Vidale Barsir

My White Friend

There I stood. We moved but I stood, and I stood a little more, at the intersection of 9th and U street on that bustling Friday night in June.

My White friend had just called a Black man a “ni**er”. 

My White friend then accompanied insult with injury, tossing in “Sorry, Girl” as a friendly gesture to the Black man he happened to be with at the time, me. 

But My White friend shouldn’t have needed to remember that I was standing right there in order to disavow his bigoted tendencies.

I had witnessed such behavior from My White friend before. 

This White friend was nothing more than a privileged coward, drunk with entitlement. 

My White friend needed to feel as though there was somebody beneath him. 

My White friend needed a ni**er. 

There we stood. I moved, but he stood, and I moved a little more, at the intersection of 9th and U street on that final Friday night in June. 

I once had White friends like that.


Vidale Barsir
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