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Manhattan-Bound C Local Train, 9:30am on December 11th, 2017

Today, at the 42nd Street Port Authority Bus Terminal, a man tried to detonate a homemade pipe bomb in an underground passageway, injuring three people, as well as himself. No one around me seems alarmed or scared. Frustration, exhaustion, and impatience are the only feelings I sense. We are all late to work/class/appointments/meetings. We all deal with the MTA delays on a daily basis while the holidays and icy weather further test our patience. But today is different. One person caused all of this, the third attack in New York City since the start of the fall semester, the second in only two months. A failed terrorist attack does nothing but piss New Yorkers off. 

My hand grips the metal pole as the subway jerks backwards and forwards, snapping my arm in and out of place. They don’t warn us that riding NYC public transportation can cause bodily harm. The passengers around me are far too close for comfort and the floor of the train car is nowhere in sight, with riders practically standing on top of each other. The tall man shoved up against my left arm smells strongly of deli meat, while the rest of the train smells like sweat and coffee. A woman whose bag has become entangled with my own makes no eye contact as she unhooks herself. My fingers feel as though they’re breaking from the weight of my backpack: two notebooks, a textbook, and a laptop feels like 75 pounds pulling down on four fingers. Two people carry a loud conversation a foot away from me. I can hear the volume on someone’s headphones increase significantly. I try my best not to breathe down the neck of the man in front of me as the train screeches along the tracks. Before getting on this train, some strangers had an argument on the platform. You could cut the tension in here with a knife.

Our train finally pulls into the next station after stopping countless times in the tunnel. I shift awkwardly, unable to find comfortable footing as I turn to see a crowded platform outside the train doors. I am not sure how we could fit another human being into this train car unless they crowd surfed over us. The doors open up and collective groans can be heard inside the train car. People on the platform are yelling and cursing at one another. I see only one man get out and four people shove in. Our female conductor announces, exasperatedly, “Ladies and gentlemen, if you cannot fit on this train PLEASE wait for the C train behind us!”

At the next station, only one woman is able to push into the train car. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour and a half,” she says. “I just had to push in.” She is met with awkward laughs and grunts; empathy is all we have left. Some passengers are more patient than others since there is not much we can do to speed along a process that is out of our hands except complain about it, which we do – loudly and often. The woman to my right pushes deeper into my side, making it more difficult for my 5 foot four-inch body to reach the overhead handlebar. All I can think of is the 7 more stops ahead of us. We screech out of the station and the train car starts to smell like garbage or sewage, I can’t tell which because I hiked my scarf up over my face. Ultimately, it’s the smell of defeat. The MTA has broken us.

After weeks of observing my fellow passengers on the C local train back and forth to Brooklyn, today marked the strongest levels of irritation during the morning commute. The final nerve has been laid out on the track and run over, severed by a 340.8 ton Kawasaki R160 C-train.

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Only in New York.

Source: Awwww Pets

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The NYC subway banned dogs who can’t fit in “small bags.” Turns out, that can fit a lot of dog.

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Commuters

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Recession Spiderman

The Magic of New York

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Field Notes Journal #2

Brooklyn-bound C train from Fulton Station to Kingston Throop Station at 4:39pm on October 20th. 2017:

           The couple across from me scarfs down glazed donuts from Dunkin Donuts. They seem to be very high, self-interested, and very focused on eating.

The train car oddly smells of hot dog water, with no obvious explanation. I look around: turns out someone sitting a little way down from me has a giant tray of cured meats and mozzarella cheese. It looks like the scraps from an office party.

The train stops multiple times in the tunnel. Unknown traffic. No word from the driver. I refocus my attention on the still eating couple. The woman seems to be way more effected than her partner – either that or she is way more acentric. She shares one headphone each with him as she sings out of tune, something about holding it down. He complains loudly about her missing his mouth each time she tries to feed him a donut. The man rummages through his bag, pulls out an instant ramen noodle package and crinkles it in his hand for a minute before stuffing it back in. He pulls cereal bar out next and eats it.

Most other passengers seem focused on their phone screens, unbothered by their neighbors. The automated male announcer interrupts the semi-silence to talk about rider courtesy and taking off backpacks to make room. I think of all the times people have stuffed their backpacks in my face, violating so many unwritten codes on person space in public settings. The passenger to my right reads a kindle with a very bright screen. His headphones dangle off of his lap; he isn’t listening to anything. “This is Hoyt Schermerhorn…” announces a kind, disembodied female voice. “This is a Euclid Avenue Bound C Local Train… The next stop is… Lafayette Avenue.” The male voice politely warns, “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” We roll slowly out of Hoyt. The car is quiet, albeit the sound of train wheels screeching and turning on the tracks below. The train bumps and wobbles, speeds up, slows down. Passengers sway as they sit side by side, bags in laps.

The man across from me who has replaced the eating couple is older, maybe late sixties. His female companion, same age, comments on the small book he pulled out of his breast pocket. They are wearing wool coats that remind me of the British television shows my parents always watched when I was growing up; his clothes are dark and business-like; hers, brown with a pageboy cap on her head. The older gentleman produces a zip locked PB&J from one of his bags, they both carry quite a few – all heavy looking. He offers her a piece but she declines in what sounds like a French Caribbean accent.

 Manhattan-bound C train from Kingston Throop Station to Fulton Station at around 11:30am on October 27th, 2017:

           This morning there’s a Bassett hound riding with us on the C train. He is the classic stereotype of the breed: droopy-eyed and perpetually old looking. He lays on the floor, chin resting flat, mournful eyes lazily looking around at passengers.

           A deep voice on the other end of the train talks loudly. I barely catch a glimpse of who it belongs to from where I’m sitting but one thing stands out: their lips are quite literally covered in white. There are a lot of passengers on the train, obscuring my view of this person. The seats are full and around 17 people stand, hanging on to the silver poles. It’s an older train so the announcer is muffled, and the metallic screeching of the train rushing through the tunnel is deafening. Various ads stretch across the overhead boards displaying smiling faces of people at technical schools, others encouraging New Yorkers to register and vote. One ad behind a woman’s head features the NSFW Female Gaze exhibition for the Museum of Sex. Another ad is an announcement for Ai Weiwei’s exhibition for the Public Art Fund, something I am currently covering in my New York and the Visual Arts class.

           The old C train to Euclid Avenue requires the train driver to announce the stops. His voice cracks into the overhead speakers again and notifies passengers that large bags and backpacks are subject to search by the NYPD. A high-pitched horn screeches past our train as we rush past. The brakes begin to jerk and the train starts to slow. We halt to a stop in the tunnel. The passengers are quiet. I have a better view of the white-lipped passenger at this point. The coke-white look stands out on their dark skin. I see their eyelids are also painted white and they are wearing a white “third eye.” They speak loudly to another passenger, who laughs in an almost sigh.

 Manhattan-bound C train from Kingston Throop Station to Fulton Station at around 10:19am on October 30th, 2017:

           The only sound in the train car is the murmur of people talking amongst themselves. At the moment, we are stuck in the tunnel before Hoyt Schermerhorn Station. A woman who earlier was hacking out a cough starts speaking to no one in particular. She is older looking and heavy set, with a silk wrap around her hair. Her voice is reminiscent of Chuckie from the Rugrats. “Psychic readings,” she repeats in random sentences jumbled with “I need a job… for a small fee.” At one point, she references a biblical passage. Suddenly her voice picks up and she seems to be aiming her attention at the man sitting quietly beside her. He stares at the phone he holds directly in front of his face. In a singsong tone, she yells out “I need cash now! J… JG Wentworth, I need cash now!” She repeats this over and over. “Have a nice day,” she says to the man beside her. He nods to her and she repeats a few more miscellaneous statements before leaving the train at Hoyt. She yells into the open train door, “JG Wentworth, I need cash now!” Other passengers with headphones in make quick, wide-eyed faces to themselves.

 Brooklyn-bound C train from Fulton Station to Lafayette Station at 8:48pm on November 20th, 2017:

           The train is semi-crowded, likely the last of the nightly rush home from Manhattan to Brooklyn. I am accompanied by my roommate and boyfriend. Everybody is on their phones. A baby, no older than 1, squeals loudly every few seconds. He is beaming, smiling at his socks that he has pulled off of his now bare feet. A man boards the train and begins announcing something. He asks for help with a raspy voice that does not match his appearance, like the voice of a 60-year-old with a 48-year-old body. The baby is unbothered and continues screeching over his exciting sock discovery.

           At the next station, most passengers get off and a woman boards with a push cart. There are a few blankets piled up in it and peeking out through the side is the head of a small white dog. My roommate finds this hilarious and takes a Snapchat video of the dog, who blinks back at him.  

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1980, after John Lennon got killed.

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Clay Benskin, NYC Subway

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South Bronx in the ‘80s.

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Field Notes Journal #1

Brooklyn-bound C-train from Fulton Station to Kingston Throop Station at around 9pm on October 10th, 2017:

The train is older, with dark gray bench seating all along the walls of the subway car. Advertisements are displayed along the ceiling, some for technical schools, others for knowing your rights in the case of discrimination. One ad shows a woman smiling – the Spanish text beside her tells New Yorkers to register to vote for the New York they want. The breaks are loud, screeching each time the train comes to a halt, interrupting the white noise vibrating hum of the train rushing through the underground tunnels at a high speed.

I am in the fourth car from the rear of the train. The train car is not full, with maybe 24 riders give or take as some get on and off throughout the ride. Each passenger is sitting with plenty of space between one another. The age range is mainly between 20 and 40; half male, half female. No children in this car. The calmness of the commute tells me everyone is tired and, like me, just wants to get home without any hassles.

It is evening time; most riders are likely commuting home from work. The car is very silent and not a single person is speaking. Many have headphones and are looking down towards their laps with phones, books or newspapers in their hands. From my viewpoint, I see three commuters have completely fallen asleep or are nodding out. A few others are sitting quietly, not visibly focused on anything to pass the time. Almost every individual in the train car seems to be traveling alone with the exception of one couple sitting in a two-seater bench at the other end of the car. Each person is traveling with a bag, purse, or backpack. A couple people have bags of food but no one is eating. The smells of different kinds of food mix together in the space. As my stomach grumbles, louder than the announcer calling out the name of my stop, Kingston-Throop, I head out alongside a couple other passengers.

 Brooklyn-bound C-train from Fulton Station to Kingston-Throop at around 6:30pm on October 16th, 2107:

The train screeches along the tracks, moving slowly along and stopping occasionally in the tunnel. Most passengers are sitting but a few are standing. A muffled hip hop beat bleeds through someone’s headphones and creates a rhythm with the sound of the subway rolling along. The train is warm but most passengers have on jackets to protect from the cold weather outside. The ages of the riders vary between 18 and 65, with the exception of toddlers in a double stroller – a boy and a girl. Occasionally one or both will cry, fighting playfully over the food, nori chips, on their stroller trays. Their mother tells them to stop taking food from each other adding, “She’ll take the food right out his mouth but don’t like it when he does the same to her.” I’ve never seen a kid eat seaweed in my life.

More passengers get on at Jay Street Metrotech Station. A woman in her mid-twenties sits down across from me and immediately focuses hard on her knitting, what looks like the beginning of a sweater collar. A young girl no older than 12 enters our car through the connecting door. Although it is hard to hear her over the babies crying and the various train sounds, I make out that she is selling chips. “Doritos, Fritos, Lays… for Puerto Rico.” I’m out of cash and my fellow passengers seem more focused on their own activities, so she leaves after telling us to have a blessed day.

 Manhattan-bound C-train from Kingston-Throop Station to Fulton Station around 10:30am on October 17th, 2017:

           The subway is filled with the sound of active conversations. Although the train car is not packed, many people have chosen to stand. Everyone is bundled up for the cold weather. A group of people, likely tourists, talk loudly in Portuguese. One man in particular speaks to the rest of the group, 5 people, making wide hand gestures and moving his shoulders often during the conversation. Two women behind me discuss a situation with a friend, someone named Lis. Following a lot of “yeahs” and one’s offer to help out, the woman with a large suitcase says, “Don’t tell Lis but…” Turns out they are planning a surprise “jam sesh” for Lis. The woman in the suitcase asks her friend to bring her guitar. The friends and the Portuguese tourists empty out at Jay Street.

           The woman across from me is reading over the shoulder of the man beside her. He is texting something into his phone. I assume they don’t know each other until I see him begin doing the same to her as she uses her own phone. They begin smiling at something she has shown him. Everyone else in the train car wears a blank stare.

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Project Description

For my ethnographic field research project, I will be observing the different people that commute daily – specifically those who commute via the New York City subway system which, from the MTA website, saw an average weekly ridership of 5.7 million people in 2016. New York City leads US cities in diversity according to Business Insider, with over 800 languages spoken in Queens alone, as well as income disparity according to WalletHub. Due to the high reliance on public transit for the growing population of everyday commuters and heavy annual influx of tourists, all 22 interconnected subway routes see people of various backgrounds – including ethnic, religious, and socioeconomic among others – every day. During peak hours, I will be riding the A/C train on both the Brooklyn and Manhattan-bound lines. I will be noting my own experience as a rider as well as my interactions with/observations of the strangers around me, and writing about them during and after my commute. I have never before taken the scientific mindset of an ethnographic observer during my commute from Brooklyn, so I am looking forward to the research, and seeing my commute from an anthropological perspective.