Hurricane Sandy
My memory is a little foggy when it comes to recalling my experience with Hurricane Sandy. I blame my forgetfulness on the premise that my encounter with the storm wasn’t worth remembering; not much happened. As any tired high school student at the time, I was beyond pleased to learn every morning for an entire week that NYC public schools were canceled. Even though I didn’t have to worry about new assignments and exams for five days, I was extremely bored during that time.(However, I later regretted this unexpected vacation when the DOE decided to truncate our spring break to compensate for the school days lost.) With no electricity for most of the time, I couldn’t watch TV and nearly every radio station was covering the conditions of the storm. Unlike my friends who live within the five boroughs, I reside in Westchester County. In my neighborhood there were many fallen trees, overturned road signs, and broken traffic and street lights. The heavy rainfall I saw was very unfamiliar to my friends in the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens. Luckily, my house didn’t flood due to being positioned on an incline, but I can’t say the same for other people I know in the area. My parents never over prepare before inclement weather, so my sister and I didn’t have a lifetime supply of snacks to help us pass the time. Overall, I was blessed to not have had experienced the worst. A temporary loss of power and inescapable boredom is nothing to rant about in comparison to other people’s experiences.

As I get older, I understand more how easy it is to become homeless and sympathize more with those that don’t have a home. I especially feel bad for them during the winter nights or snow or rain.  If I have it on my person, I will give a homeless person a dollar, a roll of crackers, or an unopened water bottle just to make things a little better for them. I am always surprised to learn that even the smallest gestures can have such a great impact. For example, I was leaving a bubble-tea shop with me friend when a woman at a bus stop called for my attention. She explained that her phone died and they she would appreciate it if I called her shelter to let them know she was on her way in order to reserve her bed for the night. After my two minute conversation, I told the lady the person on the phone said everything will be okay. She was so thankful and wished me and my friend a wonderful, blessed evening. I had never done something like that for anyone before, but the feeling it gave me made me smile. Sometimes it just takes giving someone the time of day for them to have somewhere warm and safe to sleep.

Although I believe that as human beings we should all help one another, I would be lying if I said I treat all homeless people equally. I absolutely hate it when homeless people approach individual persons waiting on a subway platform. It’s never a coincidence that the homeless men only approach women when they are begging for money or food. The gesture doesn’t make me feel lucky or flattered, rather I feel threatened, targeted, and cornered. I know I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but any homeless person that looks like he or she take drugs or anyone that seems to be pretending to be homeless doesn’t get sympathy or money either. I understand that during the winter the homeless tend to find warmth in the trains, but I find it inconvenient when they take up a significant amount of the cart with their carts and luggage and spread across an entire bench of seats. Overall, I try my best to see an individual as a person and not as their situation. No one is immune to homelessness and it is a part of life that no one should be allowed to ignore.  

My Terrible Adventure

I have had a variety of mass transit experiences. “This bus is not in service” or “this train is delayed due to train traffic ahead” or my all time favorite, “this train will be making all local stops; please stand clear of the closing doors” are some of the annoyances I hear and/or see nearly every day. However, there was one day when the MTA really out did themselves. I have had inconvenient and uncomfortable train rides home, but this particular day’s commute has to be my worst to date.

The particular day in January over this Winter semester escapes my memory, but I recall it was cold and the calm before the storm of rush hour. I was leaving my tutoring session at Harlem Renaissance High school with the firm intention of catching the 5:35pm 55 Blue Line bus leaving from Dyre Avenue heading towards Cross County. Anyone who lives in the outskirts of the Bronx or Westchester County understands that buses come every half hour and leave within the same minute they arrive. The bus schedule is a photo that never gets deleted from my gallery no matter how often my phone reminds me of how much storage I don’t have. I have a talent of catching the particular uptown 5 train that arrives at the last time a minute or two after my precious bus leaves because of ‘train traffic ahead’, but today I was determined to catch that bus for two reasons: 1. It was time I took back the power over my life the MTA steals from me and sugar coats with automated apologies and 2. I was really hungry.

Hopping around and over the wet spots on the stairwell and strategically avoiding the overly friendly bums asking for a swipe, I swipe my card at the turnstile and proceed down another set of stair to the uptown 4,5, and 6 tracks. Catching an uptown train at 125th is a blessing and a curse. On one hand it is the last stop before the Bronx on all three lines so travel time isn’t terrible on a good day. However, on the other hand, it can feel like the entire borough is trying to go home at the same time so my chances of getting on the first 5 train are slim to none. Elbowing my way through the thick mob of people, I knew this wasn’t just rush hour congestion; something was wrong.

For every three uptown 4 trains there is one uptown 5 train — maybe, so my eyes are always glued to the screen displaying the estimated times of arrival. Of course, the 5 train wasn’t displayed at all which meant that when it came ( or should I say if it came considering the 5 train has a habit of rerouting) it was going to packed with annoyed travelers from previous stops. Great. Within 25 minutes three 4 trains come and go and the board has to display the next arriving 5 train. Ultimately, I know that my commute is susceptible to the MTA’s surprises, but today just wasn’t the day. It was uncomfortably hot and humid and I could hear the rowdy school kids through my music (both head buds were working too, might I add) for me to ignore the unfair truth that within the last half hour people who entered the station after me were on their way home and I was still standing the same spot. I guess the MTA could sense my frustration because this announcement followed my realization: “Due to a power outage at 138th Street Grand Course, uptown 5 trains are running with delays. Some uptown 5 trains are running to 138th Street, for further train service transfer to the 4 train.”

I will never understand why it took 30 minutes for the operator to share that information, but at least now I knew that a 5 train was definitely coming. After some time a 5 train finally arrived and it said it was heading to Eastchester Dyre Ave. There was barely space for the angry passengers already on the train, but I pushed and shoved my onto that train. I even took my book-bag off which something I never do in the fear of being of squished into an awkward position. Someone’s stomach was on my shoulder and my right arm was temporarily paralyzed by bag, but I was finally on a the train and it was moving. The train dispatcher crawls his way from 125th to 138th and stops—the engine. “ALL PASSENGERS MUST EXIT THE TRAIN. THIS TRAIN IS NOW OUT OF SERVICE. NO PASSENGERS.”

At this point I’m nine miles past annoyed. I am 50 shades of angry along with all of Harlem and the Bronx on 138th Street’s slender platform. Obscenities are filling the air, snaps are being recorded and people with an alternative route are leaving the station. I check my watch and it’s 10 mins to 5:00pm. Within 50 minutes, I have only traveled one stop. Just one. To make matters worst the train I was just kicked off can’t move. Million dollar question: Why can’t the train move ? Answer: there’s a power outage at 138th Street Grand Course. This may sound familiar because I already mentioned this tid bit of information much earlier in this recount when the MTA first notified the public of this malfunction before they expertly drove the train, that I fought to get on, on the very track that has no power. The conductor, in all of his almighty wisdom, told us to go back downtown to 125th and take an uptown 4 train to 149th Grand Course and transfer to an Eastchester Dyre bound 5 train. Essentially, I was going back to where I started.

I wouldn’t have been so heated had I been negligent. I paid attention to where the train was going. It said to Eastchester Dyre Ave; I saw the opportunity and I took it. But, the MTA lied to me and didn’t even have the decency to ‘apologize for any inconvenience’. Defeated and cheated, I took the next downtown train back to 125th Street. I have never felt so dumb in my entire life as when I did marching up the steps at 125th to the uptown tracks. I was ashamed to be there again. Officially rush hour now, I wasn’t even going to try to push my way to the front of the crowd. I was just going to wait. In all of this time, the devil tried to tempt me. The Metro North was down the block and wouldn’t have to deal with this ridiculousness any longer. But, my foolish pride told me “NO!” I pay too much for a monthly with the constant threat of fare rising to $3.00 just to pay the ON PEAK fare of another train system. I no longer cared that I missed my bus and was gonna miss the next one at 6:15 at the rate the trains were moving. Even if Jesus came before my train did, I was going to wait.

A couple of 4 trains leave me at 125th Street, but I finally board one and get off, as instructed by our trusted MTA workers, at 149th Street Grand Course. Standing on the platform at 149th Street, I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that within 2 hours I had traveled one stop on the 5 in both directions and one stop on the 4 train. If only I had some foresight that would have revealed this fiasco, I could’ve fought my way onto a 4 train to begin with. I called my dad to notify him of how far I am away from home because the idea of still catching a bus after this debacle disgusted me. Around 6:20pm I entered a 5 train that was actually headed to Eastchester Dyre Avenue. My lower back ached from the standing and my stomach wasn’t any less empty now than it was at 4:00pm. Luckily, God rewarded me with a seat so I could sleep through all the unnecessary stops. It took me nearly 3 hours to travel what is supposed to be a 1 hour and 15 minute commute. The MTA never fails to disappoint me. I instill all of my faith in them and they more times than not, let me down in some way, shape or form. If there is anything I learned that wretched day is that the MTA has the power to reach levels of dissatisfaction I didn’t know I possessed.  

A Friend’s Testimony

My African high school friend, who shall remain nameless for the sake of this story, had just gotten out of her class at BMCC when she decided to go to Whole Foods to pick up some groceries. After purchasing what she needed, she got on the shuttle bus to the Staten Island ferry which was packed due to rush hour. Seeing that she was tired and pregnant, a nice man offered his seat to her. My friend kindly accepted and began to converse with the people around her. In the midst of her conversation she heard a lady in the front of the bus “sitting in her own seat, might I add” my friend stated over the phone to me, complaining that pregnancy isn’t a disability. My friend tried to ignore the woman’s comment, but she continued to testify that pregnant women love to use their pregnancy to take advantage of every situation they face. At this point my friend was annoyed, offended, and felt personally attacked and began to curse the lady out as well. The lady proceeded to say, “Don’t make me hurt you and that baby!”. My friend felt personally threatened and continued to stand up for her safety and the safety of her unborn child. The bus driver hears all of the raucous behind him and decides to pull the bus over in the Financial District of Manhattan instead of coming to my friend’s defense. A white police officer comes onto the bus and says to my friend, “Get the f@#$ off the bus!”. My friend was confused as to why the police officer was being so rude to her considering she was the victim in the situation. So, she remained seated and told the officer that she saw no reason to get off the bus. Seeing that my friend wasn’t following orders, the officer’s partner enters the bus as well and says, “Didn’t you hear what he said? Get the f@#$ off the bus!” The first police officer grabs her groceries and throws them off the bus. He grabs one of her arms and begins to twist it and  drag her off the bus. He struggled because my friend was resisting his force, so he partner helped by grabbing and twisting her other arm. The harder my friend tried to pull away, the tighter their grip got on her arms which caused serious pain. My friend was aggressively thrown off of the bus, red wrists, tattered phone, and groceries flung down on the city sidewalk. Upset and embarrassed, my friend told the officer how disappointed she was in his behavior. She said that she told him she was a clear victim in the situation and felt threatened by the lady’s insulting words. She was more concerned with protecting herself and her unborn baby and she thought the police officers would share the same conviction. The white police officers didn’t appreciate her scolding them for the manner in which they decided to handle the situation to say the least and demanded that my friend give them her information and follow them downtown so they can file a report against her. My friend rightfully refused to give her name because she presumed that if a report needed to be filed the entire story would be essential, but they didn’t seem to agree considering the lady who instigated the entire fiasco exited the bus and was walking away in the opposite direction. At this point, my friend is on the phone with her hometown friend as witness. She demands to get the officer’s name and badge number so she could file her own report of how mistreated she was. The officer’s partner said no and the pair finally walked away. In that moment my friend felt what it was like to be black in white America as the white police officers who were sworn in to protect their citizens physically and verbally abused and embarrassed her in front of a bus filled with white tourists who found pleasure, even laughed, instead of coming to a young pregnant girl’s defense.