes that changed my life forever. Ten minutes that popped the bubble I grew up in. Ten minutes that showed me how much I had to learn. Ten minutes that started my personal development and cultural competence journeys that continue to this day.
I wonder how many White people have had similar transformational experiences.