A couple of years ago, I was walking to my car on the other side of town. It was during a big snowstorm.
I was on Eighth Street around 7 p.m., my hood tied tight around my head. It was dark, so you couldn’t make out who I was. Snow covered me.
A couple of women — looked to be in their 30s — stopped and asked me if I needed a ride to where I was going. They said I must have been cold.
Their offer impressed me. They had no idea who I was. They didn’t know my race, my nationality, my economic status.