However, I was curious to see how it might actually unfold in the real world and so I went out to a bunch of Starbuck’s in the Toronto area and tried to engage the staff in conversations about race.

Starbucks

10 Dundas Street East

8:30 pm

Me: Hi.

Barista: Hi.

Me: Are you a fan of the TV show Empire?

Barista: Don’t think I know that one.

Me: Oh. Well, it has an all black cast. Not a single white person on it. After a few episodes you don’t even notice how weird that is. It says a lot about race, I think, and the gritty world of Hip Hop. Very topical considering Ferguson and everything.

Barista: You seem very authentically informed.

Me: Well, I’m a part of Black Twitter, so I feel pretty plugged in.

Barista: I see. What can I get you?

Me: Decaf green tea. Grande.

Barista: I bet you like being white, don’t you?

Me: I don’t really see race.

Starbucks

407 Yonge Street

11:30 am

Me: Hey, anyone interested in rapping about race?

Barista: (foams milk)

Me: (Turning around and facing the customers in the lineup behind me) Anyone?

Guy with an eye patch: This might not be “politically correct” or anything, but I hate the Irish.

Me: Really, the Irish? But they have Leprechauns!

Guy with an eye patch: Exactly, Leprechauns are just about the creepiest thing in the world.

Me: What happened, did you lose your eye to a Leprechaun?

Guy with an eye patch: No, I lost it in a fire. The Irish also cheat at cards, and on their husbands.

Girl in denim jacket: And I have to add that the Muzzies got no business taking over this country, if they want to live here, they should damn well dress like everyone else, am I right?

Me: Hey, this is great, now we’re really starting to get into the hard stuff! How about you, (pointing at a woman on her phone) what do you think?

Woman on her phone: (Gives me the finger)

Me: (To Barista) People are still very uncomfortable talking about race. It’s a real shame, because as painful as it is, we really have so much to learn from one another. We need to be brave.

Barista: You do know that the campaign isn’t taking place in Canada, right?

Starbucks

585 University Avenue

2:00 pm

Me: (To Barista) So, who is your favourite black actor or actress? Supermodels count.

Barista: Why are you asking me this?

Me: I’m trying to start a dialogue about race. I want to find out about your lived experience. Have you ever written a letter to a black celebrity, and if so, was it a hate letter or a love letter?

Barista: It’s never occurred to me to write a celebrity a letter.

Me: Any celebrity, or just black celebrities in particular?

Barista: Any celebrity.

Me: Weird. Not even Pam Grier??

Barista: Look, I got to keep the line moving here, are you going to take that cookie or not?

Encumbered by a stern resting face, she’s locked like a laser into the world of her iPhone. Forced and slightly unnatural, she makes a point of never glancing around but lives inside her self-constructed bubble bringing small, impulsive miseries upon employees through calls or texts. After about 15 minutes her companion, hurried and apologetic for being late, arrives. The stern-faced woman is passive-aggressive, telling the new arrival that she had no choice but to go ahead and order, and then making unnecessary and pointed noises of completion with her cutlery. She then launches straight into business, a vampire sucking information from her guilty and compliant victim.

There are two waitresses serving the half dozen or so tables and both of them are lovely. One is tall and thin with a trace of brittleness to her, as if she hasn’t quite found her place in the world and might be looking for some time yet. She wears over-sized, bold glasses meant to add some complexity to the generic beauty queen image she projects—this, something she worries about, you can tell.

The other one is young and dewy, striding optimistically forward. She’s completely comfortable with who she is, and being good-natured and cheerful is not a mask she puts on when she goes to work—she wants to meet the world exactly where it stands.

An older woman, over-dressed for the weather, has the long, grey hair of a sociologist. She’s proud of it and considers it a political statement, pulling it into two practical pigtails that she fastens, one with a red band, and one with blue. She’s very particular, almost stubborn in her manner, and when she stands up to dust the crumbs off her placemat and onto the ground, it’s as if she’s beating a carpet out on a clothesline. Efficient, economical and unsentimental, she wants us to see her self-reliance, how she’s always been happy to live alone in this world. A train then trundles by, and everything shakes. Somehow, the patio then seems to dislocate and separate from time for a moment, and the world becomes a little richer, the passing aroma of electricity and oil drifting through us like history.