Cosmopolitan Underworld

I hear the metal tracks creak louder and louder as I approach the station. My heart speeds up to allow my legs to move at a faster pace. My lungs expand and contract so rapidly that I fear they might burst. Each finger holds a tight grip on my Metrocard: my ticket to cross the Styx river between Earth and the cosmopolitan underworld. All that separates me from the abyss is a simple archaic turnstile. I slide my card through the reader as my body pushes itself to the other side- I have crossed into the world of the living.

I stop for an instant to take in my surroundings, noticing the distinct scent of dense, humid air present within every station. My thoughts are interrupted by the metal creaks slashing through my eardrums again, signaling me that my train is arriving. My feet lunge longer distances with every stride, the urgency of my pursuit intensifying as the train comes to a stop. At last, I undertake one final sprint to reach the sliding doors of the train.

I veer to the right to let a muck of people roll out before stepping over the gap between the platform and the train. My legs are exhausted, and I pray that there will be an empty seat, but as always, the chairs are filled. I find a pole to hold onto, sharing it with five other passengers. In a flash, the doors slide closed and the train begins racing forward. I allow my eyes to wander, noticing people of all different ages, ethnicities, and socioeconomic backgrounds sharing one small enclosure. Most commuters keep to themselves, gazes fixated on iPhones and books, creating their own bubble of solidarity despite being surrounded by so many other passengers. But, as I look around, I ponder what each passenger’s story may be. Some might be new mothers, others convicted felons. I turn my head to see a pack of children in their school uniforms clump together next to a drummer with hopes of earning some spare change by melodically tapping his drum pads and beatboxing along to his rhythm. Businessmen with briefcases are smushed against homeless men with plastic bags as the train’s capacity fills. More than just a steel box that transports me from point A to point B, the subway is a vessel full of people with unique experiences, thoughts, aspirations, and personalities.

Growing up amid such a vastly diverse group of people is an experience that only New York City natives can truly understand. Often, I feel lost amongst the millions of inhabitants, but the sense of anonymity can also feel extremely liberating; whoever you want to be, and wherever you choose to go is your decision- It’s just a matter of which subway line you choose to take. This sense of freedom makes me feel alive more than anything else I’ve experienced. I remember the day my parents finally let me ride the subway on my own, handing me my first ever Metrocard. After twelve years of anticipation for this right of passage, the world was mine. For only $2.75, a small rectangular card promised to take me wherever I desired, and I was overcome with excitement.

The voice on the overhead speaker announcing the train’s arrival at Delancey Street snaps me out of my daze. I quietly count the remaining stops before mine: East Broadway, York, Jay Street Metrotech, Bergen, simultaneously calculating the amount of time it will take to reach my final destination. I check my watch, realizing that it’s now past 8 PM, meaning rush hour has ended. I look around to discover the train is nearly empty and the atmosphere of intensity has dissipated. I close my eyes and return to my thoughts, lulled into a state of relaxation by the steady movement of the train and the soft beat of the music from a nearby passenger’s headphones, tuning out the speaker’s announcement of each passing stop. The familiar sound of a monotone voice projecting the words “This is Carroll Street, the next stop is Smith-9th Street, stand clear of the closing doors please” breaks the calm and my muscle memory takes over, dictating each step I take out of the train and through the station that I’ve known my entire life. I clumsily maneuver past people as I orient my mind back to reality. Finally I reach the exit, trudging up the stairs to enter the real world again.

To some, riding a busy subway is a nuisance. Holding a germ-infested pole, being pressed up against sweaty bodies, or enduring the piercing sound of  a screaming baby’s first subway ride might not be what most people find exhilarating. But to me, the feeling of transporting from borough to borough, the freedom of choosing a destination- my prerogative as a Metrocard owner, alongside hundreds of unique passengers as the train speeds down the tracks, is when I feel most alive.