Editorial January 20, 1997 Issue

To the young woman in Oslo ...

Mary Metzner Trammell

You probably don't remember me. It was my friend you spoke to as we got off the trolley. You told her you were hungry and didn't have a place to live. And that you needed money. Then you coughed and clutched your thin sweater together against the cold night wind.

I didn't understand Norwegian, but it wasn't hard to see you were in trouble. I was glad my friend gave you some change. And she couldn't resist telling you, "Take care of yourself." For a second, your sad blue eyes flashed defiance. Then you nodded, smiled just a bit, and walked away into the shadows.

Since that night I've thought so much about you. I've even given you a name—Inger. And the funny thing is, Inger, even though I'd never seen you before, I immediately felt I already knew you. Maybe because I'd seen that look in your eyes before. I'd seen it in the eyes of young women and men in New York and London and Paris and Athens and Kingston and Stockholm and Boston. I'd seen it in the eyes of children in my own family.

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