Last Friday, I was punched in the face. Twice.

I realize this story is going to horrify my mother, so I’ll keep it quick.

The DC Metro on a Friday evening is always crowded; last Friday, the riders on the subway car were packed in even closer because they were trying to get out of the way of two young men engaged in a fistfight near one of the doors. The two young men went at each other with no regards for the people around them, pushing through anyone that got in their way.

I’m not usually one to step in and try and stop a fight, but there came a time — after one of the fighting men had knocked over a child on the subway and the other had inadvertently knocked off a young woman’s glasses — when something had to be done, something had to be said. I cautiously walked over to the two brawlers and asked them if they would take their fight off the train, to stop inconveniencing the other riders.

What happened next, happened quickly. I was punched in the face twice by one of the fighters and was pushed against a railing and kicked by the other. By that time, we had pulled in to the next stop and a gaggle of security guards walked into the train whisked the three of us away.

DC Metro

So why am I sharing this story? I didn’t press charges, I didn’t stop the fight, and I sure didn’t learn anything wonderful about the world as I was nursing my bruises on a Friday night — there is little in common here with the other stories I normally tell. I’m sharing this story to remind myself that the events in our life don’t always have to be uplifting, don’t always have to end in cheer and joy, and don’t always have to teach a grand lesson about the world. Sometimes you come away banged up and bruised, and that’s okay too.

I’m sharing this story because not every story that gets told needs to feel like a fairy tale. It’s important for me to remember that sometimes, especially now.

(Photo by Brian Talbot.)

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