THE SUBWAY

Maurya Srivastava ‘22

Some people hate the subway. They complain about the grime that coats every wall, floor, and ceiling like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth; the smell of thousands of people mixed with the unbearable heat; and of course, the inevitable delays. As one of the millions of New York City subway riders, I can attest to the great displeasures one experiences as a daily punishment when on the train, which is, of course, only for the measly price of 2.75. Only in New York would people pay and tolerate such trouble just to get to their destination.

Despite this, in the decade I have spent riding the subway, in the seemingly endless stream of people pouring into each and every door in that unbearable heat, in that dirty smell, and on that floor probably covered with every disease known to man, I have learnt that there is something to be appreciated amidst the chaos. For me, to ride in the subway is to witness the real New York - not the city that surrounds Allen-Stevenson, lined with fancy cars and elegant stone buildings - but rather, the city where people new and old, rich and poor, White, Black,

Latino, Asian - somehow manage to coalesce into one subway car with just forty-four seats. The city where a beggar will always get money from someone in the train car; where I have witnessed two men physically fight and no one could care less, and where I have made new friends, while forging stronger bonds with old ones. There’s something authentic about the subway, something almost magical - whether it be the lady selling churros on Roosevelt Avenue or the man playing the drums on a Home Depot bucket at Fulton Street; or something entirely different - that feeling that this only happens in New York, only in the subway, really warms your soul knowing how fortunate you are to be surrounded by so much history, so much culture.

As for me, I recently witnessed that culture. The other day - at around 3:45 pm as I was coming home from school, two men, dressed in identical red and green jumpsuits, stepped in the half-full F-train car. One of them was carrying a boombox, the cheap kind with the LED lights, probably one you might find at a PC Richard and Sons (Are those even around anymore?), and it was connected to his iphone. Immediately, he and his partner cranked up the music and began dancing, doing elaborate somersaults and spinning around the metal poles. This lasted for a minute or so, and eventually I noticed that everyone’s eyes were fixated on the duo, almost in harmony. When the performance finally ended as the brakes of the train began to screech along the age-old rails, everyone, including me, rose and gave them a standing ovation. The pair didn’t even ask for money - but were still given it because people had been so moved by their performance. You see, this is the kind of thing that only happens in the subway - and that wasn’t even everything - as the doors opened and the performers stepped onto the platform of East Broadway, bound for another car, the echoes of classical music from a violin filled our ears, flowing through the doors like we had just turned on a faucet and let all the water out in a smooth stream. Then, in what seemed like a split second, it was gone, drowned out by the familiar beep of the doors closing and the electric hum of the train.

It was then that I realized how much I had longed for that music to continue, for those performers to keep on dancing, and for that multitude and flow of expression to keep on… happening. It was then that the uniqueness of New York made its way into my heart and soul and burrowed into a place that will never disappear. It was then that I realized that the Subway is what makes New York, New York.

Untitled Joshua Salama-Caro ‘23

Rustic Winter Charles Greenwald ‘23