A bit of gender action on Muni. Because why not?

I recently headed to SF's SOMA on Muni's T line to conduct an interview for an article. I had my headphones on and a notebook open on my lap. I was not in the mood to talk, and that was painfully clear. I wasn't even in the mood for sitting next to anyone. But that's impossible smack dab in the middle of the day. But I'm glad I got to sit next to a woman named Lois Cotton.

The first person who sat next to me was a little too close. I didn't budge, but rather tried to take up a couple of additional inches that I thought might have encouraged him to get back up. It worked. How about don't sit that close? Muni seats are small and all that, but you can make the effort to maintain a comfortable-enough distance between you and the person next to you. It's not rocket science.

I hadn't been alone in the double seat for long. The next person came along and minded his own business well enough. Maybe it was the energy I was giving off -- or maybe it was my elbow -- but for some reason he soon got up. I would be alone only for one more stop, because at Powell Street, an elderly African American woman with a big purse and bag of groceries in tow sat right down next to me with no concern for how close she was.

I didn't care. I dropped my pen instead.

I jumped a bit, stressed about retrieving it quickly, so it wouldn't a) reach the floor, because that would have been foul; b) get lost in the woman's groceries; or c) disappear altogether.

Too late. The woman was on the lookout for it and, thankfully, found it before any of my aforementioned concerns were realized. "Thanks," I said, smiling at her quickly before resuming my note taking.

"Are you a student?" she asked, turning her body toward me. In that instant, I knew we were in for a long-haul conversation, as Muni tumbled along the Embarcadero toward Bay View. Her eyes were being invaded by cataracts. She could have been 65 and she could have been 80.

"No, no, I'm not in school. Just taking some notes for a story I'm working on."

"Oh. Like Oprah and all of those types. You a writer. You must have known that for a long time."

"Sort of, I think. I wrote my first story when I was six. It was about Santa Claus."

"Really? Just like my granddaughter. She was drawing people when she was two years old! She 18 now. In college. She still draws and paints. What college do you go to?"

Hmmm. Okay.

"I'm not in school. I'm 39." (Yes I know school is for people of all ages, but I thought that if she knew my age she might stop asking if I were in school.)

"Thirty-nine?!" She jerked her head back and looked me up and down. "Well! You a man! I thought this whole time you was just a boy!" She looked away for a minute to and turned back to me. "Those are some good genes you have!"

I wish we could have talked about my genes. But this was going to be about gender. People mistake for a guy a few times a week. When it happens, I consider for a moment whether I should correct the people. Sometimes I do: I'll be in the right mood or the situation might call for it. Most times I don't: I really couldn't care less that gender triggers burned into our collective consciousness prevent people from stepping outside a box for a minute.

For some reason, I wanted this woman on this Muni to know. So I took another tack and decided to let her know her mistake without telling her.

"My story should be in the paper next week if everything goes according to plan. Maybe you can look for it?" I gave her my full, there-is-no-mistaking-it's-a-chick-name, name. That did it, surely.

"My name is Lois Cotton."

"Nice to meet you, Lois." Okay, she got it. We're moving on.

"You know, the name 'Cotton' came from my great, great uncle Joe. He didn't have a last name then. They said he was really good with the way he handled the cotton."

Lois pinched her fingers together over and over to illustrate what I assume must have been the deftness with which Joe must have handled the cotton. "So they gave him the last name 'Cotton.'"

I looked skyward and tried to do some math, which wasn't going to be easy. I estimated Lois's age, which took me back to the early 20th century. Then a bit slowly, I began to realize what Lois had just told me. I looked back at her to confirm what I thought I knew.

"So your great, great...?"

"Uncle. Yes. He was a slave." She spoke proudly of her Uncle Joe and the 10 sons he had.

I know that people who have slave ancestors are everywhere. I have my own, but, as this essay I wrote a long time ago will attest to, I am without that link and spent a bit of time trying to reconstruct it. So when I meet someone like Lois who gives me the time of day and a little piece of her own history, I listen. I also understand the significance and always wish I could talk longer.

"Have you ever been there," she asked, pointing to AT&T Park as we rode by.

"I have. It's nice. You?"

"No, not yet. I'm on a fixed income and don't want to spend my money on that. But I would like to see it sometime."

"Just wait till the Giants have a really bad season; the tickets should be cheap."

She talked about her six-year-old grandson and how she much prefers to watch him play baseball anyways. She didn't need the Giants.

"Well, I'm really happy we met," she said. "It's really nice to talk to you. The man who look like a boy."

Right. That again. My tack, obviously, failed. I had to do it.

"But, Lois," I said, "I'm a woman."

"A woman?!" She pulled back and looked me up and down a bit. "Well. You cute!"

And that is the best response I've had thus far.

"Thanks, Lois."