I remember the first time someone called me racist. A motorcycle courier, picking up a package from my work, had twigged that the Malay chap who had just stormed out was, in fact, my ex-husband. And that the guy I was seeing was Palestinian.
“You’re racist, you are,” the motorcyclist declared, offended on behalf of every white man, ever. “You’re the worst kind of racist: You’re racist against your own kind.”
“I’m not racist…” I started, feebly.
“Yeah you are!” Visibly annoyed, the motorcyclist was stridently outrage. “You … More
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