Standing on the T platform one evening in Park Street carrying my guitar in its case, going over a song in my head. Three or four loudmouth, young white men come down the stairs, their hooting, hollering, and cursing announcing to the world that a high amount of testosterone and more than likely alcohol is coursing through their veins. They get near me and one goes, “Killer boots, dude.”
I stand out here in sophisticated Boston because I look “country.” I’m over twice their age and wearing my usual jeans, cowboy boots, and denim jacket. They’re loud and rude and ignorant. I don’t want to get into a fight or an argument.
The train comes along, thankfully, and me, a middle-aged white guy who looks like he just stepped off the bus from East Texas, gets on an Ashmont train filled with blacks, Hispanics and other people of color, and suddenly feels safe again.
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