Member-only story
Yesterday I saw a hate-crime on the subway; one man provoked a fist fight with another man because he was Asian. The subway car — a rush hour train — was too packed for me to see much; I heard the whole thing unfold. All the hate words, the racist words. Threats. People screaming and whimpering. The fight spilled out onto the platform as the train arrived at the next station. Thankfully the victim could defend himself. No one was hurt, but the perpetrator snuck away, upstairs to the street, and because no one noticed him, in the scrum and chaos, I followed him. I was afraid to get to close, or to indicate that I was following him. I wasn’t sure what to do. The man wasn’t moving too quickly, he was slouching, hands in his pockets, a crazed look in his eye. I kept hearing the threats and the awful things the man said. I saw a squad car pull up at a red light at the intersection of Classon and Lafayette — I knocked on the window, reported what happened, pointed in the direction of the perpetrator. The police car switched on its lights, drove the other way.
