Midnight in car #2939...
I boarded the train at around midnight. It was unusually full for a Tuesday night at that hour, with just slightly more people than seats. Whenever all the seats on the El are full there's this awkwardness to the silence that ensues, when that urge to avoid eye contact with anyone around you mixes with the knowledge that you are uncomfortably close to one or more complete strangers.
At the next stop a few seats opened up. A middle aged man in sensible clothing got up out of his chair to let the rider on the inside exit, and remained standing briefly. As he stood, one of two young black gentlemen who had been seated by the door moved to the window seat which had been freed up, where he then rested his head. The sensibly dressed man hesitated.
I eyed the seat by the door, now empty. I glanced at the young black gentleman sitting next to it. I also hesitated.
The doors of the train car closed. The sensibly dressed man sat in the seat opposite the one he had originally occupied - across the car from the seat hopper who had made him waver. I too sat down, but next rather than opposed to the inspiration of my reluctance.
I was disappointed with myself. Even if my hesitation was momentary it would occupy my mind for the remainder of the journey. There was nothing sinister in either of these men's demeanor; nothing threatening about their hoodies and jeans; nothing thug-like or brutish in their attempts to sleep away the long ride. They were nor more or less out of place than the portly, jovial Latina matrons a few rows back, or the indie rock kid standing near the door with his Ipod and an "Impeach Nixon" pin attached to the lapel of his corduroy suit jacket - or the white haired, middle aged, sensibly dressed man just a few feet away.
I let my gaze rest on him briefly. His eyes were glazed from staring straight forward at any nothing he could find. The way he clutched his bag with just the slightest tinge of anxiety - coupled with the taught line of his jaw - belied his attempt at a blank expression. He was aware of the simple act of bigotry he'd committed. Only his poorly concealed agitation seemed to be inspired by the fear that his action had been noticed, not concern with the state of his character for having chosen it.
No doubt the perception of my scrutiny imbued an unsettling sense of exposure, but I had little sympathy for him. We may have shared a disheartening moment of cultural reflex, but with our decisions we parted ways. I would not be so haughty as to claim some moral high ground, but nonetheless there was bitterness in my glance toward him - a feeling affixed to the disquiet I found in reflecting on myself.
At the next stop a few seats opened up. A middle aged man in sensible clothing got up out of his chair to let the rider on the inside exit, and remained standing briefly. As he stood, one of two young black gentlemen who had been seated by the door moved to the window seat which had been freed up, where he then rested his head. The sensibly dressed man hesitated.
I eyed the seat by the door, now empty. I glanced at the young black gentleman sitting next to it. I also hesitated.
The doors of the train car closed. The sensibly dressed man sat in the seat opposite the one he had originally occupied - across the car from the seat hopper who had made him waver. I too sat down, but next rather than opposed to the inspiration of my reluctance.
I was disappointed with myself. Even if my hesitation was momentary it would occupy my mind for the remainder of the journey. There was nothing sinister in either of these men's demeanor; nothing threatening about their hoodies and jeans; nothing thug-like or brutish in their attempts to sleep away the long ride. They were nor more or less out of place than the portly, jovial Latina matrons a few rows back, or the indie rock kid standing near the door with his Ipod and an "Impeach Nixon" pin attached to the lapel of his corduroy suit jacket - or the white haired, middle aged, sensibly dressed man just a few feet away.
I let my gaze rest on him briefly. His eyes were glazed from staring straight forward at any nothing he could find. The way he clutched his bag with just the slightest tinge of anxiety - coupled with the taught line of his jaw - belied his attempt at a blank expression. He was aware of the simple act of bigotry he'd committed. Only his poorly concealed agitation seemed to be inspired by the fear that his action had been noticed, not concern with the state of his character for having chosen it.
No doubt the perception of my scrutiny imbued an unsettling sense of exposure, but I had little sympathy for him. We may have shared a disheartening moment of cultural reflex, but with our decisions we parted ways. I would not be so haughty as to claim some moral high ground, but nonetheless there was bitterness in my glance toward him - a feeling affixed to the disquiet I found in reflecting on myself.