The only time in my life that I’d been on a subway had been in 2003 in Moscow, Russia. But when my eldest daughter lived in Brooklyn and I visited her, my desire to explore necessitated us taking the NYC subway. Knowing her father, she gave me strict instructions on how to behave. “Don’t talk, don’t stare, keep your gaze down,” she ordered. In her mature adulthood, we had switched roles. Once on the subway, everything went okay until a girl boarded with purple hair and multiple facial piercings. She was, to me at least, gawd-awful looking. My daughter saw her too. “Don’t stare,” she repeated sotto voce. I understood and I complied, but I could see what was going on. It was as if she had taken me to the zoo and expected me not to wince at the baboon’s butt.