I have a horrible high school memory, one of those you wish you could erase from the reel of your life, but instead it sticks and you relive it in your head every time to time.

I was walking around the lovely campus of my school-by-the-lake. I think I was walking with someone, but I don't remember who. And as we passed by a group gathered by a picnic bench, including one of my best friends and her sort-of boyfriend, we slowed to say hello. Said pseudo-boyfriend, for whatever reason, answered the greeting by spitting in my general direction. It landed on the ground at my feet.

Now, maybe I just take things too personally. Or maybe I'd just read too much Shakespeare and interpreted spitting as the highest insult known to humankind. Either way, I think I turned bright red (I don't normally blush), tears of anger accumulated, and I exited to my room to let them out.

Was spitting supposed to be a joke? The other kids laughed. Was I being a fool for getting embarrassed, for being offended? I don't know, but I could never forgive that guy, as insignificant as he might've thought the incident was, and am still a little bitter toward my friend - who I still consider a good friend - for remaining so close to a person who would do that. Although, to this day, we've never discussed it.

Why do I bring this up?

Minutes ago, on my way home from the subway, a man spit in my face.

In my face.

I don't know why. Because I walked too close to him? Because I'm white? Because I'm wearing professional-looking clothes? Because he had a bad day? Because he was on drugs?

I didn't say a word. My jaw dropped. I didn't stop walking.

The man kept walking, mumbling something-something "ho"-something "bitch." Three men behind him turned and walked inside a building. Several people gathered for the bus may or may not have noticed what happened. I wiped my face with my coat sleeve, took a left, and made it mid-block before breaking down.