Chivalry on the T

I grew up in a town not far from Boston. On occasion, my family would take trips into the city to visit the Aquarium, the MFA, or maybe even catch a Sox game. Needless to say, on these occasional outings we would utilize the T's marvelous services.

By the time high school was winding down, my friends and I would venture into Boston by ourselves. Of course we thought we were cool. At that point, we thought we had city life all figured out: the hip places to go (Newbury Street), where all the cool shops were (Newbury Street) and where all the hipster college kids hung out (Newbury Street). Basically, we only knew how to get to Newbury Street. But I digress.

Although we thought we had the city pretty well figured out, there was one area that we, or at least I, was still clueless about: T chivalry.

On one fateful evening, I was sitting down in a seat on the green line. Ah, it felt nice to rest my weary 17 year old legs. We pulled to a stop, and a new crowd of people walked into the train. Of course I thought nothing of it; why should I? I had a seat, and I wasn't going to stand until we got to Hynes.

Some scary guy, however, had a different idea.

"Aren't you gonna get up?!" He snapped. I looked around. Was he talking to me? Of course not. Just keep minding your business and looking down at your shoes. "ExCUSE me!!" The man repeated, more loudly than before. At this point I had to look up and see what was happening. Much to my dismay, my eyes raised up only to meet the furrowed brow of a disgruntled Bostonian with a gut the size of Michigan and pitstains to match.

He had his hand on the shoulder of a white-haired old woman. "I can't fuckin' believe this," he continued, "You ain't gonna get your lazy fuckin' ass up and give her a seat!? Fuckin' prick."

At this point, all eyes were on me. Every single person aboard, from tight-jeaned scenester to Ugg-adorned Eurotrash to sweater-clad college professor, were all staring at me with angry eyes. I stood sheepishly. The old woman sat down without a word. Meanwhile, the sweat-stained Sicilian who had originally accosted me kept his gaze firmly planted on my eyes.

"Learn some fuckin' manners," he blurted. He scoffed and turned away from me. Things went back to normal, but my life was changed forever.

This incident brings me to the point of this post: Where do we draw the line on T chivalry? Is there some kind of age cutoff for whom to allow into our much-coveted seat? Is there a certain quota of gray hairs or deep wrinkles that an individual must meet in order for a younger person to say, "Excuse me. Would you like to sit down?"

I have pondered this question many times over my years here, and have still not come to a conclusive answer. On the one hand, you want to be polite to an older person. Their legs may be tired and their bones may be weak. On the other hand, you don't want to offend an older person who still has the chutzpah to think that they're still virile young stallions. If you offer a 40-year-old man your seat just because he has a few gray hairs on his temple, it is quite possible that he may be offended.

In the end, I guess it comes down to your best instincts. As with everything else in life, the only way to learn is through experience. Just hope your experience isn't as bad as mine was.