Why Everything is About Race

I was on the orange line and some young women boarded. They were loud and talking about hopefully catching their friend at Rosslyn Station. The chatter continued and when we finally arrived, the doors opened, they yelled for them and fortunately their friend was right there at the door.

“That’s a relief.” I comment. “It would have sucked if you guys missed each other.”

“Yeah, especially with the trains running every twenty minutes.” We chat for a while, talking about nothing in particular. They work downtown, like mostly everyone in the District. 

They ask where I’m from.

“San Diego.”

We talk about San Diego, the weather. Then it moves on to whiskey chat.

“You sound really cool. Do you want to come over for drinks with us?”

I refuse, respectfully. It’s late, but I do appreciate the offer.

One of them asks if I can help them get to the Shady Grove side, since she’s not going home with them either, and I oblige. I offer my arm and she unfolds her cane. The others continue on their way, arm in arm, looking forward to their evening. I worry briefly, but the guide dog seems confident.

“You sound like you’re in your early thirties.” I laugh. I’m flattered, I tell her. We chat for a while longer, as the train is ten minutes away. Her stop is Dupont Circle. I guide her off and I get back on the train.

I take out my phone and start to check it when I’m asked a question.

“So, are you Filipino?”

I look over at the guy. He’s just trying to be friendly, I know.

“I was stationed out there once. It was really cool.”

“So I hear.”

I turn back to my phone.