Stand Clear of the Closing Doors, Please
I spent a number of formative years living in New York City; when I moved with friends into a Village sublet to start graduate school, my “new arrival” sheen was as glaring as the red lipstick with which I had first arrived at college in Ann Arbor, Michigan, though not as easily scrubbed off. I was ostensibly in New York to study English Literature at NYU, but I might as well have enrolled in a PhD program in Monumental Disorientation and Overwhelm; everywhere I went, people seemed to know where they were, what they were doing, and why they were doing it. I was equally uncertain about all three.
At some point, though, I went from saying “I’ve just moved here” to “I live here”, and the shift felt as significant as an invitation to a Junior High School dance. I still didn’t really know what I was doing, particularly, but I had legitimacy: I was surviving in New York, and that, at least, was a source of pride.
One evening, after a full day of classes and waitressing, I was, like everyone around me, rushing to claim a spot on a 5pm downtown 6 train. The platform was packed, as was the approaching train; I was as sweaty and exhausted in my brown, fur-trimmed vintage suede coat as I was determined to ensure, like the self-respecting and established New Yorker I felt I was becoming, that I calmly but firmly asserted my right to be on it.
When it arrived, I boarded with the rest of the herd, the crowd rendering me neither fully in charge of my movements nor completely at the mercy of the swell of people. I’d made it fair and square, and extended my arm towards the nearest pole, just barely within reach, so that at least my fingertips would help steady me when we started to move.
Our car was even hotter than the platform and my position, rendered even more imbalanced by my attempt to keep a heavy backpack from obnoxiously knocking into people, was precarious. My discomfort and irritation were only amplified by the fact that the doors, just inches before sealing shut, kept re-opening at the last second. Clearly, some schmuck was trying to wedge his way onto the train, refusing to capitulate to failure and wait his turn for the next one. This went on for at least two full minutes which felt much longer: the doors would begin to close, there’d be a palpable sense of collective relief that the train would be on its way, and then they’d reopen.
Finally, unable to take it any longer and not generally being the sort of person to shy away from engaging with strangers, I exclaimed, “For the love of God! Will this guy fucking give up and wait for the next train?!” I can’t quite recall my companions’ specific responses, but there was definitely a general atmosphere of audible agreement among those who were close enough to hear me. Yes, we all felt, this guy was clearly a selfish asshole; we should be on our way already. Now I was STILL uncomfortable and annoyed, but felt a nice rush of kinship that somehow heightened the otherwise utterly forgettable moment around the clammy subway pole.
I’d started a little low-grade anger-based community; some invisible moron was raising our collective blood pressure, but now, at least, we could complain to each other. The doors attempted to close several more times, and each failure was met with a murmur of disapproval and some satisfyingly mutual eye-rolls.
Then the subway intercom crackled and the conductor cleared his throat: “Pardon the interruption, ladies and gentleman,” he said to all of the however-many dozens of cars and hundreds — thousands? — of frustrated passengers. “We cannot leave the station because the subway doors are blocked. Will the young woman in the brown fur coat please move out of the way of the closing doors?”
It took a moment to register. “Oh my God! It’s me!” Swinging my backpack aside, I grabbed the furry trim of my coat out of the doorway and pulled it tight around my waist, flushed with embarrassed astonishment. My coat was the problem. I was the idiot.
My little group around the pole was as surprised as I was; as the doors sealed shut and the train began to finally pull out of the station, there was good-natured chuckling, reassurances not to worry, and a general sense, at least around me, that something exceedingly minor and harmlessly entertaining had just happened. As each person got off the train, goodbyes were exchanged, and our temporary community dissolved into the city.
Just yesterday, a friend shared this poem with me in honor of my birthday. It speaks directly to the small miracle of meeting strangers, being dipped into their stories and lives, and moving on back into our own, richer for having had that chance. This has always been one of my favorite things — the guy from India I sat next to on the MegaBus between New York and DC, the women in the hair salon who share the intimacies of their lives on any given day and then re-enter those lives physically and emotionally refreshed, never to congregate again — and I long for the day, as I’m sure we all do, when such chance encounters can return to our lives. It usually only takes a comment to create connection; in a long, frustrated line at the UPS store this past Christmas, I made a casual dig at Amazon, and a group of grumpy women, sweating in their puffy coats and burdened with heavy packages, turned into a brief, chatty community; a to-do-list item became a memorable delight.
Think ahead to that moment when we can once again leave our homes and move about within and between our neighborhoods, towns, cities, and countries: how can you approach fleeting encounters with strangers with a bit more openness? Can you consciously try to leave your phone in your pocket and make a point of smiling when you walk by? Can you chance a comment in line — even a “Wow, it’s crazy to be back outside!?” We’ll all be feeling some version of it; let’s risk the awkwardness of saying so and see what happens. ❤️
