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white person of a different nationality, whether it was Italian, Russian, Polish, etcetera. My parents saw a bit of a shift in this growing up, but still existed in a predominantly white-bred society. It was my generation and Safia’s that truly lived in a diverse and multi-cultural world, and one where dating or marrying those who were different than you wasn’t all that big a deal anymore. At the same time, I had to admit, Safia was the first woman I’d dated who wasn’t white, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you why.
    “No, it doesn’t,” I replied.
    This wasn’t a little white first date lie. Having considered it for a couple of seconds, I realized it really didn’t matter. If I thought back to all the time I spent in the coffee shop stealing glances in her direction and pining for the opportunity to get to know her, the color of her skin and the prospect of what her family’s religion might be never factored into my thoughts. All I saw was a beautiful woman who I wanted to get to know better. I was color blind – as it should be.
    “But I will admit that when you said the word, Muslim it did kind of stop me in my tracks a little,” I added.
    She took a sip of her wine. “How so?”
    “I really don’t know how to react to that word. I feel I should have a reaction, but I don’t really. Or maybe my reaction is confusion, feeling it should mean something to me, but it doesn’t,” I paused. “I think I’m beginning to sound like an idiot.”
    She smiled. “You’re afraid you’re getting in league with terrorists, is that it? I think if we were doing a word association test, most people seem to automatically put the two words together. Muslim equals terrorist. Sad but true.”
    It was my turn to smile back at her. “On our second date I’ll be taking you to your IRA membership meeting. Don’t think for a second you guys have an exclusive on terrorism.”
    “On our second date?” she said with a smile. “Somebody’s confident.”
    “I actually have no opinion on Muslims one way or the other,” I offered. “Anybody can embrace any religion they want, just so long as it brings them comfort and the tenants of that religion preach peace, love and understanding, which I might add is one hell of an Elvis Costello song.”
    “Fanatics exist everywhere and in every religion,” I continued. “As an ex-journalist I can tell you that fanatics make for good copy. People want to pick up newspapers to hear what went wrong with the world today. Nobody wants to pick up a newspaper and read that all went well in the world and nothing of note happened. They want to read that somebody bombed someone, not that that person instead went to work and provided for their family, then went home, had dinner, watched some TV and went peacefully to bed. Good news is generally boring, while bad news traditionally has sold newspapers. It’s just the way it is.”
    I paused. I didn’t know if I was rambling on, or saying anything remotely intelligent or helpful to our conversation. I didn’t know if I was making the possibility for a second date that much harder – digging my own hole and stepping willfully into it.
    “Does that sound conveniently diplomatic and neutral?” I finally asked.
    “It does. Bravo,” she said.
     
    The rest of the dinner was spent discussing our families - brothers, sisters, etcetera. Surprisingly the conversation never let up; somehow it all felt natural and easy, like we were meant to be together; our talk moving carelessly from frivolous and funny to serious when it needed to be; and along the way we both laughed, which to me is important. Safia was a fascinating woman. She spoke her mind, which I loved, and, it seemed, was being honest and forthright with me. You know all that talk earlier about men lying on first dates and such, well, don’t think for one minute that I don’t believe women didn’t do the same as well. We’re all human and we all do the same shit,