I want to tell you a story.

Not about the kind of prejudice you read about in history books or see in grainy black-and-white documentaries, the kind we like to keep at arm’s length and say, “That was then. That was them. Not me.”

No, this is about the quiet kind.

The everyday kind.

The kind that doesn’t march or shout, but whispers just enough to turn your face slightly away from someone who might have been a friend.

The Story

He was a man who worked at the same coffee shop every morning—always at the corner table, laptop open, latte cooling beside him.

And she, the barista, knew him by name but not much else.

She didn’t like him.

She couldn’t quite say why.

Maybe it was the way he never smiled when he ordered.

Maybe it was how he dressed—a little too plain, a little too stiff.

Or maybe, if she were being honest (which she wasn’t, not yet), she didn’t like what she assumed about him.

That he was cold.

That he was rude.

That he was one of those people.

So she kept it polite but distant. A nod. A “thanks.” Nothing more.

One day, she saw him drop something as he left—a photograph, face down on the floor.

She picked it up.

On the front was a little girl, maybe seven years old, with bright eyes and missing teeth. On the back, in messy handwriting, it said:

“Can’t wait to see you this weekend, Daddy.”

Something shifted.

DO NOT REFLECT

1. Here’s where the story stops being about him and starts being about us.
2. How many people do we keep at a distance because of assumptions?
3. How many times do we write someone’s story before they’ve had the chance to tell it?
4. It’s uncomfortable to ask—but what if the thing we call “intuition” is sometimes just dressed-up prejudice?

What You'll Never Learn

When she handed him the photo the next day, he smiled—really smiled.

It turned out he wasn’t cold, just tired. He wasn’t rude, just shy. He wasn’t what she had quietly decided he was.

And she learned something small but huge:

Prejudice doesn’t just keep you from knowing them.

It keeps you from knowing you.

Because if your heart is closed off to one person, what else are you keeping out?

Change? "But Dalton, I'm already a perfectly conceited bitch!😁"

I know, I know. But..

Imagine if you stopped mid-thought the next time you caught yourself deciding who someone is before they speak.

Imagine if you offered curiosity instead of certainty.

The man at the coffee shop might become a friend.

The stranger you avoided might teach you something you didn’t know you needed.

Action doesn’t always look like protest signs and grand gestures.

Sometimes it’s as small as a smile where you would have given silence.

What Happens if You Do Nothing?

Translation:

"Can I stay a perfectly conceited bitch?"

Technically, Yes.

Nothing changes.

Worse—you don’t change.

You keep walking the same loops,

missing the same connections,

collecting the same stories about how “people are just like that.”

Thinking you're above other.

But here’s the thing—people aren’t “just like that.”

People are complicated, layered, beautiful, and broken.

And every time we choose not to look closer, we let prejudice quietly win another day.

The Question That Stays With You

So here’s the question, for you and me both:

Who have you already decided you won’t like?

And are you brave enough to let them surprise you?