The electric door opened horizontally. I entered and saw him immediately. How could I not? His bright, blue shirt glowed radiant admist the dingy, beige seat. His gold badge illuminated the angst on his face.
My anger activated as I sat far away. It was then that I noticed the vastness of empty seats surrounding him. The look on the other passengers faces, a cocktail of unease. I sized up my oppressor, noticing his boots and how they were timidly crossed; like the last child picked for a ball game.
And I couldn’t help but feel compassion as I realized the origin of his angst was the guilt he felt that his profession slaughters his own people every 36 hours and have done so for decades. And knowing all of this I still feel compassion for this enemy who wore the same brown skin as I. And I had to ask myself, what kind of person feels compassion for the enemy? A compassion that I know will be my downfall in a future some undetermined day