When a seat isn't yours
A note arrived over the transom recently, posing an interesting question in the subject line: ''Were people in Boston raised by wolves?"
Undoubtedly, this would be another whiny complaint from a transplant from some suave metropolis like Paducah, Ky., a place where corn counts as art.
Still, I opened the missive and learned that the writer, Toby, was a regular reader of this space, meaning my opinion of her had suddenly changed.
She went on to state that she was nine months pregnant, and for the duration of her pregnancy she had been riding the Green Line to work every day.
What Toby couldn't believe was how few people gave up their seats for a woman who so obviously needed one.
''Most people either bury their heads in their book pretending not to see me or simply don't care," she wrote.
She added: ''It would be a vast improvement for this city if people in their daily routines took just a moment to step outside of their self-involvement to see if there might be someone who could use some help. Or even just a seat. Is that asking too much?"
It might be, yes, but this I had to answer for myself.
So I got a pregnant woman, not to be confused with getting a woman pregnant. Her name is Michelle.
Seven months along with her second child, she carries an unassuming glow about her and looks as if she could sip tea at the Bristol one minute, then don a pair of maternity overalls and help her husband paint the walls of their nursery the next.
She is, and I'm not sure why I feel the need to mention this, from Hingham.
We boarded an in-bound Green Line train at Copley. Every seat was taken. A man in jacket and tie looked up from his Barron's, then back down.
A 20-something guy sat with his legs splayed over the seat next to his, right beside the door. He didn't move. No one else did, either.
For the moment, I was embarrassed to be a Bostonian.
At Arlington Street, a woman in her 70s boarded the train, forced the young man to move his legs, and sat down. When she noticed a pregnant woman nearby, she asked in broken English, ''Do you want my seat?"
That was it: On a subway car filled with young, able-bodied people, the only offer came from the elderly woman who probably needed the seat the most.
We boarded another train at Park Street. This time, a 40-something guy stood, said, ''Excuse me," and pointed at his seat. Score one for civility.
On the next ride, a uniformed Boston police officer -- a woman, for God's sake -- was blocking the only open seat on the car by sitting on the outside.
When Michelle made a move for the unoccupied seat, the officer neither stood nor pushed over.
She merely pulled her legs in slightly, forcing Michelle's pregnant midsection to bump against a pole.
Another ride, another elderly person with manners: This time it was a man in a Red Sox hat who stood, as several healthy young women sat dormant. So much for sisterhood.
And on we went. A guy in a ''Union Built" T-shirt coughed up his seat one ride. On another ride, people stared, but didn't move. It was depressing.
On the last ride of the day, a guy in a single seat glanced up, then buried himself in his paperback, not, unfortunately, an etiquette book.
A 30-ish woman with sunglasses propped on her head offered nothing more than an occasional glance.
A few long minutes later, the first young woman of the day stood and motioned to her seat. As it ends up, she was getting off at the next stop anyway.
Maybe the MBTA should launch a courtesy campaign. Or maybe the entire metropolis needs a swift kick from every senior citizen who remembers a time when people paid attention to someone other than themselves.
Maybe no one cares. Maybe that's the problem.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com. 
