Part One can be read here

The Red Line of the Los Angeles Metro rail system starts at North Hollywood in the San Fernando Valley and snakes twelve miles through Hollywood and northern LA neighborhoods before ending at Union Station in downtown LA. Living in NOHO and working downtown I often take the train to work and almost always take the train if I’m headed downtown for food or drinks. It is one of the more crowded lines on the Metro and if you don’t board at one of the end stops, you are standing for your entire ride.

Like most big city subways/rail systems, there are all kinds of characters on the train and with the Red Line passing through the heart of Hollywood, you see more than your fair share. However the vast majority of riders on the train are working class Hispanics with a smattering of blacks, whites, and millennials of all races making up the rest. Besides the occasional person selling candy or asking for change most rides are quiet with everyone in their own personal earbud wearing world.

On this Saturday morning I board at the downtown Pershing Square station heading back to NOHO after meeting a friend for a late breakfast at the Grand Central Market. Eating at the Market always puts me in a good mood. With the diverse selection of food and the diverse cross-section of people at the market it’s a reminder of how great a downtown can and should be. Enjoying a fresh bagel sandwich with the bustling sounds of the market in my ears and the smell of more foods than my senses can identify wafting through the market not only enhances the dining but also the company of my good friend. Sorry friend, it’s true. It’s a great way to start a day.

The train isn’t packed but most of the seats are taken so I stand near the door of the train and grab hold of an overhead loop. I don’t remember the stop but the trains stops and several people get on. Very few people get off on the middle portion of the Red Line so the train gets fuller until reaching the Hollywood stops closer to the end of the line. Included in the people who board is a twenty-something girl with shoulder-length classically blonde hair.

I notice two things immediately; her blue low-cut Chucks (there isn’t anything cuter than a woman in Chuck Taylors) and her awkward gait. One leg steps forward while the other drags to catch up. She grabs an overhead loop and is standing ten feet from me.  Dressed like a teenager in blue frilly blouse and red knee-high skirt she could be a hipster from Echo Park or Silverlake, but something feels different.

The doors close and as the train skims forward her body contorts and twists under her raised arm.  Unable  to control her body, the motions range from small slow muscle twitches to full body spasms. The passengers standing around her notice and move to give her space which isn’t much in the full train. Her face switches between grimacing during the full body spasms to calm acceptance when her body gives her a break. I play doctor and guess MS but I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

I alternate watching her and looking away. As I turn away I spot two Hispanic women unable to hide the expression on their faces as they whisper to each other.  Disgust? Pity? Revulsion? It is a derisive look no matter the label. It is the look of people with no understanding or compassion. It angers me. I watch them and a few other passengers for the next seconds. Most don’t share their lack of compassion but everyone is compelled to look and some wear their thoughts more than others.

At that moment a wave carrying every anxiety and insecurity I’m currently experiencing washes over me followed by a hammer of guilt and self-condemnation. I think about my long overdue and never-ending novel. My bruised heart that feels never to heal. My current living situation. My self-induced financial mess.  My ever-changing thoughts on the future. What fucking future? My unrepairable relationship with my father. They feel complicated and relentless when I think about them. Or when I don’t. Big. Unfixable. And it all seems so petty and small when I look at her.

I don’t know the courage it takes to have the most challenging aspect of your life available for all to see. Much less out of your control. People look at me and see a tall bearded guy. Whether I’m having a good or bad day, whether my life is in crisis or in the clouds, that is all they see. Even with my height, I blend in. The girl on the train doesn’t enjoy that luxury. Her condition is front and center. Every thing she does, everywhere she goes is weighted with the inevitability that people will stare at her. Gawk. Wonder. Whisper.

Maybe I underestimate her. Maybe she is more comfortable with herself than I ever could be. With or without any condition. While I would tell you I am comfortable in my own skin, that is not always the truth.  Acceptance comes hard for me but I can hide that doubt. Cover it. Fake it. Bullshit it. She can do none of that and acceptance may have been her only option. Even so, the cruelty of human nature doesn’t always respect that acceptance.

I want to tell her you are brave. Braver than I can be. More beautiful than a thousand runway models. Even as her body betrays her she shines with courage. I wonder if I could ever board a train like this. Confine myself with others. Dress so proudly.

The train slows towards one of the last stops and she moves closer to the door. I want to tell her that I admire her but I won’t. I want to tell her she inspires me but I can’t. Concrete shoes created out of the fear of being awkward keep me in place. The door opens and she disappears among the exiting rush. My last glimpse is her blue Chuck Taylor shuffling behind her on the station platform. The doors close. The train moves on. Five minutes she was part of my life. Five minutes I won’t forget.

I would be foolish to believe than the encounter would wash away my insecurities and fill me with the strength to overcome all of my self-doubt. Inspiration isn’t magic. But it does shake me. Later I try to describe the encounter to my friend Darcy but stop when I’m not sure I can put the experience in words. I’m not sure I’ve done it well now.

I decide to try harder at acceptance with the girl on the train as inspiration. The novel isn’t that hard. Nothing is unrepairable. Hearts heal. I still hit walls but they are no longer unmovable. No longer relentless. Everything is fixable in it’s own way. Maybe my challenges should be more out in the open. Maybe I should stand out. It’s not that hard. Not that brave. I’ve seen bravery, she wore blue Chucks.