Corrin Motyka

English Composition and Writing

Narrative Final Draft

The Language of the City

The streets of New York City can be a bewildering and frightening place for the

uninitiated. Noisy, crowded, and confusing, the city is thought by those who do not know it well

to be intimidating and tough to navigate. Subway lines are designated by both letters and

numbers. Take the “One” to the “Q” and then transfer to the “Shuttle” sounds like a language

more difficult than Ancient Greek to understand. Manhattan is laid out like a grid, except where

it isn’t, in both the lower and upper portions. In Queens, there is a 65th Place, 65th Street, and

65th Court. It costs $19 to travel from Brooklyn to Staten Island without an EZ Pass, but the

New York City subway system moves more than 4.3 million commuters a day and covers over

850 miles of track for only $2.75. Aggressive panhandlers and costumed characters harass

tourists outside of the city’s most well known attractions. Even so, over 65 Million wide eyed

tourists visited New York City in 2018, staring wide eyed at the skyscrapers and blocking the

sidewalks. They come to the city for its history, theater, museums, restaurants, and nightlife.

Unlike the tourists, however, I did not choose to visit New York City on vacation. I grew

up in the city of Hoboken, New Jersey, made famous as the birthplace of both baseball and Frank

Sinatra. Hoboken lies directly across the Hudson River from New Jersey and it is easy to get

into the city by two kinds of trains, the ferry, by bus, or by car. Although I went to primary and
middle school in Hoboken, I went to high school in Manhattan. The city does not intimidate me

and I am comfortable navigating it, but this was not always the case.

My first time taking the subway away from my usual route was a learning experience. I had to go

uptown to visit my dad at work so he could take me to soccer practice in Rockland County, New

York . It was a straight shot on the One to 125th street where he would greet me. It should have

been easy enough, except that it wasn’t.

The city has two worlds: one on the surface and one below the ground. During the day,

the sun reflects off the sidewalk and blinds you as you try to navigate your way to the subway.

Once you descend down the concrete stairs, the station is dark and stuffy. There are hordes of

people continuously filtering in and out of the turnstiles except for the occasional tourists who

are stopped directly in front of you, fidgeting with their metro cards. The metal turnstile itself is

surprisingly warm from all the people smashing against it as they rush to catch their train. After

you overcome the obstacle of the turnstile, you descend even farther down into the earth to the

platform. The platform is humid and airless. It is sometimes difficult to breathe as the air

becomes dry in your throat. There is a metallic taste in your mouth with a hint of exhaust. It

doesn’t smell as bad as you would think, except when there is a homeless person nearby or the

putrid smell of someone’s lunch dumped down onto the tracks. I was sweating through my cotton

shirt and my uniform skirt as I stood in a sea of people waiting on the platform for the train to

come.

New Yorkers are notorious for minding their own business. The platform is quiet as

everyone buries their head into their phone. That immediately changes when the train horn

sounds. As if it were a dance, everyone springs to their feet and eagerly tries to position
themselves so they will meet the train door face to face. As the train squeaked into the station,

people from behind me began elbowing their way to the front, unfazed by pushing a Catholic

School girl who had Google Maps open on her phone to make sure she was going the right way.

The train doors opened and I scurried to find a seat. I was fortunate to grab the last available seat

all the way in the corner. The combination of orange and red seats reminded me of a 70s sitcom.

I was so desperate to find a seat that I hadn’t noticed I was sitting next to a woman talking to

herself. She was wrapped in scarves made up of all the colors of the rainbow and her fingers

were twitching uncontrollably as if she were playing the piano. That was my first mistake. As

the train car filled up it seemed inconvenient to get up and I didn’t want to seem rude. All I had

to do was make it 16 stops.

I observed people from all walks of life: students finishing up math homework, Wall

Street men and their thick, black briefcases, grandmothers carrying groceries, tourists wearing

the iconic “I heart NY” tee shirt, and the occasional train performers. I was excited to see my

first train performance like the ones on T.V., but all the other passengers turned a blind eye.

However, I soon realized that playing guitar and singing against the thundering sound of the

moving train was not a good combination.

As the number of remaining stops dwindled, 59th Street, 66th Street, 72nd Street, more

and more people filled the train until I couldn’t see my feet. The train conductor announced

something over the loudspeaker but all I could hear were words and mumbles slurred together.

Something like “brrrmpf ….delay for…..skskhmp.” Then, like clockwork, I saw furrowed brows

spread down the train car as if people’s eyebrows were performing “The Wave” at a high school

football game. The train jolted to a stop and those not holding on to poles stumbled into their
neighbors. It seemed as if all the air was being sucked out of the train car by the other 50 angry

passengers. At least I wasn’t stranded in a car with no air conditioning.

The other passengers were getting restless, tapping their feet, and checking their watches.

As time lingered on, my eyes grew heavy and my head began to sway, the most dangerous

combination one can have while taking public transportation. That was my second mistake. I

drifted into a deep sleep until I was interrupted by the man in front of me who stepped on my

toes. He was wearing a black Giants cap and had a thin mustache that wrapped around his chin.

He didn’t even look up to apologize. Jerk! As my groggy mind cleared, I could see people

pressed up against the doors. It seemed as if the train was going to burst.

Light from outside began to shine into the train car as it began to climb out of the tunnel.

This caused my head to snap toward the window just in time to see the passing sign on a support

column, 145th street! I had missed my stop. No problem, I would just text my dad and tell him to

meet me at a different stop. It was only two stops over after all. I remained plastered to my seat

watching the signs like a hawk until I saw 157th street. That was my third mistake. As soon as

the train doors opened I bounced off my seat and started heading toward the open doors, which

were on the opposite side of the train car, but I underestimated how difficult it would be to

maneuver around the stubborn natives. I took note from the people at the platform at the start of

my journey and I began to elbow my way through.

“Excuse me! Pardon me sir! Can you just hold the door up there please?”

As soon as the end was in sight, the doors closed right in front of my face, crushing any

dream I had of exiting. Now I was heading straight into the Bronx.

“Dad is going to kill me,” I thought.

 As if on autopilot, my fingers quickly dialed my dad’s number.

“Hey dad!” I blurted out.

“Hey! You almost here?”

“Please don’t be mad……” I hesitated.

As if he knew what I was about to say, he said “Where do I need to meet you?”

“168th street,” I said, with a sigh of relief.

“Ok, sounds like a plan.” he chuckled.

I finally got off at the next stop and made my way down to the street. The sun was now

beginning to set and the light was reflecting off the skyscrapers. Standing in front of our parked

car, I saw a towering 6’3” figure wrapped in a trench coat. He had a huge grin on his face as I

miserably dragged my feet in embarrassment.

“Have nice trip?” he joked. “Don’t worry Roo...,” as he called me, “...now you are

officially a New Yorker!”

A Mona Lisa smile cracked my face.

Since my traumatic subway ride, I have transformed into a real New Yorker. In fact, just

like all New Yorkers, I am annoyed by the wide eyed tourists who clog the sidewalks and prevent

the “real New Yorkers” from going about their business. But, the reality is that all New Yorkers

have somewhere to be and can’t afford to slow down. The expression “A New York Minute”

really means something. New Yorkers are nationally known as being rude, but they really aren’t.

They’re just in a hurry and expect everyone else to be in the same frame of mind.

I now know all the “tricks” needed to keep others away from my personal space. Look

confident at all times, avoid eye contact, never sit next to the woman who talks to herself. and
don’t stop to talk to strangers! The exception to this is when one of the tourists asks for

directions. They are easy to spot. They stand there with a map in one hand, camera in the other,

and a lost look on their faces. Kind of how I looked during my first subway ride. Even so, New

Yorkers are always happy to give directions, it’s just too bad if they aren’t understood the first

time around! I now know not to fall asleep on public transportation when my stop is nearing, I

know what stops open on what side of the train, and to start getting up before the train stops.

As I explained, my adjustment to the City didn’t happen overnight. At first, my parents

would bring me in or out and keep in close contact with me at all times. Still, they couldn’t be

there all the time so I eventually had to become comfortable moving around on my own. Now I

am able to visit friends in Alphabet City, go to the movies in Chelsea, attend concerts at Randall's

Island, and take in other attractions. Once I was able to understand the rhythms of the City,

interpret its signals, and look out for its dangers, I was able to make it my own. I now speak the

“language” of New York City. I am comfortable with its noise, its diversity, its chaos, but also

with its beauty and excitement.