Sic Semper Bananis
by J.B. Staniforth
A couple of months after September 11th, a young woman who regularly came into the video store distinguished herself by making an impassioned speech to the two of us behind the counter about how menacing Arabs were.
I thought she was Martha Wainwright, because she looked like Martha Wainwright, who lived in town, and 
why wouldn’t Martha Wainwright rent movies from us? We had a good selection. But I was pretty sure Martha Wainwright wasn’t a paranoid racist.
The woman came in, stopped at the counter, and looked up at a TV that we had playing the eleven o’clock news, which that evening featured an angry mob in Lebanon protesting US action in Afghanistan. She said, “That’s exactly what they’re like: angry, violent. Terrifying. Those people terrify me.”
“Sorry?” I said. “Who are you talking about?”
“You know,” she said. “People over there.”
“Why, isn’t that a racist thing to say!” I said cheerfully.
Her eyes bugged out and she extended her neck towards me. “You think I’m a racist?” she said.
“Sure. I mean, I think what you said was racist, yeah.”
“I’ll have you know,” she started, “that I spent two months travelling in Pakistan, and all of my opinions are based on my own experiences and what I saw. And I saw people who were violent, who hated white people, who couldn’t read, who lived like animals…” You can figure out where she was going with that.
I said, “It must have been exhausting meeting everyone who lives in Pakistan.”
“You know what? I’m not even going to rent a movie tonight.”
“Have a nice night,” I said and waved.
Two weeks later, I was at the grocery store across the street on my evening break. I had a banana and was looking for some cookies when I saw her coming up the aisle toward me.
“You again,” she said.
Without saying anything, I raised the banana, pointed it at her, and said, “Pxauw!”
There was a moment of silence and her mouth dropped open. Then she said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? What was that supposed to mean? Are you out of your mind? How dare you do that to me?”
“It’s a banana,” I said.
She blinked and said nothing.
“Fruit loves you,” I added. She remained silent. I strolled off, whistling.
I’m not saying that’s the sort of thing you should do every day. But I do know that she was always very pleasant to me after that.
