Notes from the Underground

Anybody who's anybody knows that the New York City subway system is no ordinary place. Spend just a single day riding one of the many trains belonging to the MTA's color-coded spectrum, and you're bound to come out with at least one interesting story or two. (Or three. Or ten.)

These stories can be good: happy, cheerful, uplifting. Perhaps you had the pleasure of listening to a three-piece Mexican mariachi band play a few numbers right in the middle of the train car, complete with cowboy hats and bow ties. Or maybe you watched a seven-foot-tall tattooed punk rocker give up his seat to the pregnant woman who already had a child glued to her hand. There are many little miracles that happen underground.

Unfortunately, the subway can also bring out the ugly in New Yorkers (unless the ugly was there all along, of course). And lately, I see more and more of it.

This past summer I've witnessed a noticeably increase in the amount of nasty confrontations and hostile behavior that take place on and around the subway. These bizarre blowups happen fast-- in a number of seconds-- and they turn scary in an instant.

In the Union Square N/R/Q/W train station a few weeks ago, a white man and a black woman were arguing (I didn't see the incident that sparked the fight). He hurled the N-word at her, and she called him a "f-ng white bastard." This was all in front of the woman's daughter, who remained completely silent and couldn't have been older than ten.

Then, on the Q train, I heard a woman across the car tell a man that she would pull out a knife and start "shaking it all over, God damn it" if he brushed against her one more time. Whether or not the physical contact had been accidental, I don't know.

And today, a man began addressing an invisible opponent on the Q. Every other utterance out of his mouth was a curse word of some sort. He had a small child at his side-- the boy's feet were too short to touch the ground from his seat-- that I assumed to be his son. The man even got up at one point and attempted to open the door that separates one car from the next (which any Q train user knows are always kept locked). I could feel the droplets of sweat forming on my neck when the man suddenly exited the train at Newkirk Avenue to switch to the oncoming B express, dragging the boy behind him. The image of that kid being pulled away like a rag doll wouldn't leave my head until all traces of light disappeared, and we were swallowed up into the underground tunnel to 7th Avenue.

So what is it that makes rationality go out the window and cause subway-goers to lose control-- aside from the obvious possibility of mental illness or emotional instability?

Claustrophobia and impatience may be at work. Every day, we pack ourselves onto crowded trains, giving up personal space and privacy in exchange for a [relatively] speedy commute. All of that stored energy squished together just can't remain inert for too long. At some point it fizzes up, bubbles over and, as witnessed, explodes all over the place. Gross.

On the subway, too many human bodies become forced to do something that we're supposed to learn on Day 1 of preschool: share.

Ultimately though, as a collective community of commuting New Yorkers (how's that for alliteration?), we all have to take the train together. Therefore, play nice, or don't play at all. A conscious effort of increased self-restraint and courtesy towards our fellow straphangers may do the trick, no matter how much you want to punch out the oversized guy who's practically sitting on your leg in the seat next to you. (Then again, speaking of courteous, it would be kind if he moved just an inch over.) Or else, don't buy a Metrocard in the first place. The $2.25 fare won't be worth it.

La Nouvelle Histoire

Sometimes I wonder if it means anything that most, if not all, of my favorite works of fiction considered to be part of the "Great Books" canon, feature males as their central characters-- and were written by male authors themselves.

It's a lengthy list: Warren's All the King's Men, Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated, just to name a few. Today, I'm adding the classic Fahrenheit 451 to my collection (just finished it on the L train this morning).

Have I always inherently related more to male protagonists than females? Are men simply more interesting to read about than women? Am I grossly overgeneralizing? Can I finish this paragraph having written it entirely as a series of questions? (Nope. Ran out.)

A partial explanation: simply put, there are far, far fewer books that have been put into print starring women, told by women, written by women. Perhaps that was the most obvious answer.

But I find it somewhat shocking that most of the shiny new paperbacks I eagerly look forward to purchasing at Barnes & Noble so noticeably lack a female perspective. Even the select two or three books that have changed my way of looking at the world (and that's doesn't happen too often) contain women characters that are starkly one-dimensional.

What I mean is that fiction-- creative nonfiction, too-- is longing, begging, for the new and improved great American novel. A piece for the 21st century that tells a story never told before, in a way we've never heard before. I know that there's room out there for the woman/hero, the gay/hero, the gay/woman/hero in literaure, and there will be a day when that isn't weird or wrong.

Part of me wonders whether I'm capable of even writing the first chapter-- hell, a single page-- of my own novel. The mere thought of it gives me the jitters. I might have a better chance of winning the lottery than being the next J.D. Salinger.

At the same time, it makes the blue in my eyes burn a bit more brightly. Every kid has a dream, and a kid can dream, can't she?

Baby steps, though. Before the novel comes the novella. Before the novella comes the short story. Or the essay. (It's a lot like one of those wooden Russian dolls-- a nugget within another nugget.)

And before that?

For now-- the blog. Here's to getting started.

Musings and Memories

Was I really driving along the northern coast of France in a petit voiture with my host parents just one year ago today? (Happy Bastille Day, tous le monde.) Hard to believe, but it's true. The six weeks I spent in Rennes and then Paris last summer exist only in my mind and in photographs these days, but it's not hard to relive them. Just yesterday I walked past a sub-par and laughably overpriced crepe stand in the mall at South Street Seaport, wishing that I just a few steps away from an authentic creperie on the cobblestoned streets of Rennes. Perhaps one day I'll make the trip again... just don't know when.

I guess you could say that I did quite a bit of real world dodging more recently. In the past few weeks I've made trips to Los Angeles, Vermont and Atlantic City. I witnessed the color and chaos of a pride parade for the first time. And I've finally been exploring the NYC bar scene, an experience that was long overdue. (All of this bouncing around is probably why I nearly abandoned my newborn of a blog.)

And then the impossible, the unpredictable happened... I got hired. Yes, I have a job, and in this current state of economic insanity, I'm very grateful for it. I'll mostly be operating from behind a desk and computer, but I'm looking at this as an opportunity to learn and grow. We'll see how full-time employment pans out.

I feel like I have more to say, and much more that I owe myself to say, but alas, the working world is taking a toll on my sleeping habits. My goal is to be in bed by 11 PM tonight, so I'm signing off here. My grandma would be proud. Until next time, digital world... whenever I feel that the time is right.

Bodies in Orbit

This is a passage from an expository essay I wrote a while back for an English class. Just felt like sharing.

"We picture ourselves as the stars, the tragic heroes, the bizarre and awkward central characters of our own great American coming-of-age movie. We become the suns, the all-important focal points, of our own twisted solar systems. But the planets that orbit around us—which pull in so incredibly close to us at times, then almost helplessly drift farther and farther away—these are the bodies that, when nearby, set our atmospheres ablaze and alter our compositions, making permanent impressions on our surfaces. This is the burning, searing, enduring mark of love."

California, here I come...

In the past few days I've had a couple of adventures in real world dodging. Let me elaborate:

The other weekend I drove down to Villanova with a buddy of mine that went abroad for the spring semester. Funny how months can go by, yet it felt like just yesterday that we were causing mayhem together. Some of my other '09 friends were also in the area, which made for an eventful night. However, I also concluded that graduating from college also means graduating from jello shots, as well as shotgunning beers. In the post-grad world, they're just not quite as appealing (then again, were they ever appealing in the first place?).

Then came a day I had been awaiting with excitement and dreading with fear at the same time: the job interview (my first one since I've been home). Despite the sweaty, jittery panicfest I experienced on the Q train on the way there, I think I made a pretty good impression. So if I get the job, does this make me lose credibility as a real world dodger? In this economy, I don't think so. I've got bills to pay, people.

And now I'm about to leave on a jet plane to go see a J-Crane. Translation: my girlfriend's been in Los Angeles for almost 4 weeks now interning in the entertainment industry, and I'm about to visit her tomorrow. We had to say goodbye to each other the morning after graduation day, which was awful (as if we weren't already emotional wrecks as it was). I'm extremely excited to see her and to step foot on the West Coast for the first time in my life. I promised myself two things: 1) I'm bringing back a souvenir for my parents, and 2) I'm swimming in the Pacific Ocean, no matter how ice cold I hear that the water is. I'm swimming, and you can't stop me.

So here's to what should be an excellent vacation, and another adventure in real world dodging. Until next time, cyberspace.