Last Tuesday night, I walked out of my pilates class at 16th and Sansom and into an overcast, drizzly world. I plugged into the pod and headed for home, still dressed in my workout gear. That day, the gear happened to be black stretchy pants and a black tee-shirt. The tee-shirt said “This is What a Feminist Looks Like.” I had originally gotten it for The March for Women’s Lives in DC spring 2004, and it quickly became workout wear, because I’m not much for slogans on my body on an every day basis.

Walking up 16th towards Chestnut, I noticed a tall, slender woman purposefully walking towards the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner, two young kids in tow. She tried the door at DD, and when she found it locked, an expression of total confusion and uncertainty took over her face. Her son looked close to tears, the little girl wouldn’t stay on the sidewalk and it was starting to rain in earnest. I had already walked past, but I felt a strong tug to walk back to her and see if there was anything I could do to. I went up to her and asked, “Is there anything I can do to help? You look at little lost.” She seemed so happy that someone had noticed and simply stated that she had a long drive in front of her and just wanted to get a cup of tea before heading out. She remembered she had seen a Starbucks, but didn’t remember where it was, so had come to the Dunkin’ Donuts. I pointed her in the direction of Starbucks a block away on Walnut, she smiled, lost the bewildered expression and said thanks. Then she took another look at me, her eyes got big, she pointed her finger at herself and exclaimed, “This is what a feminist looks like, too!”

My tee-shirt, which had been a random selection in the dark of my bedroom that morning, became a signal to her that I was alright, that someone cared that she was okay, and that even in the big city, someone wants to help. It was one of those random encounters, where for a moment all involved feel a little richer, a little better off for having stopped to help and be helped.