One Per Cent

Kingston, Canada. 2019. I’m riding in the back of the taxi. I’m on my way to the city bus station, one step closer to seeing my family in Ottawa. The last few weeks of teachers' college have been draining, and I’m thankful for this break. My mind is bursting at the seams, and I need a breather. As I look out the window and the rainy streets, my thoughts jump from one to the next like a spinning wheel in motion. The driver, a quiet Caucasian-looking man seemingly in his 40s, drives in silence. I’m not sure why—perhaps, it has to do with the antisemitic comment my classmate made the day before… a comment that has been lingering in my mind—but a thought invades me, unannounced. I have no explanation for it—yet there it is, occupying my brain: “I wonder what the driver thinks of Jews.” I hear myself think. And, don’t get me wrong... I hear the ridiculousness of my thought. So I immediately decide to dismiss it. “Not everyone hates Jews, Melany,” I try to remind myself. “Get a grip.”

Minutes go by. We continue to ride in silence. That is, until he breaks it. He looks straight at me in the rearview mirror, and so it begins: “I want to tell you a story.” Caught off guard, I look at him. “Okay…?” I say, unsure. He hesitates, then shakes his head and waves his hand as if dismissing the idea. “Actually, on second thought, I probably shouldn’t tell you this.” “Okay,” I respond, this time firmly. I’m glad to continue riding in silence, and, frankly, I don’t want to hear things I shouldn’t, I think to myself. “Ah, what the hell. I’ll tell you anyway.” And before I can react, he is beginning the story: “I used to work for a woman. A Jewish woman.” As I hear his words spin out of his mouth, I feel my body tense up and my hands clutch my seatbelt just a little tighter. The once-silent man is now deep in the narration of his story—one so bizarre I’m actually not sure how to tell you about it. The villain in this man’s story is, of course, the Jewish woman. She is rich, greedy, and just plain evil. She "imprisons her house workers," and—get this—forces the maid to sleep in the kitchen cabinet—as in, to climb up inside the kitchen cabinets, and sleep there, cage style. These are the things that this man is saying to me. These are the words I am forced to hear, paralyzed.

As his story progresses, my level of fright and WTF exponentially increase. I become too aware of the fact that this is an enclosed space, that the doors are locked, and that he is in control of the vehicle. He just goes on and on about “the Jewish woman.” I say nothing. I’m in shock. Yet… I’m acutely aware of the fact that I, strangely, have no Jewish insignia on me—nothing. Not my Star of David pendant, not my Hannukiah key chain, not my Hebrew name necklace—nothing. Is the driver just a total mind reader? It's like he's answering my question out loud, without having been prompted. How surreal is this? What on Earth is going on? Is this some kind of sick joke? Are we even still on route to the bus station? I don’t know this city well enough. Please let me get to the bus station.

Before I know it, I recognize it: The good old Tim Horton’s café. We’re almost at the station. The driver continues spewing his antisemitic word vomit, and I continue to count the seconds till I can get out of the car.

We finally pull up to the parking lot. I’m paying cash, and I’m shaking. I hand the money over to him, but I don’t have the exact amount; I need a twenty back… So… I have no choice but to sit and wait for him to hand me my change—which he is holding, waving in the air as he continues to denigrate the “Jewish woman.”

I don’t know what comes over me at that moment, but I hear the words leave my mouth before I can even process them: “I should probably tell you that I’m Jewish. And what you’re saying is not okay.”

As though in reflex mode, I immediately swing open the door and put my right foot on the ground. I realize how grateful I am to have at least one extremity out of the vehicle. There are a couple of people nearby, so he’s not about to take off with me in the car, door open and everything. Anyway; I’ve said it now. There’s no taking it back.

He turns in his seat to face me, and goes: “Oh, hold on. You didn’t let me finish, sweetheart. I’m not done.” Exasperated by his unfortunate choice of words, I remind him: “I don’t need to hear anything else. I just need my change.” At this point, half my body is out of the car, and so is my duffel bag. Thank God I didn’t put it in the trunk.

The man mumbles to himself, mutters words under his breath (words so muffled I can’t understand them, although they’re clearly about me), and bluntly shoves the bill my way. I grab it in the blink of an eye, and jump out the door with so much force I feel superhuman. Except I’m human, and I’m actually really scared. I slam the door shut, and the car takes off. My legs visibly shaking, I’m left standing there, in the middle of the enormous, rainy cement parking lot, at a loss for how to process what just happened.

It’s like I’m anchored to the ground—the weight of my legs has suddenly doubled. Gravity has never felt more real. There’s a knot in my throat and a stone in my stomach. I feel sick, and I am sure I’m going to pass out, or throw up, or both. Yet somehow, I manage to pick up my bag from the pavement, and turn around.

Little do I know that standing immediately behind me is a girl about my age. Long, brown hair in a braid. Grey hoodie. Dark blue sweatpants—covered in huge, white, Hebrew letters. She looks at me. I’ve never seen this girl before. My eyes well up, tears start streaming down my cheeks, and, without really thinking about it, I give the stranger a hug. She is confused, but hugs me back. I describe, for her, the experience I just went through. She sits in the pain and the shock with me.

In a city where Jews make up less than one per cent of the population, she is exactly where she needs to be, exactly when she needs to be there. Visibly, loudly, and proudly Jewish. We sit side by side and wait for our buses together. We talk, and exchange numbers. The rain is slowly ceasing, and there’s a calm in the air around us. Our respective buses arrive, and, as they take off, so does our friendship.

--

As crazy as this is, this is an entirely true story.

The driver shared his narrative with me unprompted, in exactly the words I depict above, just minutes after I wondered what he thought of Jews. There was no reason to ask myself this question, other than I'd been exposed to too much Jew hatred in recent days, and couldn't help but ask myself this question about most strangers I met. The thing is, I didn't ask him. I told myself it was a ridiculous thing to assume that he even had an opinion on Jews. Why would he? And I was certainly not expecting him to just... tell me.

The girl's name is Ilana, and she lives in New York. While we lost touch over the years, I will never forget the feeling of comfort I felt upon seeing her in her Hebrew-patterned sweats, standing right there, behind me, when I needed it the most.