Two black teardrops stained his brown skin, smooth like Nutella, one drop for him, and one for the world. They are unlike the wet, salty, warm ones that fall from your tear ducts and glide down your face to your chin, violently splashing to the floor. Their pain remains engraved on his dark skin, reminding him of the dark times. The times he didn’t know he had a choice, a future that was light.

His eyes, blacker than the tattoos that faded with time, had this glimmer to them, a combination of trust and hope. I saw beyond the sagging pants, diamond earrings, teardrops, and all the other physical features that our world categorizes people by. What I saw was warmth and human compassion with a light so strong that it could break through the darkness at times like these. I normally try to avoid eye contact on the train at all times but something was different today. Maybe it was his gangster appearance that allured me or maybe it was his warm, crooked smile, but somehow I felt like speaking to him. So, when he asked me why I was writing on the train in an old, beat up leather journal, instead of texting, I decided I would read him my love poem, on the Red Line, in front of everyone. Yet it was only him and me there. This bond we formed was not a romantic one. We formed more of a human connection, a mutual understanding.

I read him two poems, which is very generous, considering I hate reading what I write aloud. One poem was a love poem and the other was a poem about women facing Boko Haram. He enjoyed both of them, but particularly the love poem. He told me how he raps and the similarities between my love poem and a verse for a rap song: all I needed was a little soul and rhythm when I read it. He did not have any raps to share with me, but he did have some things to share about his life.

He showed me a picture of his son who—to his surprise— is my age and plays ball for Oklahoma State. I was enjoying his stories and smiling when he told me I had a beautiful smile and that my man was lucky. I did not even know this man’s name, but it seemed like we knew each other forever. The familiar tune of “This is North and Clybourn, Fullerton is next, doors open on your right at Fullerton” rang in my ears, we said our inevitable goodbyes.

Once I got off of the train, there seemed to be this tranquil feeling in the air as the cool wind brushed my cheeks and the birds sang sweet songs of spring and new beginnings. I had never been the type of person to “judge a book by its cover,” but the only connection I had ever had about big men with tattoos on their faces and gold chains was bad news. Talking to this man, even only for a few stops, has taken my no-judgment idea and transformed it into my reality. I shed two tears, and although they glided down from my cheekbones to my chin, disappearing forever, I will always feel them on me like a tattoo.