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I try to have no regrets in life. I think that’s a noble goal, and one most people probably strive toward as well. But aside from the kinds of regrets that aren’t life-changing (why did I date that boy, why did I speed in front of that cop), I do have one big regret that I would like to think has changed how I view other people and how I approach the world.
It was the spring of 2004, my senior year of college. I was on the women’s rugby team and over spring break in March we headed out to San Diego for a tournament. I went in a too-full carload of girls, one of whom was a best friend of mine (we’ll call her Chelsea). We got to California a few days early to do a bit of playing around. The day before the tournament, Chelsea and I decided to go to Tijuana. By ourselves. (Yes, I know, that was a stupid move. But the gods smiled upon us and we made it there and back safely.)
We boarded the light rail train in Old Town and headed south. Somewhere downtown is where the real story begins. We stopped at a busy station and, as to be expected, busy people got on and off. We were in the back of the train and after the throng of passengers pushed their way out, we watched an older woman make her way to the platform. She was perhaps in her 60s with wild gray hair, a slightly hunched back, and worn, tattered clothing. She was clearly homeless, evidenced by not only her appearance but by the two dirty and torn wheeled suitcases she laboriously dragged behind her, no doubt carrying all she possessed in the world.
She got to the train doors. With the car nearly completely full, we all watched as the woman struggled and heaved one heavy suitcase into the train. She climbed up behind it to push it further away from the door but before she could step down and lug the second large case on board, suddenly the doors closed and the train took off, leaving it behind.
The woman panicked. “My suitcase!” she yelled. She began to push the ‘Door Open’ button quickly and repeatedly, desperately trying to open the doors and stop the train. It carried on unaware. The woman, now near tears, looked out the windows wildly in an effort to see what was happening to the left-behind suitcase.
We all watched, mutely.
Finally Chelsea said, “Don’t worry, the transit police will find it. They will keep it safe for you.” There was only a chance it was true, and the woman knew it because it didn’t quiet her panic. At the next stop she hurriedly pushed the button again to open the door, and again, the entire train watched as she struggled to pull her one remaining suitcase off the stairs and out of the train.
We carried on south, no one saying a word. As for me, my silence was one of shame. Why didn’t I help? What caused me to watch her struggle onto the train yet stay in my seat? Was it because of her appearance, ragged and dirty as she was? Was it because of the fact that she was homeless and, in my prejudiced mind, dangerous or crazy? Was I really that unfeeling and uncaring toward my fellow men? What if it were me trying to haul my suitcases onto the train? A normal-looking young girl, surely someone would have helped me, right? But nobody helped her—not even me.
I think about this sad event often. Whenever someone mentions a selfless act of service, instead of my mind going to the things I have done to help others in my life I think of this poor woman and—worse—my prejudices that kept me from lending a hand to someone who needed it most of all.
