You may have seen me around town wearing rainbow-colored tights with unicorns on them, or doing handstands or juggling at Lincoln Park, or even fixated on my phone playing Pokémon GO in the dead of night. My name is Raymond Diamond, and I’ve lived in Maine for about eight years. Portland is my home, and it holds a special, warm place in my heart.

As someone who has lived in Louisiana, Connecticut, Virginia and Colorado, there certainly are some things about Portland that I appreciate uniquely. My favorite thing about Portland as an extrovert and as a performing arts enthusiast – who happens to be a Black man – is what I learn about people during the often bizarre interactions I have with them.

One day last month, I was out and about in Lincoln Park, minding my own business, juggling. Throwing, dropping, sometimes even catching, I was working on four-ball patterns for around an hour before I realized that the less-than-grassy area I was juggling on was causing my dropped balls to bounce too far away from me. I moved spots in the park.

Minding my own, solitary business, I approached a bench next to a grassier patch of the park, put down my bag and by then watered-down Dunkin’ cold brew.

Suddenly, a lady wailed at me from another bench, possibly 30 feet away. She shared a warning: “If you keep doing that, I am going to call the police.”

I sighed and asked: “Ma’am, are you telling me you’re going to call the police on me for juggling?”

To which, before I had even finished the question, she blurted out with vigor: “Yes!”

An old adage came to mind, popularized by a viral news report from 2012 of a Black woman recounting her house burning down, and I thought to myself calmly: ain’t nobody got time for whatever this is, especially not me.

So, I thanked her for letting me know and keeping downtown Portland safe from all of the juggling brown men.

I continued my work, terrifying the pedestrians of Lincoln Park with my disruptive juggling. She was not done. I juggled more for some moments, before hearing: “This is a Black thing, isn’t it?”

I was taken aback, but not insulted. I asked, “This is a what thing?” to which this woman replied: “A Black thing, a race thing. You’re a racist.”

I told her I was sorry that she felt that way and that I hoped her day in Portland would improve.

The police did not come.

Afterwards, I made a phone call to share my experience – greeted by guffaws and giggles – with my parents, both from Louisiana, both of whom grew up in the segregated South in the ‘50s and ‘60s.

As I reflect on this interaction, I reflect on a couple of major truths.

The first is that you never know what someone is going through on any day at any given time, so grace and patience is important. That which is threatening is not always a threat, and it can be very difficult for those who often feel threatened to tell the difference. Responding with care, not reacting in certain situations, is a way to keep those more vulnerable safe. Kindness is a virtue worth fighting for.