JC

“The latecomer, male, had a guitar and reddish hair. He was short and hippie-like. She relaxed; she'd met his type. He reminded her of many years ago, "white liberals... when the shit starts to fly, they'll leave you in the street." She took this note of him with derision and ease.
He said that he was going to Kingston; that he used to write and sing and that he was now working as merchant marine like his father. He was writing a book. She was glad that he had sat beside her. They talked about the old days, the Soviet Union and the United States. He said that the superpowers were going to blast us all to hell. Maoist, she thought. She said that the Soviet Union never did anything to Black people. He said that he was a bit of a pacifist now. They talked until Kingston, a jarring kind of talk.
"And besides who supported us in Africa? The United States never gave us any weapons. It's them that we're fighting."
And he, "I abhor violence of any kind. I don't care which side you're on."
"God!"
"I just don't know about that sort of action," not noticing her response.
She exhaled wearily. Jesus, why was she talking to him about Africa!
"In Germany, where was the history for it?" he looked to the ceiling of the train earnestly, then at her.
"I don't know; I wasn't there. Germany, now or then, is not a place that I understand." she replied, looking at him as if to ask, Do you?
"Well, what did it accomplish?" he, continuing, "It seems useless and wasteful to me, at any rate - kidnappings, bombings."
She was regretting talking to him. He was so comfortable with himself. And after all, she thought, what had he done — probably worn flowers in his hair and played his guitar. That was easy enough. He probably loved his father; this odd musing crossed her mind. She hated him already. She realized that she had hated him, even before he came onto the train. At the corner of her eye, she noticed his face, like a child's with its conceit, its petulance.”
― Dionne Brand, Sans Souci: And Other Stories