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Coping Skills

I haven’t been riding the subway much, during my sabbatical. In some ways, I have become a suburbanite. I stick to my neighborhood. There are places to get food and a really great park to watch the sunset. It’s not that I am avoiding the subway, it’s just not something that occurs in my daily life now. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of riding it to midtown and my coping skills were tested.

All New Yorkers have a very developed set of coping skills. This life isn’t normal. There’s the rotting trash in the summer. The overcrowded subways with people with questionable hygiene. Hauling food and furniture on the subway, because it seems like too much of a hassle to rent a car. This life is not for everyone, so you develop the skills or you leave.

My subway stop is two stops from the end of the A line. It’s pretty rare that I don’t get a seat, especially during non-peak hours. Yesterday was no different. I sat by the window, the seat next to me was open. It remained open for three stops and then a man forcefully plopped down next to me. All seemed fine until the doors closed and it began.

Nigga, Nigga, Nigga, why you lookin at me?

Nigga, why you lookin, step back Nigga.

There was no one near him except for me and I was staring forward.  When someone starts screaming, the NY thing to do is to go on lockdown. Don’t make eye contact, don’t acknowledge you hear anything, put your sunglasses on if you need to. It’s our version of closing our eyes, putting our fingers in our ears and screaming “La, la, la, la, la, I can’t hear you.” There is a reason the transit system’s motto is “If you see something, say something.” We have to be reminded to get out of our cocoons.

Try me Nigga!

It is still unclear who he is talking to. No one is engaged. I scan the car to see if he is actually addressing someone and I don’t see any acknowledgment from my fellow hostages. I say hostage because we are on an express train and relief is delayed. Also, if you acknowledge by getting up and walking away, you run the risk of becoming the target. I decide I need to see what my seatmate looks like. I quickly glance to my right. My seatmate is a Latino man in his 30’s, wearing dark sunglasses.  Despite the big sunglasses, I can see a star tattoo near his eye peeking from behind. That’s all the information, I could gather in my 20-second scan. I turn back and face forward. He didn’t notice me.

Nigga, you want to hold me. Hold me down like Rodney King. Try me Nigga. TRY….. ME….

Girl Power Nigga!

Girl Power….

Fuck that shit Nigga!

We reach the next stop and a woman tried to sit in the seat in front of us. Our subway kidnapper slams his feet on the seat as she is about to sit down. The woman quickly scoots to the seat next to it.

Nigga naw, naw Nigga!

He continues ranting and I keep my music on full blast, but I can still hear Nigga being thrown around.

The woman gets off at the next stop. The doors stay open for a while and she stands on the platform. It becomes clear to me she got off because of my seatmate. My seatmate is still ranting shifts towards me in the seat and then screams “Fat Bitch.” I assume he was talking to me, but I ignore and then he slams his foot on the seat in front of us and takes his shoe off. He starts wiggling his sockless foot around on the seat and pointing it at the man two seats from us. Everyone is still ignoring.  As you can see from the picture above, no one is acknowledging him. That’s his knee. Look at the people across the train. Most have their eyes closed. I can assure you they aren’t sleeping. That’s a coping mechanism.

I snuck the picture. I couldn’t get one of his face. I am a journalist, but I am no Christiane Amanpour and getting a picture of his face seemed one step too close to danger. My stop was the next stop, but the time in between 125 and 59th street is at least 8-9 minutes. I hold my breath and hope I can make it. Then I realize, I have to ask him to move his leg, so I can get off. How will I accomplish this? We pass 72nd street and I brace myself. My stop is next. Will I have to talk to him? Will he rage out.

We reach 59th street, I stand up and miraculously as the door opens my kidnapper puts his leg down and releases me. I run out of the car before he changes his mind. The car quickly fills up with more unsuspecting hostages. I turn around and wish them luck as the train leaves the station.

The Lion King of 190th

I miss my old neighborhood. I am really homesick for Bed Stuy. It’s fall and the trees on Jefferson Ave are gold and red. The street lights illuminate them in a way that makes the leaves look like twinkle lights.

Twinkle Trees Bed Stuy Trees

The sun as it’s setting lights up the brownstones in such a magical way. But all that beauty can’t match, the beauty in the people who live there.

Brownstones

I desperately miss the people. They grounded me. I used to be just a stoop away from a surrogate mother. In Bed Stuy, I was never alone and that may have hindered my writing. When I was procrastinating, it was really easy to sit on the stoop and chat the evening away with Miss Barbara. When I was feeling ugly, I would walk to the Bodega.  One of the old men who hung out at the candy store next to the Bodega would tell me how beautiful I was. It’s like they knew exactly what I needed when I needed it. A whole house of my best friends was around the corner. I may have not seen them every weekend, but they were right there.

The new neighborhood is not built to be communal in the same way. It’s more like the burbs. We know our neighbors to say hi, but have no idea what is happening in each other’s lives. If I don’t go to the grocery store, I may not speak to another human in the flesh for an entire weekend. During difficult times, it’s really lonely.

That’s why Bubakar has become such an important person in my life. Bubakar sells newspapers at the intersection of the elevators and the ramp at the 190th street subway station. It’s the perfect place to sell papers and to greet everyone on their way to work. When I get off the elevator, he says “Good Morning” with the biggest smile. He is missing one of his front teeth, but it doesn’t take away from his beauty. He’s probably in his late 50’s, with perfect dark brown skin.  His booming voice sounds like James Earl Jones in the Lion King.    

When I get off the elevator, he yells “run” if the train is on its way or if I just missed a train, I am met with “Don’t Rush.” On the days when I don’t have to rush, we chit chat a bit and he gives me a damaged paper for free.  As I am walking away, no matter if I am running or had to time to stop for a chat he screams “Have a nice day,” as I am walking away. It’s the best way to be greeted in the morning. I hate the mornings when I don’t see him.

Rasputin and Annie

The first day I went to work from new apartment, I ran into Rasputin and Annie on the subway platform. I was standing at the end underneath some water damage, when I looked to my left. There was an early thirtiesh couple walking towards me. The man, Rasputin, was skinny, pale, had a Rasputinesque beard and long stringy brown hair.   He was wearing a vintage leather trench coat, jeans and a floppy newsboy cap. He looked like the 70’s version of Rasputin.  Annie, his girlfriend, was dressed like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.  High waisted pants, a silk blouse with high neckline and a leather vest. Her pants were rolled to the top of her granny boots.

They stopped just past me on the platform. I kept one eye on them, while we waited, because Rasputin had weird jerky movements. He was moving way too much for a Monday morning.  The train came and I got on through the second door and they got on at the next.  The car was basically empty, but Rasputin ran in frantically, stood in the aisle and stared at the empty seats.  His eyes were moving back and forth analyzing every open seat. He was paralyzed by all the choices. This is very strange behavior for a New Yorker, because we all have a favorite seat on the subway. I like a window seat facing backwards. When normal New Yorkers get on the subway and see their favorite seat is empty, they quickly put their derriere in it. There is no standing around gaping. Gaping is for tourists. I got tired of waiting for Rasputin to resolve the crisis in his head, so I chose the backward facing window seat to his right. He gave me a look like I cheated him and I gave him a look like “Oh well.” Rasputin and Annie sat across the aisle from me giggling the whole way. I put on my headphones and wrote.

The car filled to capacity at the next stop and remained at capacity all the way to 59th street, my stop. As we were pulling into the station, I gathered my stuff and started to think about making my way through the crowd. Rasputin started pushing his way to the doors while the train was still moving. He crawled over people’s legs, pushed past the people holding the poles creating confusion and annoying everyone along the way. When the doors opened he frantically ran out of the subway car. But, when he got to the middle of the platform he seemed confused. He started walking one way and then suddenly came back in the other direction.  He looked like he was participating in a modern dance performance because he kept going back and forth down the platform with really exaggerated movements. He was sort of leaping and flailing his arms. I was completely fascinated, but I needed to get to work.  I ran upstairs and headed for the escalator.  As I was riding up, Rasputin ran past me with confidence.  Unfortunately the confidence was not to last, because when I got to the top, he was confused again. He had gone in the wrong direction and come back.  I passed him on the sidewalk trying to work it out. I normally help lost people on the street, but Rasputin’s problems seemed more extensive than a quick, “Hey go straight and then make a left at the next block.”

Rasputin and Annie have become regulars in my life.  Rasputin continues to struggle with directions at 59th street.

The Other One

I share my body with another person.  Well, she’s actually a monster that takes control in the morning.  My parents met her when I started pre-school.   Morning always began with one of them standing beside the bed calling my name sweetly “Cara, Cara, Cara time to get up.”  When I didn’t move, they added a gentle shoulder tap to their effort.  I still didn’t budge, so they resorted to mild shaking.  Eventually, the shaking worked and the monster woke, crying wildly.  My poor parents tried to have a rational discussion with me, but I was asleep and the monster was incapable of being rational.  After a considerable period of the monster’s hysterics, my parents gave up and dressed me while I was lying down.

In grade school, the monster adapted and turned the morning routine into a game, a competition if you will. Her strategy was to stay quiet and hit the snooze button as fast as she could. The hope was they’d forget about us.  Judi and Sid (my parents) never did.

My dad started the game every morning with a wake up call.

Dad: Cara it’s time to get up.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: The next time I pass by your room, you better be moving.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: I’m serious, the next time I pass by your room, I better hear some movement or you are in trouble.

The monster saw my father’s ultimatum as a challenge and responded with the “Fake Out” (Sit up in bed while my dad passed and then immediately lie back down.)

Enter my Mom, signaling the counting portion of the competition.  Judi is known for having her share of issues with the morning.  So, while she rushed frantically to dress herself, she screamed numbers across the hall as forceful encouragement.

Mom: Cara you have until three to get out of that bed. One….Two…Three. Get Up, Are you Up?
Monster: “Uh huh, I’m up , I’m Up.” (I wasn’t up.)
Mom: I don’t hear any feet on the ground.
Monster: I’m getting dressed on my bed.

Time Out:
My parents had a short strategy session in their bedroom.  This bought me and the monster another minute of uninterrupted sleep.

Mom: I don’t think she’s up.
Dad: Of course she’s not up. I’m going in there!!! (The final escalation)

My father stormed across the hall yelling threats.

Dad: I’m coming in there!!!! You better be up or else you are in deep trouble!!!!
Monster: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz (The monster held her ground and laid there motionless.)

Angered by the lump in the shape of his daughter, my dad ripped off the covers and forced the window shades to the ceiling.  While the shades were flying up, the monster pulled the covers back over our head. When my father turned around and saw the monster unmoved by his dramatic play, he flew into a no holds barred freak out, yelling threats at the top of his lungs.   The threats quickly turned to full grounding; life would be limited to school, homework and reading.  Realizing she had been defeated, the monster dressed us as fast as a lump could. (It was like watching paint dry, but at least we were vertical.)  This was our morning routine through high school.

In college the monster adapted again and was now a foul-mouthed old man.  On our own, I, not the monster, was responsible for getting us up.  She got up begrudgingly, although there were times she forced us to skip morning classes.  All my friends and roommates knew it was best not to acknowledge me until couple hours after we got up. They were never quite sure what would come out of my mouth.

After college, my friend Reuben and I lived together.  He too, has a morning monster. But, our monsters had an understanding that talking was not permitted before work. Grunting was our sole communication tool. As a result, our monsters co-existed for three years, with only a few minor conflicts.

I live alone now and that’s probably best for everyone.  After all these years, the monster has not changed, so I guess this is it.  I am tied to her for the rest of my life.

A couple of days ago, an unlucky woman had the misfortune of meeting the monster.  We were walking down the subway steps as the woman was walking up.  She stopped and stared when she saw us. Since the monster is not visible, I can only guess she was staring because of my height.  The woman began to point and laugh.  Monster, who was still in control of all my major functions, turned to her and said “@*$& @#$%$ @#%$@# you bad wig wearin #*&!##$.”  The woman was stunned into silence and frankly so was I.  But, the train was pulling into the station, so I had no time to apologize for the monster’s outburst. We quickly ran down the rest of the steps, leaving the woman to pick her bottom lip off the ground.

If you encounter us in the morning, please remember, I am not in control, she is.

The Angry Birds

I have some friends who fantasize about my life in New York. They say things like “Riding the subway must be amazing,  you can sleep, read, even have a little breakfast while you commute.”  I think they envision the subway as something akin to the Orient Express.   I found the best way to convey the reality of subway commuting is by telling this story.

I frequently share my subway car with a group of ladies I like to call “The Angry Birds.” (Ten middle-aged Caribbean women, who sound like a symphony of birds when they get together.)    I met them one evening, at my usual spot on the subway platform.  When I arrived, there were two women standing very close to the edge, embroiled in an animated discussion.  The short one was nodding her head and saying things like “Uh huh” and  “Oh really,” while the taller one was waving her hands, rolling her eyes and chirping her way through her story.  As I got my headphones out, they stopped their conversation and stared at me.  I smiled at them and turned up my music.  Both of them sort of half smiled, nodded and then returned to their conversation. They were soon joined by more Caribbean women and over the course of four minutes two became ten.  With each arrival I was pushed further and further away from the front of the platform. I would never have thought anything of this, that is until the automated train announcer said, “The express train is one station away.” Their conversation (Bird symphony,) stopped abruptly and they sprung into action.

The Birds started forming a human barrier between what was going to be the door of the subway and everyone else. The taller of the two original Birds was directing the operation. (Let’s call her Captain.)  Captain was forcefully pointing and shoving each member of her flock into position.  I  must have been staring, while this was going down, (Totally staring with my mouth open.)  because Captain looked me directly in the eye and whispered sternly to her flock “Get in front of her.”   Then she grinned from ear to ear and winked at me.   I stood there in amazement as the train pulled up. The doors opened and the Angry Birds pushed through, while the passengers struggled to exit through the Bird formation.  In fact, one poor lady got caught between two of the birds and almost lost her jacket.

By the time I got on the train, Captain was directing the seat formation from the comfort of her perch.  Miraculously, I saw an empty seat and headed towards it.  That’s when I heard Captain scream “Get it, Get it, Get it!” Before I knew what was happening, one of the flock rushed past me and sat in the seat.   I realized I was powerless against the Birds, so I hung on to the pole back to Brooklyn.

About a week later, I ran into Captain at our mutual waiting spot.  I decided I didn’t want to be involved in the migration game, so I walked a little further down the platform.  The train arrived and I got on uneventfully.  There were still no seats, but there was also no drama.   I did however, have a great view of the Angry Birds rushing  and blocking others from seats. As I was watching the flock move around, a guy motioned to me to come over and take his seat.  He told me he was getting off at the next stop, so I thanked him and sat down.  Unfortunately, his seat was facing Captain.  She loudly whispered to the flock member next to her, “She gets off way before us, she doesn’t deserve that seat.”  I just smiled and stared out the window, but I could feel the Captain’s glare.

The subway started to move and I overheard Captain say to the woman to her right “Would you mind switching with my friend over there?”  The young woman said, “No problem!” (Clearly she was not well versed in the migratory patterns of Angry Birds.)  As she got up, the flock member with whom she was to switch, rushed over and sat in the seat.  Unfortunately, a different flock member snatched the other seat, before the young woman could get to it.  The young woman was flustered, but she didn’t say anything.  I don’t think she realized they were  together.  She had been ambushed by the Angry Birds.

I still ride with the Angry Birds, but now they have claimed me as one of their own whether I want to be or not.