We slumped into the first set of forward-facing seats as the train doors automatically closed. Slouching down, lauging about some inside joke, we threw our feet onto the seats ahead of us and relaxed, waiting for the end of the line. In the Washington, DC Metro cars, the seats next to the doors face in, perpendicular to travel, and are generally taken up by elderly people, single moms with their children, or weary eyed federal workers with reasonable, comfortable shoes.
As the doors opened at the next stop, four or five people shuffled in and a middle aged gentleman took the seat in front of ours. Both of us, in deference to his presence, took our feet off the seat and sat up slightly. He smiled and nodded slightly, and I returned the greeting. As the train started to move, he struggled internally for a second and then leaned over.
"Excuse me," he started and I perked my eyebrows in the way that shows someone you are listening. "I was wondering if you two moved your feet just now because I'm black."
I was surprised. "Oh... oh no, because I know some people would think it's rude having your feet up."
"I think y'all should make yourself comfortable, I don't mind at all."
"Well thank you." I think I put my feet back up, I can't say for sure. But I kept thinking about the exchange later. My actions, I thought, had been innocuous, polite even. But if it looked like that to him, how could they have been?
No, I hadn't fallen victim to the Fear Of The Black Man On The Street In America -- it was because countless times I had been chastized by teachers to put my feet down, because you have to respect other people's space in public, because he was older than me.
At least, I think?
