few years ago I lost my left leg in an accident. Once I was riding the train and sat down in the seat reserved for the disabled.
A few stops later a woman came up to me telling me I needed to move because she needed that seat. I told her I was sorry, but I needed the seat myself. She got all aggressive. I again apologized and said I really needed the seat myself. She left and then stood right in front of me, arms crossed, glaring like I had just committed a crime.
It was summer, hot as hell, and the train was packed. Sweat clung to everyone like a second skin. I had my prosthetic on that day, covered by loose pants, so to anyone just glancing, I looked “normal.” Which apparently meant I didn’t look disabled enough for her.
She started muttering loudly. “Some people just pretend to be disabled. Shameful.” I didn’t respond at first. I’ve learned that arguing in public usually just makes it worse. But then she poked my shoulder. Hard.

“Do you not have any decency?” she snapped. “You’re sitting in a seat for people who actually need it.”
That was when I slowly pulled up my pant leg, revealing the metallic glint of my prosthetic. Her face went pale for a second—then immediately turned red.
“Oh. Well. Still, I need to sit down.”

At that point, everyone nearby had tuned in. A man holding a stroller looked at her like she had slapped his baby. A teenage girl whispered something to her friend, clearly recording.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” I said again. “But I’ve been on my feet all morning. My stump’s swelling. I’m not moving.”
She huffed and stormed toward the front of the train.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
A few minutes later, I heard her talking to the conductor in hushed but angry tones. She pointed in my direction. The conductor, a short guy with a clipboard and big glasses, walked over. I braced myself.
“Sir, this lady says you’re refusing to give up a priority seat.”I’m