It’s a scorching and sticky summer day and I’m psyched because it’s 4:30 and I’m out of work early! I hot foot it down the escalator stairs of the Met Life Building, speed walk through Grand Central and am delighted to see the number four train pull into the station as I land on the bottom stair of the subway platform. If everything goes well, I’ll be home in time to take out my road bike and get in five or six good laps of Prospect Park.
There is limited seating, but I get lucky and find an open space. Immediately, I realize that I am across from two young black women. With them are a boy and a girl (around three and four years old) and a chubby, dirty baby boy in a stroller.
The women are loud and they discuss trivial matters at a pitch only AMC Theatre managers could appreciate. The little boy stands on the seat by the door as Woman number one repeatedly screams at him to “Sit down!” Inch-by-inch, the little boy lowers himself down into the seat—sort of. He gets into a low squat and we all know she is satisfied because she says, “That’s riiight!” Then it’s back to inanity at 120 decibels.
Suddenly, the boy and girl start to run up and down the train and it turns into a race. The turn-around point is a poll, which they hold onto as they spin around for the invisible finish line by the doors.
“Crystal siddown, Marcus, siddown! Crystal siddown, Marcus, siddown!” But the race and their laughter continue.
“Come on ya’ll!” screams Woman number one. “I’m sicka this shit! Do you want a beatin? Cause I’m the one for you if you do!” All racing stops. The children sit down and sulk as they swing their feet.
I am embarrassed to my core. Everyone is staring at the scene. Brief-cased men and women stretch to see. Hip Hop teenagers snicker among themselves. A Chinese man hawking cheap toys stops his “Two dolla-Two dolla” chant to take a look. No one knows what to do or say. A West Indian woman next to them is so disgusted that she can’t even look their way. A scowl ingrained on her face. Her back is stiff and upright and her nose arches defiantly in the air. I, too, don’t want to be associated with these women, these girls, but their skin is brown like my own and that makes me so angry I feel heat rising in my chest. I reach for my latest book, La Bella Figura, but it is no consolation.
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