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January 16, 2020
The daily kaleidoscope of headlines, many in foreign languages, peering out from straphangers’ papers, may have served to remind commuters of the vibrancy of our multilingual, global village when there wasn’t as much government-inspired anti-immigrant sentiment as today. I remember sometimes being impressed by the arresting artwork of a New Yorker cover that I’d buy one. Or a salacious headline, especially from the Daily News or the New York Post, would induce me to buy the newspaper, sometimes only to read half of the article.
And, oh, the graffiti, how that “faux-art” led to reflections on what it said–or what future generations may infer–of our times as pictures on cave walls, and writing on parchment papyrus, did of those times.
In the last 35 years, I may have been on the subway five times, the latest being January 29, 2005, when I co-presented a workshop with three high school students at the 45th Greater Metropolitan New York Social Studies Conference. Still, without any trepidation, on September 17, 2019, I boarded the F train, “NYC’s slowest subway line,” at 42nd Street around 1.30 p.m. Settling in for the ride, I pulled out the Times, made the fold, and began reading while standing in the semi-crowded early afternoon train.
Peering around the carriage after completing the first article, I realized that I was the only one reading a physical newspaper! Almost every rider was locked into an Orwellian-like world of screens and earplugs, earphones, and many electronic devices.
By the time we reached Delancey Street, a parade of characters had passed through the car, including one very harmonious and unobtrusive mariachi-like band that wasn’t aggressively soliciting contributions, unlike other performers.
I wondered if the group, which could efficiently perform at The Apollo or Brooklyn Academy of Music, was sponsored by the MTA! Many panhandlers of all stripes, including one who couldn’t even make eye contact, much less find words to ask for money. One school-age-looking youth declaimed, “I’m begging… to stay out of trouble!”
I changed carriages at Jay Street/Metro Tech, searching for a fellow newspaper reader. Instead, I found one among the crowd. After being struck by the lack of interactivity or visual dialogue–commuters glimpsing at or silently engaging headlines or book and magazine covers– I realized how much of a relic I had become!
Still, choosing to commit an apparent thoughtcrime, I continued reading the newspaper, resisting the urge to pull out my iPhone and become a victim of groupthink. Instead, in a flashback, I recalled my older sister’s first subway lesson, who had migrated to the USA six years before me; “Don’t ever look as if you don’t belong in the subway… and never do anything to bring attention to self!”
My sister proffered such stern counsel to the then, 20-year-old who she described as reckless and perhaps someone who should not have left “the islands.” But on arriving at JFK Airport in September 1974 from Trinidad, I had navigated the bus and subway on my own, arriving at her apartment on President Street in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, almost causing her to faint. Ignoring her ageless advice on my recent subway ride, I continued reading the newspaper while occasionally observing others as I suspected some might have been watching me quizzically.