One
of the pleasures of living in New York City, and especially of living in
Brooklyn, is the “Brighton Line”, the D/Q Train that runs from the
beaches of Coney
Island and Brighton Beach, past the boats of Sheapshead Bay,
barely scraping the surface of Flatbush, diving under Prospect Park, through Park Slope, and then bursting through Brooklyn
cement to hover across the East River, as it rides the Manhattan Bridge
and views the glittering metallic silhouttes of Manhattan.
This is best
viewed on one of those stunningly clear blue mornings of late January,
when the winter chill crystallizes the light as it bounces off the river
and the buildings. Or just as the sun sets, when Manhattan concrete
becomes the playground for purple, pink, and personal reflections. Or
perhaps at night, as the dank depths of subway tunnels give way to the
artificial lights of Manhattan that shock you with their intensity,
their contoured angles, their every-night comfort.
One
of the pleasures of riding the D/Q train is seeing young faces light up
in sheer delight, shock and
incredulity as the train
leaves the caverns of
Brooklyn
and is dazzeled with air, water and sunlight. The expanse of water that stretches
from the mouth of the East River to New York Harbor where Govenor’s
Island and the Statue of Liberty rest, and where they are barely
noticed, because all the child sees is--light, light, light! Light
from the sky. Light reflecting of the buildings; light reflecting of the
bridges; light reflecting off the boats; light reflecting of the water.
So much water. And if it is one of those clear
mornings ... blue, blue water. “Can I drink some?” “Can I swim some?” “Can I be some?”
The whole world rides the D/Q train with you. You name the country; a
citizen is riding this train. You name the language; the words are
spoken here. There are the traditionally known New York
languages: English, Spanish ... wait, what are the
traditional New York
languages? I can hear, French, or is it Creole? I
hear Urdu, Arabic, Gujarati, Cantonese, Mandarin, Patois, Russian,
Serbian, Croatian, Hebrew, Hindu, Yoruba, Twi, Wolof, Sinhalese,
Quechua, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Indonesian, Somali, Amharic. Do I
exagerate?
Well, if you don’t like to eavesdrop, you can always silently observe
the shades of brown and
cream, the shapes of faces long, square, round, heart-shaped, with
high-cheekbones or with high forheads, warm eyes, cool eyes, round noses, sharp noses,
straight hair in free fall
or wooly hair in free afro; the tired skin of old women with too many
bags sitting sullenly after working all night in a sweatshop. Young
people improvsing mother tongue with home tongue with urban tongue.
Young adults almost "hip," discovering that they can "make it"
and listen to their music too. Students carrying biology books, mathematics books, business books, portfolio cases. Young
men talking to young women. Young women ignoring them, or at least
trying to. Elderly men standing gracefully in their worn suits and green shirts. Families brown and salty
from a day at the beach; or just plain brown from a day in the park (the
park being Prospect). Kids sitting together zapping away with their Game
Boys. People reading newspapers in Chinese, Hebrew, Russian, The New York
Times, The New York Post, and The Daily News; Torah reading, Bible
reading, Koran reading, library book reading of mystery, romance, and drama
novels.
One
day, after waiting on the platform at the
Parkside Avenue
station, after daydreaming about the great shade,
and the great purple flowers, of a particular tree (which is really
three trees) that stretches over the tracks, I borded a D-Train. As I sat down, I noticed a particular mother with her
son and daughter. The
children switched between Spanish and English amongst themselves and only Spanish with their mother. The mother, she
was small, very neat, very pretty, hair falling carefully onto her
shoulders, was quiet. She had no reason to say much. Her children
were playing and talking together. They were about 8 or10
years old. The boy being a bit older and abit rounder. They were
exploring their section of the train, and even if they strayed into
other people’s space, somehow it was not an intrusion. They were good
to each other, good for each other. Their joy , their comfort with
themselves, their sureness of love and kindness shimmered from their
laughter, their talk, their movements, their small touches.
At
first, I marvelled at how this mother has had the luck, or the skill, to
have had two such caring and joy-filled children. Sibling relationships
are rarely so calm. I was enthralled. Then, I realised that I was not
the only one who was entranced by them.
The mother and her children were sitting directly opposite me. To the
left of them, an old, skinny, wrinkly-smooth, grey haired black man in
faded clothes was leaning against the train door and holding onto one of
the vertical metallic bars, watching.
And as I watched him watch the children, I saw his face glow with the
longing and the knowledge of love in the hands of children. And as he
smiled wide and silent, tears appeared, shimmering on his cheeks. He
made no move to wipe them. He
did not even notice them. He just held onto this pole, leaning his
tear-wrinkled face closer and closer, and glowed.
The
family did not notice him.
I wondered if he knew where his grandchildren were. I wondered if he
knew where his children were. Or if he had any of either. And I
wondered, if any children had come to him, climbing up his knees and
pulling on his hair. I think
not. I think he misses them. I think he is alone. I think he knows love
when he sees it. Perhaps too late.
______________________________
Note:
Currently, the D/Q Service doesn’t exist under the same name, or
under the exact same route due to construction on the
Manhattan
Bridge
. Instead there is the Q Diamond/Q Circle
. Also, the original “Brighton Line” was a steam
surface ralilroad that went between
Brighton
Beach
and
Prospect
Park. But
as far as I am concerned, as long as there is a train that goes through
Brooklyn and over the Manhattan Bridge, that is all that matters. Thanks
Joe for all the input!
