6 Train
Anya was not born in America, but the Bronx had always been her real home. The streets were never quite peaceful, but never polluted with noise either. For a long time, she had never ventured far from the few blocks near their apartment that she considered her “neighborhood.” She yearned for a suburban lifestyle and often wondered why they could not attain that type of life. It was not until the train rides into Manhattan with her parents that Anya started questioning why they could not instead live deeper in the city.
Sitting on the train with her parents as a young child was comforting and almost adventurous. She had no clue where they were going nor did it ever occur to her to ask how they knew which train to get on or when to get off. They just knew.
This time, she sat with them in her traditional garments for the puja in Queens. It was getting late out as the sun was setting and darkness blanketed the redbrick buildings outside.
“Thank goodness,” she thought, in hopes that the darkness would also hide her “unusual” clothing from strangers’ eyes.
After being on the train for what felt like just several minutes, Anya started to notice a pattern as they rode the 6 down underground. The longer they waited until it was time to get off, the more people on the train that looked foreign to her.
Growing up in the Bronx as an immigrant, she was mostly accustomed to seeing Black, Hispanic, and Brown people on the streets or public transportation. They wore laid-back street wear like sweats, hoodies, fake jewelry, and Jordan’s that cost a pretty penny. This was the environment she knew and understood her whole life. It was also the standard to which she often held herself because there was no other standard she had known, heard of, or had to conform to. So, sitting on the 6, as they moved underground and the demographics of the passengers boarding the train changed, she knew it was a different world. A world that she did not understand the social norms of nor could she comprehend living amongst.
All of a sudden, Anya felt uncomfortable. The faces standing over her were white and they all wore clean, mature suits and dresses. She crossed her arms over her midsection and clutched her elbows. She hunched over and pulled her legs further under the train seat in an attempt to hide as much of herself as she could. It was warm out those days so there was no need to bring a sweater with her, but at that moment, she hopelessly wished she had.
After just a few more train rides like these, she started to understand that they were on the cusp of luxurious Manhattan once the first white man wearing a suit and holding a briefcase had boarded. It was not because the train made one more stop from 125th street to 116th. Hell, she did not even understand what the street numbers or avenue names meant until she entered high school and learned to commute on her own.
As uncomfortable as she felt in a world unknown to her small childish mind, it fascinated her all the same. The sophistication that these people riding the subway displayed while simply trying to go to and come from their high-end nine to five jobs was very different to what seemed like the carelessness of those that had gotten off the train several stops earlier. But “sophistication” and “carelessness” were big words for her to describe what she saw at the time. Instead, she saw “luxurious” and “dirty.”
She looked down at her 3-piece dress with all of its bright colors and strange patterns and saw a different type of “dirty”. Instead, she was the stereotypical immigrant she had always read about and seen portrayed in books, movies, and advertisements. Anya looked to her mother sitting next to her and her mother looked back with a smile.
“Lay on me?” Her mother asked because she knew her daughter would often feel tired on these long rides. But that was before her daughter became old enough to learn how to feel shame and embarrassment. This time, Anya shook her head and looked back down at her feet.
“What does that mean for us?” she often subconsciously thought. As Bronx residents, did that mean they were poor? Dirty? Not good enough? Not the right skin color? The last one seemed to be the right answer. Growing up in a community where Anya, a young dark-skinned brown girl, faced colorism from other fellow Bengali immigrants, her skin color always seemed to be the problem. She especially felt that way while walking through the streets of Manhattan and everyone was prettier, taller, and lighter than she was or could ever be. She had always wanted Jordan’s or ripped jeans or slouchy hoodies, as this was the fashion in her neighborhood in the Bronx. But the luxury of Manhattanites made her feel embarrassed to have ever had such subpar fashion sense.
Despite the colorism constantly plaguing her sense of self and belonging, she still felt safe and at home in the Bronx, where there were other girls darker, shorter, and less eloquent than her. She did not feel compelled to prove herself to anyone other than herself whether it be in academics, appearance, or social standing. Walking on the paths through the parks and breathing in the misty air from the water fountains felt like home. She could sit on the benches lining the park and not worry about how she looked because she was not any more out of place than the multiple senior citizens calling to the squirrels and throwing them pieces of bread.
So, for most of her life, she avoided going to Manhattan. And if there was any situation in which she had to go with her parents, she not only associated the transition of train passengers into Manhattan with luxury, but with fear and embarrassment as well. From what she thought she knew at the time, she and her family were not poor (she can say now with certainty that they were never poor), but not understanding socio-economic statuses, she once asked her parents, “why don’t we live in Manhattan or something?” At this, they laughed as if she had made a good joke. But after seeing the genuine confusion on her face, they asked in response, “do you know how expensive it is?”
No, she did not know how expensive it was. She never truly understood the value of money or what seemed like a lot, a little, or even enough. Yet she could not take her parents at their word that it truly was expensive to live in Manhattan and have that level of luxury. Were they just destined to forever live in inferiority? No, she would not accept that. She swore that when she grew older, she would make sure to move into a large apartment overlooking Central Park, the Empire State building, and maybe even Times Square all at once. Of course, she now knows that is not feasible, but that was what a typical New York lifestyle looked like to her, or at least what it should be like.
If her life were reduced to words and chapters in a small Penguin book, high school would be the top of the story charts Anya learned to recognize in English class. If she had any semblance of independence in her sheltered lifestyle, that was it, and it was also when she started to gain a better understanding of not only herself but the world too.
On the first day of freshman year, she pushed through the other eager and chatty freshmen to get through the large doors of the building. She looked around eagerly for her friends, which she had made the summer before during a program for the school.
“Anya!” Someone yelled out from behind her. Turning around confused, she tried her best to look through the mass of students and book bags. Finally, a familiar face made its way towards her, and a smile crept upon her face as relief washed over her.
“Oh, man. Hey! You’re here!” Anya yelled to Samara even though they were now standing next to each other.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t miss your first day. Little freshman,” Samara teased as she ruffled Anya’s hair.
“Yeah, yeah alright, sophomore. Where are the others?” Anya craned her neck to look further towards the back of the cafeteria. “I kinda wanted to say ‘hi’ to them before class started.”
“Yeah, sure. Come on, I’ll help you look for them.” Samara put her arm around Anya’s shoulders, and they walked off. Together, this time, they pushed through even more masses of students and their enormous book bags. Together, they looked for any other familiar faces from the summer.
It was at this moment that she realized she was not alone. Anya had never thought about how alone she felt for the first 14 years of her life until she met people that made her feel otherwise. Despite how different she and Samara were—a proud Russian and a reserved Bengali—she felt a strong sense of belonging. Samara’s arm around her shoulders confirmed this and it made her feel less afraid. Quite the contrary. Despite her numerous insecurities about her odd looks, shabby clothes, and unrefined mannerisms, she felt very safe in this new world next to her new friends.
Over the next few years, Anya came to meet people she had never expected to affiliate with before. Her fear of tall, white people from Manhattan with more class than her began to fade as she made friends from Manhattan that were anything but refined. Take, for example, her friend Casey, who often licked her fingers after finishing her sandwich then would move onto her salad. Or Mathias, who came to school nearly every day in sweatpants, the same hooded sweatshirt, and uncombed hair. These small behaviors her friends performed out of habit helped ease some of Anya’s concerns about the superiority of Manhattanites. She began to understand that they were not all refined and if it seemed like they were, they were just pretending to be. Despite this evolving understanding, she seldom ventured into Manhattan for even the first couple years of high school.
“Anya, are you free next week,” her friend Casey asked her one day.
“Um, maybe. Why?” Anya’s response was hesitant.
“Oh, we wanted to go ice skating. But we know how you are about going out, so we’ll do everything to make things easier for you.”
With that one sentence, Anya felt comforted, and like she was in a place where people could truly understand her experiences. They may not feel it or comprehend it to the fullest extent, but they could at least respect her situation.
High school was another world Anya felt as if she was thrown into. It was nothing like her neighborhood in the Bronx where immigrants and Black and Hispanic people roamed the streets in their careless attire. Instead, at her school, nearly everyone cast an aura of superiority. Nonetheless, she never felt more comforted and validated than with these people. They were from all different backgrounds, some of which she had never expected to encounter or develop such great friendships with.
The most prominent example of this would be her recently out transgender friend, who would now go by Chris.
“Hey,” he said to her one day as they were working on their papers together.
“Yeah?” Anya looked up from her laptop, noticing that her friend looked nervous.
“Could you read this for me?” he pushed his laptop towards Anya. “I’ve been working on a short story and I wanna know what you think.”
She smiled. “Yeah, of course, girl. Want me to leave edits?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” At that, he took out his journal and scribbled away in it, as he often did. In the meantime, Anya read through the story with intent, leaving as many useful comments and edits as she thought were necessary. As she neared the end of the story, a wave of realization at what the story meant rushed over her.
At the time, it had been Anya’s fourth year in high school. She’d be an adult and in college soon. While she still often felt like a child who barely understood the outside world, things like this no longer shocked her. Had it not been for all the different, unique, diverse people she had the pleasure of meeting during her high school years, she would have had a difficult time understanding what this meant. But that was not the case. Thankfully, she happened to go to the right place with the right people who taught her the right things.
“Hey,” Anya looked up at her friend as her head shot straight up. “So, I left a few comments and suggestions throughout. Overall, I think it’s a pretty good story… it’s very personal which I think will help your readers connect.”
He nodded. “Got it, thank you.” He reached for his laptop and placed it back in front of him. His mouth opened to speak before Anya cut him off.
“Would you like me to call you Chris from now on?” Anya asked, looking at him seriously.
Chris nodded and smiled wide. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much. Thank you.” He’d begun to worry that Anya would not understand that the short story he had been writing was his own story. He had written about feeling like he did not belong and like he was born in the wrong body. His heart sunk when Anya simply handed back his laptop and did not seem to get the hint about what this was really about. But she knew better. They had been friends for nearly four years now. Anya knew there was no way her supposedly cisgender friend would be able to write about something so different from his reality.
Little moments such as these expanded her understanding and knowledge of social norms. But the most impactful moments in conquering her complex fear of Manhattan and its inhabitants were simply when she ventured into the city. She would sit on the cold subway seats with her friends rather than her parents and would feel safe.
Anya still clutched her satchel out of habit and looked around her cautiously every time the doors opened to exchange passengers.
“Want me to hold your bag?” Samara offered to Anya.
“No, I’m good.”
“Oh my god, I’m so excited,” Chris interrupted as he practically giggled in delight.
“Ooh, I wanna get the pork katsu.” Casey stood next to Anya on the crowded subway, looking at the menu for the restaurant on her phone.
“Stop, I want that too. I want everything but I’m so broke,” Chris complained.
At that, Anya rolled her eyes and joked, “yeah Mr. Gucci Belt,” and eyed the belt peeking out slightly from underneath his jacket.
“THIS,” Chris replied dramatically, “is exactly why I’m broke, okay?” They all laughed. And soon, Anya barely paid any attention to the passengers. The division between the dirty Bronx and the luxurious Manhattan dissipated as she continued joking and thinking about what all her friends were going to do that day.
When they walked through the streets of Manhattan to the restaurant, Anya felt something other than fear this time. Fear consumed her thoughts whenever Manhattan came in comparison with her home, the Bronx. But this time, she carried herself with pride.
What was it exactly that she was proud of? It was difficult to pinpoint but it probably had something to do with the fact that she finally found her place in this megapolis. As different as she was from the fancy city dwellers, she found friends that couldn’t care less about her differences. Instead, they embraced their differences. Chris, who had recently come out as a femme transgender boy; Casey, who came from a wealthy family but often cared less about basic table manners; Samara, a loud and suffocating bisexual Russian; and Anya, a South Asian immigrant from the Boogie Down Bronx.
Rather than one misfit, there were four in total strutting down the streets of Manhattan. Alone, before she met this group of wildlings, she often felt shame at her own “misfortunes.” But now, she felt nothing but pride that she lived in such a huge, diverse city that allowed her to meet these weird individuals and finally feel more at home.
By Suporna Das
Photographs done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College, CUNY. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Kezia Velista for creating artwork for this piece.
Check the New Media Artspace out at http://www.newmediartspace.info/