New Faces in Familiar Places

On my usual afternoon Metro ride home, I settle in with a book, headphones on, and my bag beside me. On this particularly hot June day, an older white woman pauses beside my seat and asks if she can sit down. I move my bag without looking up, Malcolm Todd’s newest album filling my ears as I return to my book. When we screech to a stop at the next station, she thanks me—but instead of turning away, she starts talking.

She tells me that she is coming from the Great American State Fair and urges me to pay it a visit. I humor her and say, “Yes,” but know I will not. I find myself jumping to conclusions about her political beliefs and the kind of person she might be—an assumption that felt at odds with the gentle impression her pink hat and grandmotherly demeanor had given me. But despite my misgivings about her political leanings, we keep chatting, and, as I ask her what she does for a living, I learn that she is a retired school teacher. I put away my headphones and close my book, giving her my full attention. Before long, we’re talking about our shared love of museums.

She tells me that she used to love bringing her students into D.C. from her school in Arlington, pairing classroom lessons with visits to the wonderful museums lining the National Mall. I ask her if she regrets retirement. Would she go back, I wonder. Her laughter and vehement “no” surprise me, but as she explains how things have changed—less funding for field trips, more exams instead of experiential learning, and a lack of teaching autonomy—I understand her response more.

I suddenly long for my elementary school days filled with long recesses and joyous holiday parties—all the hazy notions of a 2010s childhood that seem to have been replaced by a cold indifference in elementary school classrooms today. I say this, and she smiles, nostalgia clouding her eyes too.

My metro conversation lasted no more than eight minutes. Yet even for just a few stops along the Blue Line, it felt nice to hear a new voice (no shade to Malcolm) and replace the story I’d imagined with the one she chose to tell me. Maybe it is just the Midwesterner in me, always happy to strike up a conversation, but I cannot help but think that these minute interactions serve as a reminder of the fact that the world is so much bigger than myself—filled with people who share my experiences, or do not, and live their own all-consuming, unique lives too.

A few weeks later, I am pulling into the same Foggy Bottom metro station—sans fellow museum lover—after catching up with friends I had not seen in years. I bound up the steps of the station to exit and feel cool air hit my face, a beautiful respite from the suffocating heat that has engulfed the city.

Possessed by the cool temperature and a warm contentment in my evening, I start for the Lincoln Memorial. Just a short walk away from my summer dorm, I am there in no time. It is empty of the usual touristy crowds that swarm by day. Dancing along the marble perimeter, I think about everything and anything while the twinkling lights of Arlington stare back at me.

It is just past midnight, I realize. It is time to go—already far too late for me to be out. I turn to leave and spot two National Guard officers at the end of the column-lined corridor, dancing just as I had been. Feeling embarrassed and caught, I do not know what else to do but laugh. I ask them where they are from and plunge into another conversation.

I learn that they are both from Mississippi and have been here for a few short months, staying until next year. One of the officers, shorter than the other with blond strands of hair peeking out of his cap, tells me he has always wanted to serve—reminiscing on a childhood spent “playing Army in the yard.” He dreams of being stationed in Germany, and when I ask him why, his boyish grin spreads across his face as he tells me about his plans to crisscross Europe by train.

They tell me of the long hours they spend on the National Mall, keeping watch as a part of the night shift. They remind me of my dad, who worked nights while I was growing up so he could be with my brother and me during the day. I volunteer these memories, and the other guardsman, taller with darker skin and kind brown eyes, mentions his mother who raised him on her own. He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of her, their resemblance obvious, telling me he would do anything for her.

As I leave, smiling, they tell me they will be there. I tell them I will be back.

Late into July, rain pours into the Tidal Basin a few miles away from where Lincoln sits. I watch from the dry safety of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, empty save for a few National Guardsmen. Feeling the sudden urge to step into the rain, I rush down the slick white steps, the cool drops soaking through my old soccer shorts as the sun pushes through the clouds. The rain continues to fall, and a double rainbow appears in the distance as I make my way back home.

Rounding the corner onto my street, I spot a firefighter playing a brilliant turquoise electric guitar outside his firehouse. When I catch his eye and smile, he calls across the street that he will be back tomorrow. Mid-sentence, though, he changes his mind and beckons me over for one last song. I hesitate before asking him if he can play any Fleetwood Mac, a summer favorite of mine.

As he plays the first few notes of “Dreams,” we get to talking. Originally from Pennsylvania, he has been a firefighter for 16 years. When I ask him how long he has been playing the guitar, he replies with a casual, “just two years”—explaining how he fills the free time that comes with the 24-hour shifts of being a firefighter.

He continues to play, and somewhere between songs I learn that he used to DJ. When I mention that learning to DJ is on my college bucket list, his eyes light up, and he immediately pulls up old DJ sets on his phone.

“One, two, three, four—two, two, three, four—three, two, three, four—four, two, three, four.” An impromptu lesson has begun—he explains to me that DJing is not that hard; an eight count is a DJ’s guide to switching between each new beat. All of this is possible through a DJ’s controller, with each side responsible for mixing a different song, in accordance with the two different songs playing in either ear of the headset. I am fascinated.

As the song from his set ends, he smiles a wistful grin, and not wanting to keep him from the dinner bell that has just rung, I start to say goodbye. But as I turn to go, he asks me if I would like to learn. Safe to say, I will be back at the firehouse next week to learn all there is to DJing—DJ controller, headphones, and all.

Summer in D.C. this year has been especially hot and muggy. After eight weeks running around the city and settling into the rush of Capitol Hill, I find myself sad to go. I will miss my routine: the hustle and bustle of my morning commute, the familiarity of my office, and my favorite sunset spot overlooking the Potomac.

I know I will look back and reminisce on the spontaneous interactions that have colored the everyday: the many chats by the monuments, quick metro ride conversations, and firehouse jam sessions. More than these people I’ve met in passing, I will miss the kind people that run the U.S. House of Representatives’ subway system and the IT guy that always comes by our office, the Girl Scouts from Oswego who took a tour of the Capitol with me and the sweet women working in the Rayburn House Office Building coffee shop—small moments that seem almost insignificant yet quietly elevate each day.

Wrapped up in my college bubble every busy autumn and spring, it is easy to forget that there is so much more to life than the endless avalanche of student-led events or the transactional exchanges that define so many comp coffee chats. I know now, many conversations later, that there is so much to learn from the people around me. Perhaps back on campus, I will make the same effort to get to know both the familiar faces—like the late-night security guard at Lamont Library—and the new ones waiting for me in Mather House this fall.

This summer has left me with endless stories of my own, and just the same, I feel so lucky that so many people let me know a little bit more about their stories too. If anything, this summer in D.C. has been a reminder that even though it is so easy to tune out the rest of the world—headphones in, book out, eyes down—sometimes it is worth your while to look up and really see the people around you, even if it is just for a brief moment.

Miriam Tsegay ’29 (miriamtsegay@college.harvard.edu) is really looking forward to her DJ lessons at the firehouse.