"Please won't you be my neighbor?"
Yesterday I witnessed a very jarring set of events. Aaron and I were riding the A train home, and beside us sat an elderly woman, several of her grandchildren, and their father -- her son (I assume). The woman looked tired from an undoubtedly jam-packed day of touristy fun, and one could tell that this chance to rest was needed. As the subway pulled into the 81st Street station, the grandmother and kids stood up and started toward the door -- the grandchildren playfully reminding her "20 seconds [to get off], gramma!"
Until this point I hadn't been very invested in this family's trip, but then I heard the woman pounding on the door while quietly shouting, "No, wait! Please open the door!" I looked out the window and could see her grandchildren and son on the platform, and she watched in panic out the train windows as we continued to the next stop. As we traveled, I tried to reassure her that her family would be OK, and she replied worriedly, "But I won't be."
By now we were at the next stop, and she was distraught over what to do once she deboarded. A man sitting on the other side of the door instructed her to "just go down the stairs right there and get on a train going the other way." As we pulled out of the station I watched her start to descend the steps, and I started to cry. Had the two stations been accessible, I would have gotten off the train and stayed with her until she and her family were reunited. But they weren't, and it still upsets me that I just had to watch helplessly.
Until this point I hadn't been very invested in this family's trip, but then I heard the woman pounding on the door while quietly shouting, "No, wait! Please open the door!" I looked out the window and could see her grandchildren and son on the platform, and she watched in panic out the train windows as we continued to the next stop. As we traveled, I tried to reassure her that her family would be OK, and she replied worriedly, "But I won't be."
By now we were at the next stop, and she was distraught over what to do once she deboarded. A man sitting on the other side of the door instructed her to "just go down the stairs right there and get on a train going the other way." As we pulled out of the station I watched her start to descend the steps, and I started to cry. Had the two stations been accessible, I would have gotten off the train and stayed with her until she and her family were reunited. But they weren't, and it still upsets me that I just had to watch helplessly.