Every day, I take the M Train to and from work. When I tread down the stairs underground to get to my terminal, I feel as though I’m stepping into a different world – kind of like a secret, fluorescent-lit valley inhabited by the most eclectic combination of New Yorkers: a realm bustling with dapper businessmen, disheveled teenagers, indie hipsters, mothers clutching their children by the wrists, artists, musicians, and me – somehow fitting into the mix of this all as I find my way through the city.
On some days, I really enjoy taking the subway to work and back, and even find it oddly comforting. I enjoy weaving through the city at what can feel like the speed of light, I enjoy observing the colorful variety of people around me, I enjoy feeling like I’m making some sort of progress in the small scheme of my day, and I enjoy having those twenty minutes during my commute to myself before I face all that awaits me on ground level.
But on other days, the trip isn’t always as pleasant and I don’t enjoy taking the subway at all. Sometimes, it can get very hot and crowded down there as I constantly bump shoulders and get shoved by everyone passing by, as if I’m invisible. Sometimes when I’m on the train, I feel like I have no room to breathe, hunched between all the passengers crammed into every last inch of space in the train. The ride can feel bumpy and jolty as I hold on to the railing to stay stable. And sometimes, I experience delays when the train stays stuck in the same place for what can feel like hours.
This past week was full of those days. My insignificant subway sentiments were overshadowed by a new reality – a truth that’s sinking into the cracks and crevices of the frowns that kept appearing around me on the M Train. America recently experienced an election – and regardless of which political party we identify with, we voted for a candidate. Not only were our voices heard, but our voices also dictated a historic narrative that has left a substantial impact on many people – for those on the subway and beyond.
In this election, neither candidate was perfect; each of them had room to improve, as all human beings do – myself included. I don’t doubt that both of their visions stemmed from the fundamental goal to improve our country. But more than ever before, two mentalities battled against one another with distinct approaches towards change that couldn’t be more undeniably opposite at their cores: One – a perspective crafted with the values of acceptance, progressiveness, equality, inclusiveness, hope, unity, encouragement, and belief in a brighter tomorrow. The other – a point of view that has objectively proven to thrive off fear, hatred, narrow-mindedness, chauvinism, sexism, racism, homophobia, ignorance, and rejection of any values that differ from those he himself upholds.
Over the course of this past week, the subway was swarming with New Yorkers in distress of this outcome, scattered throughout its terminals in a frenzy of fear. I saw people silently walking with their heads down, discussing the outcome, embracing one another in disbelief, and clinging onto the handles on the train more firmly than usual, with tears collecting at the edges of their eyes. Nevertheless, I also noticed a different, more optimistic side to the subway this week: I saw a short man with dreadlocks heartily banging on a drum hanging around his neck in the terminal, I saw another man sitting on a stool by the train playing a guitar exuberantly as bystanders clapped around him, I saw a woman walking triumphantly with her head high and her eyes blazing forward, raising a big sign with bold black text that read, “One day, we will all be equal,” and I saw the word “LOVE” spray-painted on a wall, dripping down on the tainted-white tiles. Or at least I think it said “love,” – I want to believe it did.
I have no right or place to speak on behalf of our country or even our community, but I can speak for what I saw on the M train this past week – and I can definitely speak for myself. At times like this, especially now, life can feel like a hot, oppressed, crowded subway ride – as though we’re all passengers grabbing onto the handles above us for some sense of control and stability, encaged in a steel car, shut closed from everything outside of its doors, stuck in its tracks with no glass ceiling in sight to shatter.
Although the outcome of this election will continue to echo for years to come, I remind myself that this chaos is just temporary. The subway will eventually reach its stop, the car doors will open, and we will exit and climb back up the stairs to fresh air on ground level. And for those of you who believe in this outcome and feel confidently about the future of our country in our new president’s hands, I genuinely hope and pray that you’re right.
In the meantime – regardless of our race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender identification, religion, socio-economic status, or political affiliation – we must continue to embrace one another for our uniting differences and speak our minds, regardless of our stance on this election. We must continue to sing and clap, to strum our heartstrings and play the drums to whatever beat we choose. We must continue to leave words like “love” on the walls around us for others to see, and we must hold up signs that stand for equality, conviction, compassion, and faith – because at the end of the day, we must have faith, even when someone tells us otherwise.
And as we leave the station behind us, we’ll be met with light once again, soon enough. The sun will shine so bold and so bright that we’ll all be beautifully blinded by its radiance, to the point that the chilling divides between us that have strengthened even further through this election, will melt into the past – and the M train will become a pleasant place once again for us all.
