I found myself back in Chicago last week. Returning from (a tasty Chipotle) lunch with friends downtown, I rode the El back to Lincoln Park. Sitting on the scratchy blue fabric chair and pondering the spelling of the graffiti etched on the window across from me, I reminisced about my travels on another big city’s public train system. As colorful billboards flashed by in front of the Chicago cityscape behind them, and as Brown Line trains across the track flashed by in a torrent of noise, a vivid image flashed in front of my eyes: a memory of the time I saw a young woman sobbing on the London Tube.
I don’t know how I ended up sitting where I did that evening. As I had already learned by mid-semester of studying abroad, open seats on the Tube are usually a precious commodity in old London Town. With a long commute ahead of me, I must have made a B-Line for the first patch of bare fabric I saw on that train. I guess I didn’t realize that the seat was empty for a reason.
But it’s my seat now, and it should be comfortable. It’s well-cushioned in a well-lit car of very well-funded public transportation system. Yet, I feel like I’ve boarded the Discomfort Express because seated on my right, her hip touching mine, a young woman - probably my age - is holding her head in her scarf, trying to hide her sobs from the rest of the commuters that evening.
But she can’t hide them. That undeniable sniffling and sharp inhaling of true heartbreak seems to echo down the corridors of this long train car, interrupted only by the passing of a train heading towards the place we left. I sit still, paralyzed by her sadness. Bundled in my green peacoat and black gloves for winter, I grip the sides of my oh-so-American North Face backpack on my lap and stare at its zipper, whilst my mind stares at the crying girl beside me. I don’t even think to wonder why she’s upset, especially in such a public place. Her sadness blinds my thoughts, covering every nook in my mind with a warm blanket of concern. No one deserves to be so sad.
I want someone to say something to her. Someone less shy than I am. A mother or a father perhaps could comfort her in kind British accent with just the right words to assuage her ambiguous sorrows. So, angling my eyes up gently away from my lap, I search the faces of my fellow commuters. But all I see are winter caps and red noses tucked into New York Times bestsellers.
No one seems to care, but I’m sure everyone who hears her does. True sadness pulls at even the stiffest of heartstrings, but our tongues are tied with doubt about what to say and twisted by the defacto No-Talking Rule of the London Tube. Indeed, in London, even your mind is flooded with concern, the British respect for privacy will lock your jaw shut.
I’m not British, though. I’d love to have the charming accent, but I’m very happy with my American sensitivities. So, as the train slows down and quiets into the next station and warns the passengers to “mind the gap” ahead, I straighten up my back and turn my shoulders toward the girl on my right hiding her face. As my fellow commuters see me shifting in my seat, they peer out from behind their books and newspapers. I place my hand towards her knee in a gesture of comfort to let her know that not everyone on this train is indifferent to her sorrow. And I untangle my tongue from the prickly thorns of doubt to say some kind words:
“It’ll get better.”
The crying girl peeks out from her whispy purple scarf. I see her bloodshot eyes, her tear-stained cheek, and the little upturn of the corners of her mouth as she gives me a little smile of thanks.
Except I never saw her eyes that night. Nor her cheeks, nor her mouth. She never smiled at me. She kept her face behind her purple scarf because I never leaned over with words of kindness or a hand of comfort. I kept my eyes locked on the zipper of my backpack on my lap, blending into the polite British public and trying to ignore her sobs by focusing on the dull white noise of the rumbling train. As we pulled into my station I minded the gap and walked off the train, leaving her behind me with an empty seat of cold bare fabric next to her.
I don’t know how I ended up sitting where I did that evening. As I had already learned by mid-semester of studying abroad, open seats on the Tube are usually a precious commodity in old London Town. With a long commute ahead of me, I must have made a B-Line for the first patch of bare fabric I saw on that train. I guess I didn’t realize that the seat was empty for a reason.
But it’s my seat now, and it should be comfortable. It’s well-cushioned in a well-lit car of very well-funded public transportation system. Yet, I feel like I’ve boarded the Discomfort Express because seated on my right, her hip touching mine, a young woman - probably my age - is holding her head in her scarf, trying to hide her sobs from the rest of the commuters that evening.
But she can’t hide them. That undeniable sniffling and sharp inhaling of true heartbreak seems to echo down the corridors of this long train car, interrupted only by the passing of a train heading towards the place we left. I sit still, paralyzed by her sadness. Bundled in my green peacoat and black gloves for winter, I grip the sides of my oh-so-American North Face backpack on my lap and stare at its zipper, whilst my mind stares at the crying girl beside me. I don’t even think to wonder why she’s upset, especially in such a public place. Her sadness blinds my thoughts, covering every nook in my mind with a warm blanket of concern. No one deserves to be so sad.
I want someone to say something to her. Someone less shy than I am. A mother or a father perhaps could comfort her in kind British accent with just the right words to assuage her ambiguous sorrows. So, angling my eyes up gently away from my lap, I search the faces of my fellow commuters. But all I see are winter caps and red noses tucked into New York Times bestsellers.
No one seems to care, but I’m sure everyone who hears her does. True sadness pulls at even the stiffest of heartstrings, but our tongues are tied with doubt about what to say and twisted by the defacto No-Talking Rule of the London Tube. Indeed, in London, even your mind is flooded with concern, the British respect for privacy will lock your jaw shut.
I’m not British, though. I’d love to have the charming accent, but I’m very happy with my American sensitivities. So, as the train slows down and quiets into the next station and warns the passengers to “mind the gap” ahead, I straighten up my back and turn my shoulders toward the girl on my right hiding her face. As my fellow commuters see me shifting in my seat, they peer out from behind their books and newspapers. I place my hand towards her knee in a gesture of comfort to let her know that not everyone on this train is indifferent to her sorrow. And I untangle my tongue from the prickly thorns of doubt to say some kind words:
“It’ll get better.”
The crying girl peeks out from her whispy purple scarf. I see her bloodshot eyes, her tear-stained cheek, and the little upturn of the corners of her mouth as she gives me a little smile of thanks.
Except I never saw her eyes that night. Nor her cheeks, nor her mouth. She never smiled at me. She kept her face behind her purple scarf because I never leaned over with words of kindness or a hand of comfort. I kept my eyes locked on the zipper of my backpack on my lap, blending into the polite British public and trying to ignore her sobs by focusing on the dull white noise of the rumbling train. As we pulled into my station I minded the gap and walked off the train, leaving her behind me with an empty seat of cold bare fabric next to her.
No comments:
Post a Comment