It was 6 am on a fall day a couple years ago and I was the only white person on that car on the green line train bound to Branch Avenue, in SE DC. Dreary eyes were half open under the flickering neon. The car was quite new, with its blue and red faux leather seats and pinstriped maroon carpet. As the train left the Chinatown station platform, I tried to sit down. There were enough passengers to make each double seat be half occupied, so I obviously had to sit next to someone. Sharing is the essence of mass transit, after all. There must have been something in the air that morning. Person after person would territorially expand himself so that I could not take the seat next to him. I thought I would have to spend the rest of my trip standing when half of the seats were empty. The stares made no sense. As I crossed to the other side of the car in my last timid attempt, I try to sit next to a somewhat well dressed lady. She makes room for me and smiles.

"Say, have you got any kids?" she says.
"No. Why?" I say
"I have a 4-year old and I want to give away the clothes who don't fit him no more. Thought maybe you had kids and maybe you wanna take them." she says.
" Oh, no, I don't have any kids. Sorry. But thanks anyway." I say and turn away smiling.

To the best of my memory this was my first encounter with racism in America, or, to put it in a better way, this was the first time I understood racism is a two-way street and I landed in the middle of a somewhat-silent conflict that does not belong to me. After all, they're all foreigners to me.