2002-05-03 - 8:45 p.m.

I�m rifling through my wallet in search of my el card. It�s always disappearing to some undiscovered section of my wallet. Out of the corner of my eye I see some guy come up to me.

�Excuse me,� I hear. �I�m trying to get to this karate tournament. I was wonderng if you could spare a quarter to help me get there.�

You can�t linger here long before you hear one of these stories. I need a dollar so I can get a bite to eat. I need 37 cents so I can pay for my baby�s surgery. I need one more quarter so I can get to my karate tournament. I say no without even looking up.

I do look up a moment later, though, as I turn to go through the turnstyle. This guy�s big, but he looks like a kid. I suddenly wish I had given him money. You never know what the deal is with some of these people. Maybe the world�s worked against them, or maybe they just screwed up somewhere along the line. But a kid having to ask for money, that�s never fair.

The kid comes up onto the platform a moment later and sits on a bench. He�s got a duffel bag in one hand and a head guard in the other. I guess he really is going to a karate tournament.

I�m standing a bit off from him, but I come in a little closer where he can see me. I�m trying to say something by standing near him. I want to say that I don�t hate him, that I don�t mind sharing the same platform, that I�m a part of his community. I�m still wishing I could give him money.

�Hey, are you really going to a karate tournament?� I blurt out after a minute.

�Yeah, man,� he says, staring off down the tracks. �I need money for the train and the bus. Nobody wants to give it to me. You know, someday they might need some help, and there won�t be nobody to help them.�

He starts asking somebody else for change but I stop him and put money in his hand. He gets up from the bench and thanks me.

�Yeah, I�m an orange belt,� he says, producing a belt from his duffel bag as evidence. �I should be higher, but�.� He trails off.

His name�s Antoine. He�s a senior in high school, working at Wendy�s, bringing home some money for his family. He plans to go to college.

�And how bout you, what do you do?� he asks me.

�I�m an editor. I edit textbooks,� I tell him.

�Huh,� he says.

The train comes and we step on. He starts talking to another guy on the train, and I start daydreaming. But a little while later, we�re both still on the train, and we start talking again. He tells me all about karate � where you have your tournaments, when you practice, whether it hurts when you practice or if you go easy on each other. One place he does his karate is at Arai Middle School in Uptown.

�I was a sub at Arai one day,� I tell him. �Those kids were tough.�

I was still searching the teacher�s desk for a list of the students when the commotion broke out. Two kids, one black and one white, going toe to toe. As I rushed over to them, the back kid took a swipe at the white kid. The white kid knocked over a desk.

�Hey!� I yelled in the toughest voice I could muster. �What�s the problem?�

�He called me a nigger,� the black kid said. I didn�t know what to do, who to call. I didn�t even know where the intercom button was. So I stood between them, my heart suddenly pounding, trying to look tough and praying that it wouldn�t turn into a brawl.

That was my first mistake, Antoine tells me. You just can�t be standing between them like that. Then you�re just putting yourself in danger. No, you�ve just got to let them fight, let them see who�s the tough guy, then stand back and call security.

So those are the facts of life for this kid. You have to fight, because only when you�ve fought do you know where you stand. Only then will you get any respect. Brute force is the one language everyone speaks.

Antoine knows. He got into a fight at school once, and after that nobody messed with him. They respected him. And even now, as he looks to the future, he�s fighting for respect. Right now he�s still an orange belt, but he�s getting there. I hope he gets his respect. I just wish there was another way to do it.

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