This morning, as I stood on the tram, a scene unfolded that, while unique in its details, felt familiar in its broader implications. Two men, visibly homeless and wearing the hardship of their lives in the layers of soiled clothing they carried, got into a scuffle. Their voices were loud, their movements chaotic, and I found myself, a Black man in Central Europe, stepping into the center of it all, hands outstretched, saying, “Please don’t do this.”

But this moment wasn’t just about me and the two men in front of me. It never is. Around us, a small crowd of passengers stood at a careful distance, watching. Some curious, others indifferent, a few amused. Their faces, their stillness, their choice to observe but not intervene—all of it added layers to the scene. And beyond them, I could feel the invisible watchers: the tram’s security cameras, the eyes of a driver somewhere in their cabin, perhaps even someone on the street catching a glimpse of this drama through the tram’s windows.

One thing I’ve learned living in this part of the world as a Black man is that being seen is unavoidable. Someone once told me, “When you walk into a place, you have everyone’s attention. What you do with that attention is what sets the tone.” That statement echoes in my mind every time I find myself in moments like this.

It’s not about seeking attention—it’s the default. In an environment where my presence is uncommon, I stand out simply by existing. And while I don’t walk through life feeling like I owe anyone anything, I am keenly aware of the power of perception. It’s not just the two men fighting who will form an opinion about me from this moment—it’s the quiet observers, the ones who don’t say a word but are forming thoughts all the same.

In a place like Central Europe, there are still many who have never met a Black person, let alone spoken to one. Some have never seen a Black person outside of movies or the news. For them, I might be the first real-life interaction, even if it’s indirect. And what they take from that interaction—whether they see me as calm, kind, assertive, or even as someone who stepped in to de-escalate a tense situation—can ripple far beyond this one tram ride.

This is the part of being Black in a predominantly white space that many don’t talk about: the unspoken responsibility of representation. I don’t walk around feeling like I need to prove myself, but I know that my actions can carry weight. If someone’s daughter or son brings home a friend or partner who looks like me, maybe their parent will think back to a moment like this. Maybe they’ll remember seeing someone who looked like me step in with patience and respect. Maybe that memory makes them more open, more willing to embrace the unfamiliar.

It’s not just about the here and now. It’s about the quiet, unnoticed ways we shape perceptions for the future. Every time I interact with someone in a situation like this, it’s as if I’m planting a seed. I might never see what grows from it, but I hope it’s something positive.

This isn’t just limited to dramatic moments like breaking up a fight on a tram. It happens in the mundane interactions, too: buying groceries, asking for directions, holding a door for someone. Every action is part of a larger narrative being written, not just about me as an individual but about people who look like me.

But that narrative isn’t mine alone to write. The people watching—those who observe without engaging—they play a role too. Their silence, their curiosity, their assumptions, or even their respect, all contribute to the story being told in that moment.

This morning’s tram ride reminded me of that balance. I wasn’t just de-escalating a fight between two homeless men. I was navigating a moment being observed from all angles. And while I can’t control what people take away from it, I can control what I give them to work with: respect, calmness, and an attempt to make things better.

Living as a Black man in Central Europe has taught me that being seen isn’t a choice. But being intentional about what people see—that’s where the power lies. And if my presence, my actions, can shift even one perspective in a positive direction, then it’s worth the weight of all those watching eyes.