White Slut

A remembrance of things past

I was on my way to work at McKinsey & Co., in New York early one morning in 1988. My apartment at the time was on Lexington Avenue and 28^th Street, a mixed neighborhood with Indian and Middle Eastern grocery stores, prostitutes on Park Avenue, and a welfare hotel that spilled its contents onto the street on hot nights. My thoughts were on setting up the computer lab for a training session on Lotus 1-2-3. Walking up Lexington Avenue I heard a woman’s tirade “you goddamn slut, good for nothing bitch!”

As I rounded the corner, I saw the intended target, a young girl of about five. Oh my god, the poor child flashed through my head, just as I was blinded by a punch. “Don’t you look at my child!” she screamed. Suddenly I was it. I saw her daughter race to the corner and stop, looking back. From the feel of the punch the woman was built like a Sherman tank. I dropped my briefcase and went into a defensive karate stance, praying that one year of karate training would pull me through this mini-crisis. My instructor’s mantra filled my head – never fight unless you absolutely have to, walk away if you can. I also knew that I had the advantage of the unexpected – a corporate-looking white woman who was ready to fight. She froze and looked at me, inciting me to make the first move. In that instant when our eyes locked I felt the spark. I wanted to take the bitch out, but I held my stance.

When you’re threatened you’re on hyper-alert. Your senses are at a peak, time stops, your eyes widen and see every minutiae. Unexpectedly I saw a man cross the street.

Oh, oh. Now I’ve really had it. Two against one.

“Hey, be cool,” he said to the Sherman Tank. “Just let it go.” Her shoulders slumped, but she had to have the last word. “White slut,” she said as she walked away.

Thanking the man, I left with relief, still corporate, my dress unwrinkled, my hair in place. I did have to explain to my boss why I had a black eye, and to this day I wonder what happened to the little girl. A friend, who was a psychologist, asked my why I didn’t report it and have the woman thrown in jail. I often think my friend was unrealistic. Parents aren’t jailed for calling their children names; they’re jailed for beating them up. The girl had to live with her mother. I could have made things worse for her. I do know that I set an example. I showed the girl that others can stand up to her mother and not be bullied. I hope she remembered that growing up.