A "Caiçara" in the Windy City

Ria didn’t realize she was stepping into such a crowded train car. Actually, it wasn’t that full when she got on — but it quickly became so. She still had time to find a seat. Diagonally to her left, she spotted an older woman who looked like the Oracle from The Matrix, only wiser.

A devoted fan of the film, Ria couldn’t help but make the connection. Velvet-dark skin, silver-white hair, round glasses that nearly took over her entire face, and a tunic-dress with African patterns that looked like a work of art. But what stood out most was her expression — a blend of kindness, calm, and wisdom.

Ria fell in love with that image. If she could’ve, she’d have taken a photo and made it into a painting.

One or two stations later, the car was flooded with people — all wearing red and blue jerseys, except for two: a boy, around twelve, and his father, dressed in black and white. That station was Wrigley Field, and Ria quickly understood that another Cubs vs. White Sox classic had just ended. Judging by the faces in blue, the Cubs had won. Judging by the boy’s face, something deeper than losing was at play — there was fear too.

Ria noticed it — and also noticed the father, pressing his son’s shoulders with what looked like anxiety, maybe even a slight tremble. It was clear they didn’t feel safe there. But the father stood in a protective stance, with a look on his face that said something powerful. If she could hear his thoughts, she was sure they’d say: “I’m with my child. Don’t be foolish enough to mess with us.”

What Ria didn’t understand was that she had seen many train cars like this — but never with this kind of tension. Until she found the root of the problem.

A group of blue-wearers — clearly disapproved of even by other blues — were throwing out nasty comments into the air. They weren’t directed at anyone specifically, but for those who were listening, the target was obvious.

As the train moved on, the offhand comments became sharper, more vicious — and they landed like punches on the boy’s face and like fire in the father’s eyes. He now tried, even more than before, to figure out how to protect his son while keeping his own expression strong — untouchable.

Then the train stopped — construction work ahead. The conductor’s voice echoed from the speaker: we’d have to wait a few minutes.

The mood, already tense, started to simmer.

And then, the most aggressive of the group — standing tall and triumphant with a game ball in his hand — pointed at the small family and shouted:

“You’re not welcome here! Next time, take a cab. We don’t mix with losers.”

The boy turned to his dad in panic and whispered:

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

The father pulled the boy behind him and, without thinking, took a step forward, ready to fight back.

The blue-man-who-thought-he-was-invincible looked like he might lunge again. But others in blue — tired of him — held him back. He was a grown man, yes, but his actions screamed of a boy who had never learned respect.

“That’s unfortunate for those two,” Ria thought. For a moment, silence fell. And that’s when something caught her attention.

The Oracle — as Ria had come to call her — was laughing. A deep, full, delicious laugh that cut right through the heavy air, bringing a strange lightness to it all.

The blue-boy-disguised-as-a-man, seeing her laugh, turned his rage toward her. People tried to hold him back again, and the Oracle, instead of flinching, raised her hand as if creating a barrier between them. To Ria, it felt like that woman had already seen and lived through just about everything.

Then, without fanfare, in a soft and serene voice, she began to speak:

“It’s amazing, really, how people these days think their belly buttons are the center of the universe.

My boy — yes, I’ve earned the poetic license to call you that, because I’ve walked farther and seen more — I’m not laughing at you, but at the situation you’re creating. Because it goes so deeply against the very thing you claim to believe…”

Everyone in the car, unsure of where she was going with this, wore expressions shaped like giant question marks above their heads.

And the man-who-was-still-just-a-boy snapped back:

“I believe they shouldn’t be here! They don’t have the right. They’re losers. They don’t deserve to be in the same train, or even on the same track. How is that against what I believe?”

All those packed into the cramped car, Ria included, were now holding their breath — as if even air needed silence.

The Oracle adjusted in her seat, took a deep breath, and continued:

“Humanity is quite the spectacle, don’t you think, sweetheart? I’ve earned that nickname too, mind you — I’ve seen plenty. These days, I laugh more. Mostly at life’s irony.

See, you’re leaving a game where your team won. You feel so victorious, you can’t even bear to share a space with two fans of the other team. That’s about right, isn’t it?”

The boy-man-out-of-control tried to interrupt again, but someone from his own group — an older-guy-with-more-sense — was firm:

“Let her speak!”

And like a child being told off by his father, he fell silent.

The Oracle nodded, thankful, and went on:

“Well then, let me tell you why you should be thanking them.

I’ll try to explain real slow, so you really get it.”

She paused, letting the sarcasm settle just right.

“For there to be a match, don’t you need two sides? And for one to win, the other has to lose. Without the other team, your team wouldn’t even exist. For there to be a game, they need to share the same field.

And while they’re out there, trying to win, there’s respect — maybe even admiration. Because deep down, they all know: they only exist because the other side does too.

Without them, you wouldn’t feel this pride, this fire that makes you want to push people out of spaces. But without them, your blue jersey means nothing.

So, my dear, the very least you could do is go over there and thank them — for making it possible for you to wear your color with pride.”

The train had started moving again — no one noticed. When she finished, they had already arrived at the next stop.

“Well, this is my stop,” she said gently.

She stood up with that same serene grace, nodded to everyone, especially to the father and son, and stepped off the train — leaving behind a trail of humanity that touched everyone in the car.

And just as the train rolled forward, something magical happened:

One by one, the blues began to greet and thank the black-and-white duo.

Until it was the turn of the man-no-longer-quite-a-boy, who now looked softer, maybe even ashamed.

He didn’t just shake hands — he knelt down, looked the boy in the eyes, and offered him the game ball he had once held like a trophy.

For a few seconds, that image froze in time.

Ria was certain: those who were there would never forget that unexpected masterclass in humanity.

She stepped off at her own stop, eyes glassy, heart pounding — thankful to be alive and reminded of one essential truth:

What we need most is someone who can guide us gently back to the light when we get lost in our darkness. Because, in the end, we all share the same field.