I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

Someone was coming down the staircase, and I was going up the staircase.

The music thumped loudly.

This was the last festive gathering of those gathered for a writer's conference.

She said, Hi, Calvin.

And I responded, cheerfully, I thought. oh, that's the other black guy, I'm

major. Don't worry about it. This hallway is low-lit. She froze, and I continued bouncing up the

stairs. It happened that quick, a truly uneventful passing encounter.

Six weeks later, I received a handwritten letter in the mail.

It accused me of victimology, and, of course, that she wasn't a racist, and that she gives

annually to the Fresh Air Fund, And I stopped reading. I quickly became bored.

I did not speak to her with rage, so I was very confused. I had forgotten about the moment.

Misidentifying happens enough that it is a cliche. Whatever. I had tried to reassure her,

have her not feel bad about mistaking me for someone else. I made verbal and nonverbal gestures

to say, I really do not care, that it is not worth our expended energy.

I too have misidentified someone.

I know how mortifying it can be, the feeling of shame, how one relives the moment over and

over, wishing they could take back their words.

Unfortunately, my joking about the moment brought no relief.

Granted, to say the other black guy might sound like a reprimand, but it was a fact.

My tone conveyed lightheartedness.

Still, she insisted on projecting her, I presume, feelings of inadequacy

...