By Seana Sperling

That rainy day on the bus, you sat in front of me and kept turning around. Then you alternated between sneers and whispered insults through your bushy, white mustache. I had no idea why this Stranger; this older, white man was bothering me. At my stop, you followed me off the bus and up the block, faintly whistling off-key and then clearing your throat. I took a photo of you, which somehow got lost at the Drugstore Photo Counter. A year later I saw you again, in full Motorcycle-Police regalia, as we marched with our Peace Signs towards the City Center.