Last night, instead of working on my long list of readings and assignments like I’d planned, I found myself reminiscing about a time that neither I nor my parents had lived through: an elusive past of New York City that never seemed to have left its collective memory. This was a time when both fear and freedom ruled the city, when, despite the dangers, New York pulsed with an undeniably electric energy. Music spilled from every corner, from the gritty Lower East Side clubs to the Bronx high rises where hip hop was born, while artists turned lofts into studios, contributing to a thriving cultural cacophony. Despite this, the streets were dangerous. The fear of being mugged or attacked was constant for anyone who dared to be out after dark. Perhaps even scarier were the trains, where people were known to have huddled together on one side of a subway car to protect each other from harm. It almost seems sweet—how a palpable fear can bring people together. Sometimes, I feel as if that fear never truly went away, only to evolve into something otherworldly, yet even more imposing.
To people who are unfamiliar with public transit or even New Yorkers with a stronger instinct for self-preservation than I have, the New York Post’s fear-mongering articles may be reason enough to never step on the subway (again). However, I try my best to offer a kinder perspective on the country’s largest metro system. Growing up with a “helicopter mom” in a quiet neighborhood, the subway was my chance to escape the clutches of her grasp and explore the city beyond my myopic, between-home-and-school perspective. At a time when New York was possibly the safest it’s ever been, taking the train was the true realization of freedom and empowerment to my newly-adolescent self, rather than an unpleasant, barely-tolerable experience. Over time, my intense excitement at the prospect of taking public transit has mellowed out, but my memories of it still seem to be tainted by that youthful, idealistic vision. I go on to recall some of my fondest ones, most of which those close to me have already heard several times—yet I find myself itching to tell them over and over again.
What do crabs and cookies have in common? When I get my bouts of nostalgic tunnel vision, I tend to seek out things that bring me closer to home and integrate them into whatever I happen to be doing, and this is no exception. A few months ago, I saw a video online of people helping a lady gather live crabs that had broken free from their paper bag jail while others held the subway doors open so she could still make her stop. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the time I had a paper bag full of gingerbread cookies (in containers, thank goodness) that decided to break on me as I was going through the turnstile. When I got on the train, holding the sides of my bag upright so as to still be usable, this lady sitting one seat away offered me her reusable grocery bag. At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on, being bleary-eyed as I was, but as she was helping me put my cookies into her bag I became particularly appreciative of people who are sharp-eyed and quickly jump into action, both things I struggle with. That moment, though small, reminded me of life’s unexpected gifts—that they can come to us in the form of hardship, however minor.
Is this an invasion of privacy? Regardless, a photo I took that made me strangely contemplative and hyperaware of the hypocrisy of our societal institutions.
Speaking of the E train (see above photo), I remember this one time when I was on it and it stopped in between stations. If you’re from New York, you’ll know that this is a very common occurrence, but it was dragging on for longer than usual, and nowadays, people get antsy if they have to go without cell service for more than five minutes. There was this guy with a suitcase clearly headed for JFK who pressed the emergency intercom button, only to tell the operator that he had a flight to catch and that he would miss it if this delay went on for any longer. The operator, obviously exasperated, repeated what we all already knew—that there was a train in front of us at the station and that they couldn’t move unless it did. This seemed to incite a ruckus like no other, with the entire car bursting into cackles at the hopeless interaction, getting even worse as the guy pressed the button a second time. Some, perhaps feeling sympathy (or pity) for him, asked him where he was headed. Upon finding out that he was flying to (and subsequently that he was from) Spain, the hysteria died down a bit, becoming replaced with genuine concern, especially at the fact that he had to deal with our old, broken subway system. When the train finally pulled up to Jackson Heights-Roosevelt Ave, the guy asked if he should just take an Uber to the airport, which was followed by a chorus of “no’s,” with some pointing out the traffic, others that the train was probably going to be running smoothly from here on out. I had to get off here, so I don’t know what happened. It did make me smile though!
There is so much more I can talk about, like the guy who gave me a thumbs up and complimented my health-conscious habits when I took a swig from my water bottle, or my second-floor neighbor who woke me up seeing that I was still asleep at the stop I needed to get off at, but it all boils down to the same thing—that New Yorkers are much friendlier and kinder than they’re made out to be, and that the subway is not such a dangerous place! In a city of over eight million, hosting a metro system with an annual ridership of over a billion, subway crime is inevitable—that much is true! However, it’s the sense of community, the small moments of connection between strangers who care about each other, that remind me that the subway isn’t just a mode of transportation—it’s a mirror image of the soul of humanity inherent in the chaos of city life. And in times like these, it’s the sense of humanity that keeps us grounded and able to move forward.
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