Member-only story
I Picked up Hitchhikers
It wasn’t racism that made me stop, it was the men at church
On a dark and stormy day
I was driving down the highway in rural South Carolina. There were two young black men hitching by the side of the road. I started to pass them, then stopped. It was cold and they were drenched.
I cracked my window. “Do you want me to call someone for you?” I asked.
“We’d really like a ride,” said one of the young men.
“I don’t take hitchhikers,” I said. “But I can make a phone call for you at the next gas station.”
This was in 1989, before cell phones.
“Lady,” he said. “If we wanted to kill you, we could have done it by now. We just want to get out of the rain.”
I decided they had a point, and unlocked the passenger side door of my red Toyota Tercel. They climbed in.
I tried to make conversation but they were having none of it. It made for an awkward ride.
Maybe they thought I was a racist, and felt offended. Maybe they were just cold and wet and not in the mood to chit chat. I don’t know because I didn’t ask them.
I also didn’t explain to them why I hadn’t just opened my door when I first stopped.
