I don’t quite remember how I got there. I think it was the subway… Yeah, the subway. 

I must have taken it a couple extra stops. I decided I could just walk home. It would only be a few blocks. However, standing there, I realized just how far I was from the pristine, sandstone apartments of my own neighborhood. 

The street before me was deserted. It was probably emptier now than it was when it was a newly-tread dirt road. The only structures I could see were the apartments nearby. They had grimy windows, chipped paint, and cracked doorsteps. Further down, the lights of a bodega were visible. That meant this doggy neighborhood went on for blocks. I was farther from home than I originally thought. 

A little closer to me, under the flickering light of a broken street lamp, was a figure. It was a man wearing gray sweatpants and a hoodie. In any other scenario, I would have made fun of his not-so-fashionable outfit. But judging from the neighborhood and the darkness, now was not the time. 

I walked briskly, keeping pace with the blood pounding in my ears. With every step, the pounding grew louder and more erratic. My pace quickened, too. 

The little light from the street-lamps pressed down on me. I kept my eyes down, looking at the broken green glass shards on the sidewalk. I felt exposed under the street lights. They were watching me—warning me. 

“Turn back,” they called. “Turn back now.” 

I would have turned around if I hadn't felt so vulnerable with my back to the stranger. We were too close now. I could almost make out the hollowness of his eye sockets. His huge body approached mine as his shoulders tumbled toward the ground with every gravity defying step. 

He couldn’t be more than ten feet away now. 

Now five... 

Four… 

My struggle to stay calm overpowered my instinct to scream.  

Three. 

Two. 

I could almost feel his arms stretching out towards my neck. 

One. 

Then the sensation was gone. My anxiousness waned. It was all in my head. 

I continued to walk towards the distant lights of the bodega. Soon they, too, were behind me. In a few more blocks, the buildings changed into beautiful brownstones. My heart rate slowed. I took comfort in the now familiar surroundings.

So what is the point of writing this story if there was such an anticlimactic ending? Why build so much anticipation? 

I didn't understand the significance of this event in the moment. It wasn't until I had settled down in the comfort of my bed that I began to question my paranoia. 

You see, there was something about the stranger that I didn't mention or notice the first time I told the story: the color of his skin. It seemed unimportant at the time. Of course, any stranger in the night would evoke apprehension. 

As I continued my thought examination, however, I realized the extent to which it had actually contributed to my discomfort. 

Everything about my story was stereotypical—the neighborhood, the time of day, the lighting, and even the broken bottle. And, as much as I hate to admit it, the race of my “antagonist” was stereotypical, too. 

I suppose I wrote this more for myself than anyone else, because I never considered myself to be a "racist," regardless of how I acted or what I said. 

But where is the line between profiling and racism? Sure, I judged him by his demeanor, and the setting was a factor, too. But was I capable of being racist subconsciously? Is everyone subconsciously racist? Is it natural to be racist or are we taught that the color of others’ skin makes them different? 

I have always chosen to believe the latter because that means it can be fixed. Maybe not in a day or a month. And probably not at the hands of a single man sitting at his bedside, writing. Believe me, I know a simple journal entry won’t change the world. But it will help spread awareness. 

And if the masses become aware, we won’t have to force a change—it will just happen.