My timing couldn’t be worse. It was the middle of August 2005. A mere month earlier, 56 people had been killed by suicide bombers on public transportation. A couple weeks after that, another attempt at bombings had been made. Even more recently, a London newspaper had an article warning British citizens that the next attack from terrorists could come in the form of woman carrying a large bag. And there I stood on the platform of a Tube station with my jet black hair and eyes, olive-skinned complexion and a diaper-containing bag which was almost as big as me.

I glanced at my husband who stood a few paces away from me, holding our 2-year-old son. This was our first time in England and we were just three happy Americans, anxious to begin one of four days of London sightseeing. Of course, as an American tourist I would be guilty of committing several crimes. I would unwittingly overtip anyone who served me food or drink. I would certainly step directly into oncoming traffic, despite the helpful words painted on every street corner—“Look right (you stupid foreigner.)” And I would recklessly slaughter the English language whenever possible. But I had no intent to cause the British people any real harm. I liked the British. After all, they gave us John Cleese, Hugh Grant and the Spice Girls. And how could anyone possibly dislike the people who brought us “Girl Power?”

I couldn’t even appear to be less threatening if I tried. I am a housewife, a mother, a tired woman in need of a quiet meal and decent sleep. There I stood in my sensible sneakers, rumpled gray pants and a red t-shirt with a light water-repellant jacket. The offending bag over my shoulder was standard issue for all first-time moms in the States, and it is designed with the intent to humiliate its owner. The outside of the bag was covered with large cartoon monkeys, giraffes, hippos and lions, all smiling broadly. The large outer pockets which had clear plastic covers left their contents of lip balm, sunglasses, facial tissues and hand wipes clearly exposed. The ends of the bag held an umbrella and a bright blue sippy cup, and the middle was partially opened for easy access to a package of Scottish pancakes my son had taken a particular liking to during our tour. Beneath those pancakes lay a half-dozen diapers, vinyl changing mat, a clean change of clothes for my son, various lotions and most notably, a small resin replica of Windsor Castle we had just purchased the other day which I was certain had been lost for good.

When the train arrived, my husband carried our son inside the car and I quietly sat with the diaper bag on my lap trying to put my fellow passengers at ease with my casual demeanor. This ability seems to come naturally to most Americans in part, because we are always smiling. We smile for pictures, we smile while gagging on second-hand cigarette smoke in cafes, and we smile while waiting in queues which is funny because in our own country waiting more than 20 seconds in a line will make us leave the premises in a huff. Maybe we smile because most of us are on vacation and we like to think the jam we’re stuck in isn’t our own. But I think the main reason Americans smile is because we have very nice teeth, all big white and straight, and no one likes to keep the expense and pain we’ve put into orthodontia a secret. So I smiled, just like the hippos, lions and giraffes on my son’s diaper bag, to show my good nature. Although the cars were fairly empty since we were traveling at 10 a.m. on a weekday morning, the reaction from the few Tube riders around me was apparent. Thanks to my Korean and Italian heritage I still had the darkest hair, the darkest eyes, and the darkest complexion on board, and no one seemed to trust a dark woman holding a big bag on the Tube particularly if she sat there smiling like an idiot.

We spent the rest of the day being model tourists. We walked through museums and gardens, we toured palaces and cathedrals, we rode the London Eye. Our diaper bag was searched several times, like everyone else’s bags, at all these venues. But no security personnel singled me out as I waited around various train stations. When it came time to return to our hotel, we found ourselves riding the Tube at 5:30 p.m., the end of rush hour. There were no seats available, so ladies wearing pretty summer blouses clung onto sweaty support rails, while men in dress shirts and pants stood holding their jackets. My husband, laden with camera gear, entered the car before me, and I followed with my son who was too cranky to be held by his father. The offending diaper bag was still slung around my shoulder. I had been standing on the train less than two seconds when I felt a tug at my elbow.

“Would you like my seat?”an elderly Indian woman in business attire asked.

“No, thank you,” I said. She was being very kind but I could not take the seat of a woman who was older than I despite the fact that my son felt like he weighed a metric ton. One stop later, another woman boarded and asked me if I would like to take her seat. This time again, the offer came from an older Indian woman wearing a black pant suit. I couldn’t help but notice the white men and women who remained seated closer to me than either of these two women. Why didn’t any of them offer me their seat? I reached into the diaper bag and gave my son a bite of Scottish pancake, a self-conscious and obvious effort to once again, put everyone at ease.

The next day, I conducted an experiment by accident. My husband held the diaper bag while I held my son. The reaction from my Tube mates was obvious and immediate. It was as though everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Of course, people noticed my dark Asian hair and eyes. Some even noticed my decidedly Roman profile which will cause a bit of confusion sometimes even in the States. Yet as I felt these casual examinations on my face, I noticed that this time, most people were not afraid of me. They were just curious. One 30-something man made faces at my son, and a young white woman offered me her seat when we boarded a full car. Others smiled and waved to my son as he sat on my lap chewing the cuff on his sleeve. Meanwhile, the animals on my son’s diaper bag still smiled broadly from my husband’s lap, but no one seemed to notice. After all, my husband has fair skin and blond hair, and there were plenty of darker, scarier people with big bags on board.

For the next two days, I made it a policy to ensure that I held my son and not the bag whenever we were near a Tube station. I thought it would make our visit to London more pleasant for everyone. In general, I was right. However it should be noted that in one isolated incident, even with my son on my lap and no bag present, I did catch a very hostile look from a young woman who sat across from me. Was she in a bad mood? Did she mistake me for someone who had once kicked her dog? Or was she just one of those people who hated anyone who looked a bit too “different?” I will never know for sure.

The whole experience has led me to change my original thesis. The people on the Tube were not necessarily afraid of me, my dark hair and eyes, or my dark complexion. They were afraid of my hippo-grinning bag. And considering that this bag often contains sour milk, half-eaten biscuits and soiled clothes, they have every right to be afraid.