New York City is a place of glimmering lights and shiny buildings that demand your attention.
These spectacles are a mere distraction from what is buzzing beneath the surface. Literally.
Underground in the metropolitan subway system, another layer of the city exists. This layer is a more honest one, with no glittering marquee. Here, there are no Gucci stores and no Broadway shows playing. But if you observe closely, you can see into the eyes of America herself.
Women wearing lavish skirts sit beside men in their construction uniforms. The stark contrast of dress is an ever-present reminder of the gap driven between the two sides of the economic spectrum. No matter their clothes, all riders have had a long day. Everyone has had someone to serve today: a customer, a boss, a partner. And now as they sit on the subway, they begin to unwind.
They log onto the free Wi-Fi and search for entertainment and alleviation. When they get home they’ll take off their heels or their steel-toe boots, but the relief will be the same. They’re all riding the same line, but they’ll all get off in different neighborhoods. In some, they fear parking tickets; in others, they fear police.
Signs posted on the car doors warn of the legal penalty for sexual assault on a subway. You can tell this crime is prominent and that riders encounter it more than they should. People are obviously trying to do something about it, but the efforts fall short. Something about the signs feels like a victory, as if admitting that the crime occurs has taken some time to fess up to.
A homeless man wanders the cars with nowhere to go. He’s mentally ill and has made sure the whole station knows. Passengers seem unmoved by his pleas, but they probably have submitted to the fact they can’t do anything to help. The man is sick and needs compassion from the community. In this city and across the country, there is no policy for how to help these people. It’s been decided that it’s someone else’s problem.
It seems to be a rule that everyone riding the subway must be inherently angry. A mother cradles her child as the late night turns into early morning. The subway is a pretty miserable place to be, and New Yorkers don’t try to hide it. The angry, exhausted facial expressions show that every passenger would rather be somewhere else. But for every scowl, there is a smile.
In the dim lighting, a stranger still extends her MetroCard to me. An act of love from someone who has nothing to gain. When the dismal mood of the subway starts to get the best of me, there’s always someone to offer a beacon of light.
The same goes for this country. We might all be on a miserable American subway ride, but at least we’re all in it together. Things might be bad in this moment, but we can get off at the next stop.
Layla Soboh is a UF advertising junior. Her column comes out Tuesday.
