SOME NEW YORKERS ARE BORN HERE, SOME ARE MADE HERE: PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION IS KEY.
Content warning: the following story contains material that may be distressing to some audiences.
It’s one of those days! I’m on route to my 4th gig of the day! I’m tired and the bus is crawling along 125th Street in Harlem; it’s hot inside and everyone is buried in their phones, scrolling, droning away. I’m bored and I’m a bit sad. We finally arrive at the next stop: commuters board and there is confusion with their metro cards, they don’t know where theirs are or they have expired ones. I’m cursing under my breath thinking I’m so alone in this wretched world! Then the bus driver grabs the microphone and I know we are brothers in this hoodlum of a life. He starts the best stand up routine worthy of a Netflix special!
“People!” His voice is a bit hoarse but crystal clear “I don’t understand you! You’re standing there at the bus stop; I’m assuming you're waiting for a bus?”
Confused nodding amongst the commuters.
” Right! Good!” He continues “So, you’re going somewhere of your own volition. No one has been kidnapped right?!”
Tentative shaking of the heads and now furtive looks at each other and at the closest exit.
“Good!” Patronizing now. “So, you see me coming, no? I’m a bus for God’s sake! What are you waiting for?!?!”
His delivery is so on point, I can’t stand it anymore and I explode in an enormous belly laugh imagining the anthropomorphic version of the bus and this comedic genius!
He enunciates slowly: “Have-your-Metrocard-ready! The-bus-is-coming!” Drum roll!
New Yorkers cannot survive without public transportation and it is here that you discover the vibrant, dystopian, insane pulse of this exhausting and fascinating city. Here you are expected every single day to not only travel with 8 million + other humans, but also to coexist with critters, vermin and the spiritually reformed. I support the feminist leanings of Jesus any day, but must I listen to his teachings and his father’s fiery revenge on me and all the other sinners in this moving, overcrowded pantheon? It’s 7:30am and I’m just trying to get to work-what more can you ask of me New York City? Apparently a lot! Because after you listen to the Jesus bit (in English then in Spanish), you have to fend off the flying limbs of dancers dangling dangerously off the poles, twerking on the beat of music so loud you can hear it pulsing in your temples. And, if at this point, you are still not in a much deserved coma, here come the drummers, the fiddlers, the rejects of the Voice (Season 3), the mimes and the peddlers; the kids selling candy for their basketball team, the fruit vendor and the batteries’ salesman; because who doesn’t need a nice pair of AAA batteries on their way to the office? Then comes the dogs in the Ikea’s bags, the cats on leashes, the pythons wrapped around their owner’s neck, the zebras, giraffes, elephants and birds, two of each and the Ark is full. C’mon New York!
And let me backup for a second-8 million + other humans, most of whom use their body to carry their heads around without any spatial awareness or courtesy. As a former dancer, I believe that those living in a big city should be mandated to take dance classes with creative exploration of space. I can see it now:
“Mr. Smith, if you want to live here, please fill out form 5-6-7-8 and confirm availability for all dance classes below. Once all classes have been taken, with verve and commitment, we will consider you for citizenship!”
At this point we would be even ready to explore intellectually advanced subjects such as waiting for others to exit a car before barging in and staying to the right at all times when moving with other commuters.
My son loved the subways when he was little. By the time he was four he had memorized each line’s route (all 23 of them) plus the major connecting hubs. He would nonchalantly direct lost tourists to their destinations, then go back to his picture books leaving them completely dumbfounded that such a young mind could be this sharp. Once he begged me to take him from beginning to end of the longest line there is, which is the A line. And so we embarked in a journey to see how long it would take us to go from Inwood, where we lived, all the way down to the Rockaways and back. An hour and a half ride each way, in case you’re wondering. As a New Yorker, subways are part of his DNA and he is as comfortable riding them as he is walking on his own feet. For me it has been a long and complicated reckoning of their indispensable function; I have also come to discover the people of this city here, in their best and worst behaviors.
It is a misconception that New Yorkers are rude; they are just busy and minding their own business. Most of the time they are packed in each subway car so tightly that they need to learn to synchronize their inhales to allow for the next exhales. You wouldn’t be able to push a paperclip in between their bodies and yet, I have witnessed the strange phenomenon, which I like to call, the “circus trick” twice. This phenomenon requires a stimulus of something pretty dramatic that causes all the bodies to migrate in unison at the speed of light to one side of the car; and now there is a pile of said bodies, some upside down, some downside up holding on for dear life to whatever they can grab on, staring intently at the situation that caused them to move so swiftly. Where once there was a thick mass of tangled bodies, now there is only empty space. Magic!
The first stimulus I observed, was my son projectile vomiting mid-ride towards Wall Street. All bodies to the right, my son lying down on his seat, one arm and his head dangling off it like a drunken toddler and me, center stage, empty space, picking up the puke with both of my cupped hands and trying to make a neat pile of it at my feet; I am mortified by this unwanted starring role, and as I dutifully act as a human waste removal, I keep my eyes fixed on my son’s regurgitated lunch. When suddenly I see from the corner of my eye a hand coming my way and offering paper towels, then another one with a plastic bag, and one more with a newspaper. I am too grateful to say anything, I just grab all these providential supplies and I nod teary eyed. I labor a bit longer and I find myself sitting down with my son now wrapped around my torso koala style; I am holding the puke bag in my right hand, the back of his head with my left and I stare 45 degree low in front of me thinking of this predicament and that I still have about a dozen stops to go. Then cue the celestial angels; this very handsome man dressed in a sharp and expensive suit looks at me and kindly asks:
”Do you want me to throw that out for you?”
I look at him blankly. Obviously I misheard and need clarification:
”You want my puke bag?”
He offers:”Yes, so I can throw it out at the platform for you. I am getting off here.”
I hesitantly stretch my arm out, and off he goes into the financial center of the world, handsome, smiling, and proudly holding my puke bag. My modern day hero.
The second time I witnessed the “circus trick” in a New York subway was terrifying and its aftermath haunted me for many months to follow. My son is now in grade school, maybe 1st grade. We are sitting side to side on the very last seat against the wall, close to the door connecting the cars (which is supposed to never be opened in transit, but that of course New Yorkers use freely at their will whenever they are compelled to). For some reason, he has my laptop open on his lap and he is listening to something on his headphones, oblivious to anything around him. I am trying to understand what he is smirking about when the doors close at 125th street, and whoosh…all bodies to the right in the exact spot where we are sitting. I automatically pick my son up, slam him on my lap and pivot him 90 degrees so he is now facing the side wall away from the empty space, as someone is falling into the seat he was occupying just seconds ago. I turn to my left, past this uninvited guest, and at first, I can’t understand what’s happening, my brain unwilling and untrained to process the scene. There are about six or seven teenagers in a circle kicking, punching, slapping another young man repeatedly, violently, loudly. I will never forget the sounds of punches landing on the kids’ face, chest, arms, legs, and the feral sounds of his pain barely audible over the excited cheering of a number of girls surrounding the boys doing the hitting; the girls themselves just as vicious and complicit. I am so frightened, but somehow I cannot take my eyes off of them; the distorted, angry angles of their bodies stumbling over unable to control their own strength, their young faces transformed by inhuman masks of hatred and this poor kid, now in a fetal position with his arms covering his head, tensing all the muscles in his body to create an armor with his own skin.
I want to say something; a lady in her fifties across from me, probably another mother, reads the intention in my eyes and silently shakes her head. I stay quiet. I look down at my own precious bundle of joy still smirking to himself thanks to the power of technology, and I hear the young man spit out a tooth with a delirious growl. I must have gone temporarily insane, because I grab my kid under the armpits, I stand up, his legs swinging in front of mine while he is still holding the laptop in his hands and I scream “STOP IT”. Then I sit, praying they don’t have a knife, or worse a gun and I immediately regret my foolish act of bravado as I meet the disapproving gaze of the lady who just warned me.
At this point the train is slowing down for its upcoming stop; the boy is still on the ground, but the beating has stopped; maybe it’s no longer fun beating him up now that he is unresponsive? There are high 5s, chest bumps and celebratory kisses all around amongst the boys and girls. The subway doors open at 145th, the gang runs out and dissipates in all directions, scurrying diseased rats searching for the shadows. By the time I turn around to look for the boy, he is already halfway up the stairs on the platform towards the exit. He is bleeding and using both of his hands to support himself on the railing, but he is on his way out. It dawns on me now, that not once during the savage beating, did he ask for help. Now he is not even waiting for authorities or an ambulance? Maybe it was a gang initiation after all and now that he has survived, next time he will be the one giving the beating. I am horrified. We all are. Like if blind, people search for seats with their hands, they sit, unable to focus or speak. The train is moving on toward 207th; no-one has had the time to inform the conductor, plus all that the victim has left behind are some blood spatter here and there; even the tooth is gone. Did he take it with him as a badge of honor? As commuters arrive at their destination, they turn to those left in the car, wide-eyed, traumatized and with genuine concern utter:
”Stay Safe.”
I turn to my son, who is methodically packing up the laptop and his headphones; he looks up from the task just long enough to ask:
”What’s for dinner mamma?”
I smile at him, caress the top of his head:
”Whatever you want my love, whatever you want.”
New York City transit system operates 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Apart from rare incidents like the one I just described, it is safe to ride buses, subways, ferries or trains at any time; and New Yorkers take full advantage of that. A swipe of you metro card or a tap on your phone allows you access to many different worlds: Broadway shows, museums, galleries, concert halls, libraries, restaurants with any cuisine you may crave, sports arenas, markets, parks, the ocean, botanical gardens, airports, and so much more.
This freedom is why I stay rooted here. I actively have to renew my commitment to this city often, because it has a way to discourage and anger me that requires my attention. But at the end, I always choose to remain here. You can be full of contradictions in New York City, you can be shiny and gritty, compassionate and stubborn, rise early or stay up all night; you can come as you are and leave as you may; there is a spot for you to be free in your uniqueness and a tribe that will accept you unconditionally for you. I have found my tribe; it keeps me grounded with all its expansive world views, artistic experimentations, sarcastic humor and immeasurable quench for life. These people make this unforgiving city feel like home and any time I leave it for long stretches of time, I yearn to to be back with them. I must admit, I do not miss the religious mambo-jumbo, but I’ll take two AA batteries and a mango cut up like a flower….to go please!
