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have it used against them. That’s why until the age of fourteen I wore a whistle around my neck for use in case of emergency and always carried mace.
    That year, however, I knocked out my first opponent in a juniors sparring contest at the local gym. I had given up karate in favor of kickboxing, and it turned out I was quite good at it. The assembled crowd was horrified. The mother of the boy I flattened called me a monster.
    My father took me out for ice cream and told me I’d done good. “Not that I’m condoning violence, mind you. But if you’re ever threatened, Cindy, don’t hold back. You’re strong, you’re fast, you have a fighter’s instinct. Hit first, question later. You can never be too prepared.”
    My father entered me in more tournaments. Where I honed my skills, learned to focus my rage. I am fast. I am strong. I do have a fighter’s instinct. It all went well until I started winning too much, which of course garnered unwanted attention.
    No more tournaments. No more life.
    Eventually, I would throw the words back in my father’s face: “Prepared? What’s the use of being so prepared when all we ever do is run away!”
    “Yes, sweetheart,” my father would explain tirelessly. “But we can run because we are so prepared.”
             
    I HEADED FOR the Boston Police Department straight from my morning shift at Starbucks. Departing Faneuil Hall, I had only a one block walk to the T, where I could catch the Orange Line to Ruggles Street. I had done my homework the night before and dressed accordingly: low-slung, broken-down jeans, frayed cuffs dragging against the pavement. A thin chocolate-colored tank top layered over a black, tight-fitting long-sleeve cotton top. A multi-colored scarf of chocolate, black, white, pink, and blue tied around my waist. An oversize blue-flowered April Cornell bag slung over my shoulder.
    I left my hair down, dark strands falling halfway to my waist, while giant silver hoops swung from my ears. I could, and had on occasion, pass as Hispanic. I thought that look might be safer for where I would be spending my afternoon.
    State Street was hopping as usual. I tossed my token into the slot, breezed my way down the stairs to the wonderful, rich, urinal smell that accompanied any subway station. The crowd was typical Boston—black, Asian, Hispanic, white, rich, old, poor, professional, working-class, gangbanger, all milling about in a colorful urban tableau. Liberals loved this crap. Most of us simply wished we could win the lottery and buy ourselves a car.
    I identified an elderly lady, moving slowly with a teenage granddaughter in tow. I stood next to them, just far enough away not to intrude, but close enough to seem part of the group. We all regarded the far wall studiously, everyone careful to avoid one another’s eyes.
    When the subway car finally arrived, we pressed forward as one cohesive mass, squeezing into the metal tube. Then the doors shut with a
whoosh
and the car hurtled into the tunnels.
    For this leg of the trip, there weren’t enough seats. I stood, holding a metal pole. A black kid wearing a red headband, oversize sweatshirt, and baggy jeans gave up his seat for the elderly woman. She told him thank you. He said nothing at all.
    I shifted from side to side, eyes on the color-coded transit map above the door, while I did my subtle best to appraise the space.
    Older Asian man, working-class, to my far right. Sitting, head down, shoulders slumped. Someone just trying to get through the day. The elderly woman had been given the seat next to him, her granddaughter standing guard. Then came four black male teens, wearing the official gangbangers’ uniform. Their shoulders swayed in rhythm with the subway car, as they sat, eyes on the floor, not saying a word.
    Behind me a woman with two small kids. Woman appeared Hispanic, the six- and eight-year-old kids white. Probably a nanny, taking her young charges to the park.
    Two teenage girls next to her,