Editorial: A Story From My Commute

Photo by Eric Lechpammer.

The last time I stepped on a train was at the beginning of March. A commute to high school that was part of my everyday life vanished with the start of a global pandemic. Although there are a number of things that I miss doing pre-pandemic, commuting is not one of them. The routine of getting up very early, getting home late, and dealing with the MBTA in between was not something I enjoyed. 

Although I’m instinctually pessimistic about my commute, I’ve recently been reflecting on the positive aspects of it. The North Shore views, kind conductors, and interesting strangers I met all made my day a little brighter. In fact, I believe that those train rides tore down the preconceived notions I held about strangers. Like most people, I tried to sit by myself and spend my time riding in solitude. However, some courageous people were insistent on conversing with me, and each time that I let them, I didn’t regret it. I learned about their hopes, their struggles, and their views on the world. One such instance still stands out to me.

One day, a man sat next to me empty-handed with no phone, laptop, or book out. He just sat there fiddling his thumbs, staring straight ahead. I knew right away that he was a “talker,” a phrase I had coined for strangers who were keen on talking with me. I immediately felt frustrated. Out of all the seats on the train, he chose to sit next to me. I was drained, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend my commute talking with someone. 

He began to ask if I was a student, and I explained to him that I go to an international school in Boston. I told him I was a junior and that I commuted from Ipswich every day. We talked about menial things regarding my commute, the weather, and the MBTA. Whenever there was a pause in the conversation, I tried my best to return to my phone. Despite this, he kept on talking to me. I eventually just gave in and put away my phone. I told myself that maybe he just needs someone to talk to. 

When I asked why he went into Boston, he told me that he had gone to the VA hospital in Jamaica Plain. He further explained that he was receiving treatment on his leg. He was a purple heart veteran who sustained a shrapnel wound during the Vietnam War. 

I was taken aback when he told me this and I felt guilty. I had been trying to avoid a conversation with this man who was a war hero. The least I could have done was afford him my full attention from the get-go. It also showed me a glaring flaw in how I viewed strangers. I assumed that strangers who talked to me were odd and should be avoided. However, this man was an exceptional human being. 

I was glad he was willing to share his story with me. I am a 20th century American History nerd and, at the time, I especially had a fascination with the Vietnam War after watching the Ken Burns documentary. I asked if he had served in the Marines or U.S. Army Airborne. To my surprise, he said he was a service member in the Coast Guard. Once again, I was taken aback because I did not know that Coast Guard members saw combat during the Vietnam War.

He explained that President Johnson had ordered the Coast Guard to assist in Naval operations. He served on a small boat intended to patrol the coastline and Vietnam’s intricate river system. They would search for underwater mines and enemy combatants on the shoreline. On one of their river patrols, they engaged in combat and he sustained his leg injury. After that, he received a purple heart. 

I was shocked. It is rare enough to sit next to a decorated combat veteran but even rarer to meet one who wants to tell their story. I thanked him for his service, but he humbly brushed me aside. I didn’t get the impression he was talking to me to brag. It seemed like he was trying to get something off his chest. 

He then explained how he had both grown up and raised a family on the North Shore. We discussed his childhood, his daughter, and his grandchildren. As we passed certain landmarks on our ride, he told me their history. When a bridge near Beverly appeared in the window, he reminisced on when it was first built. Once we reached the Beverly Depot, he told me how the station used to have a restaurant for weary travelers. Through the course of this train ride, I was getting a unique view of the late 20th century from the perspective of one local man. 

We eventually reached his stop, said our goodbyes, and he got off. Unfortunately, I never thought to ask him his name, a fact that still frustrates me to this day. Nonetheless, I saw him get into a waiting car as the train pulled away. I have yet to meet this mystery man again. 

I spent the rest of the train ride pondering what happened as I looked out the window. I had spent the day consumed with myself and my own problems. Yet, in a life as interesting as his, what brought him the greatest joy were simple things. My conversation with this man forced me out of my own bubble. 

Now, instead of thinking, “Why couldn’t he sit somewhere else?” I think, “What if he didn’t sit next to me?” I would have been deprived of an interesting conversation that not only made my day better but changed my perspective on the world. If he sat at least one row in front or behind me, I would not have gained this perspective. 

He is one of many strangers that continue to linger on my mind. People who broke an unspoken code of silence to simply talk with a fellow human being. So, next time you’re sitting on a train and an unwanted conversation begins, try not to be so close-minded. I challenge you to hear what they have to say. Who knows, maybe they will tell you a story you need to hear.