Just a few days after watching a documentary about the life of Jack Johnson, and expressing my disbelief at just how racist our society was a hundred years ago, I get a reminder that we’re still hardly beyond it.

I got my hair cut today, at the same little barbershop I always go to. Today there was a different guy there; the two who usually cut my hair — Nick and Ralph — are great guys: polite, friendly and funny. This new guy was a little old Greek man, probably about 70. He chattered on incessantly the whole time, as barbers do. He talked about coming to this country, about how The Beatles inspired shaggy haircuts and drove him out of the business, about how warm it’s been this week, and about his kids. And it was while discussing his daughter — a teacher at a high school in Scarborough — he mentioned “how many problems they have with…” — at this point, he glances around the room and drops his voice — “…the black people”.

It weirded me out. Made me feel guilty for being the one he was talking to. I suppose I should have said something, but I always tend toward just letting shit slide. Easy for me, I suppose; I’ve never felt particularly discriminated against. Anyway, he’s an old man; would it have changed his mind?

I couldn’t wait to get away from him. I gave him my money, said goodbye to Nick and left.