In New York City, there is an entire world that exists below ground. It has its own geography, culture, and etiquette. It's own means of arbitrating disputes and upholding social norms. Many of us are residents of that world for large portions of our lives, day in and day out. Some of us merely visit on occasion, or perhaps once in a lifetime. Yes, dear readers, I'm talking about that strange, bizarre land called subway, allegedly run by an entity called the MTA. We put great trust in this entity. Those of us with daily commutes consign ourselves to claustrophobia-inducing train cars in tunnels deep below the earth, where just about anyone could be sitting next to us (or pressed up against us at rush hour, or puking on us, which happened to me recently).
I've been riding the subway in New York City for nine years now, and rode the T in Boston before that, and have sampled the rails in London, Chicago, Paris, Rome, and even my native Pittsburgh. I consider myself, if not an expert, at least an amateur enthusiast. I've started this blog because friends have told me that my stories are stranger and more frequent than most. But I just don't believe that. I know other people are out there having appalling, terrifying, gross, and occasionally wonderful experiences on the subway. I want to hear about them! I'll post my stories here, and in return, send me yours! Photographic evidence is entirely welcome, too (though please nothing pornographic). Though I'm writing about NYC, I appreciate that some of the horrors and delights of public transportation are universal. Have a good story about Chicago or Paris? By all means, share it! Your story happened in 1977? We could all benefit from a bit of a history lesson. I look forward to posting here, and to hearing from you in return!
As an act of good faith, here are two of my defining subway stories:
November 2006: Beat up
By November of 2006, I'd lived in New York City for just over three years. For various reasons, I was at that time living in the Bronx, Grand Concourse at 175th Street (I've lived in four of the five boroughs in nine years). My little sister lived in the East Village, because she is and always has been much cooler than I am. One Friday night, I met her for dinner, and then hopped on the D-Train to head back to the Bronx. I had pretty much zoned out, listening to my mp3 player and reading a book. Then, at 161st Street/Yankee Stadium, the announcement came on that the train was going express and would skip my stop but (and those of us who live in NYC know this drill) there was another train right behind us that was making all local stops (I've found this announcement tends to vary in terms of truthfulness). Well, I thought nothing of it, though rolled my eyes slightly at the delay. I got out and stood on the platform, and was pretty much staring into space, still listening to my music. The place was crowded with people, so I wasn't creeped out or anything. Then, I noticed a commotion further down the platform. I turned and looked over, and out of nowhere, this girl, (only 21 years old, I would learn later) came hurtling down the platform, and rather than running past me as I expected, she slammed into me and threw me against a wall, and proceeded to basically beat the crap out of me. At some point my headphones came off and she dug her nails into my ears. Mostly, the experience was a blur. At some point, I was on the ground, face down with her on top of me, and kept gasping for help (I couldn't scream - I could hardly catch my breath). I kept thinking someone had to help, but also that she was definitely going to kill me if she could. Well, it seemed like forever before the police showed up, but it couldn't have taken that long. An officer pulled her off of me, and it took about five officers to hold her down. I was sore and bruised, but mostly OK. The cops kind of ushered me to the station, and I saw that there was another woman with them - it turned out she had been the commotion I'd noticed earlier - she spoke only Spanish, but when she gave her statement at the police precinct, there was a translator, and it eerily echoed mine - this person she'd never seen before ran her down and beat her up, and in her case was trying to drag her over the side of the platform. I won't go into the details of how it took two years to prosecute, and how miserable of an experience it is to press charges, because that's not the point of this blog. In the end, she ended up pleading guilty to assault and harassment. I got on the subway the next day. It sucked, but I had no choice. I learned from the ADA a year later that the other victim was still scared to ride the subway, and still cried about the incident. It can be a scary place, that world below ground. Riding that train everyday is an act of faith in humanity and in the systems in place to protect us. In the end, I'm glad I kept riding - because there are so many weird and wonderful things to see down there.
September 2003: Protect Your Dreams
This is one of those rare positive, but still kind of crazy stories, and it happened to me less than a month after I moved here. At this point, I was living in Park Slope, Brooklyn, and had just taken a job as high school teacher in a very rough school in Brooklyn. The school decided to send me to train in a literacy program called Ramp Up. It was the latest fad on which the DOE had spent piles of money, believing it to be the panacea for the ailing state of public education in the city. But that's another blog altogether. At any rate, the Ramp Up training was in Manhattan, and I had to miss several days of work to attend it. On the first day, I put on the business suit I'd purchased at Casual Corner for job interviews the previous spring. I also put on my high heels. I was 23, and this was my first year out of school. I've always hated wearing heels, and frankly, I felt like a kid playing dress up in the suit. I loved Manhattan, but I still didn't really know my way around it or the subway system yet. I knew how to get to my job in Brooklyn, but this was a whole other adventure. Riding the F train toward Manhattan during the morning rush was intoxicating and intimidating. The energy of that morning commute is unique. There is a sense of focus and readiness that I associate with that morning cup of coffee (I've never been a coffee drinker). There were lots of people dressed for their office jobs in the city, no doubt knowing exactly where they were going, and not the least bit nervous about what would happen when they got there. I found a seat, and tried not to look as out of place as I felt. I chose the right seat. Across from me, there was a very cute, but scruffy guy, around my age. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing jeans and a backpack, which was covered with buttons of all sorts. I don't normally go for scruffy, but I liked him right away, maybe because he smiled. I smiled back. We didn't exchange any words. But when we got to his stop, he took one of the buttons off his backpack, walked across the aisle, and handed it to me. I took it without a word, and before I could think of anything to say, he was gone. I looked down at the button. It said "Protect Your Dreams." And suddenly I felt like myself again. I still have the button. Maybe someday I'll pass it along to someone in need. I'm not intimidated by the subway or the city anymore, but it's a nice reminder that no matter how anonymous we sometimes feel in the city, and on the subway especially, that someone we might not even suspect could be looking out for us.
Then again, the time I got puked on, I preferred to remain anonymous ...
Those are my stories. I have more, and I'll post them. But I want yours, too. They can be short or long, funny or serious, uplifting or horrifying. I can post them as anonymous submissions or with your name attached - just let me know. Until then, happy and safe travels!
-M.M.
