Babies on the A Train
While there are clearly other key factors involved, I believe a critical mass of babies on a subway enriches the riding experience.
Forward: This was originally written in the fall of 2016 and has been lightly edited for republication on the urbanbyline.
While there are clearly other key factors involved, I believe a critical mass of babies on a subway enriches the riding experience. Yes, babies can cry and wail, adding to the cacophony of sharp white noise on a subway. But they also soften the visual experience of riding the A train. Everyone who is not a child, rides the a train with closed off body language. We are all hanging “Do Not Disturb” hotel signs on our noses. We have been socialized to see riding the subway as this very paradoxical public space but private time in our commute. We read our books. We play candy crush. We play loud music to beat back against the train car’s creaks and shrieks. We avoid looking at others at all cost.
But babies don’t do that. Babies stare. And you stare back. Babies smile. And you smile back. On that Friday night ride home, I felt a little life bloom back into my chest after an exhausting second week at my new job. The baby next to me with his new Jordans kept kicking my left knee. I stared at his puny new white Jordans with the blue detailing. How many months till he grew out of those? Weeks? His mother apologized embarrassed every single time he kicked and tried to scold the baby. But the babies doesn’t understand personal space in a public sphere like the subway. I started an easy conversation with the mother and she eventually corrected me. I thought because of his two large but slightly unevevn pom poms of hair, he was a she. “His name is Na’qan.” She said.
I said “Acorn?”
“No, Na’qan.” Her face wrinkled up a second.
“Na’qan.” I said back, my turn now to be embarrassed.
I stared back at Na’qan. He was in between two moods. Being fussy and on the verge of letting his mother know it or drinking his bottle which made his eyes flutter downward.
“I can’t let him sleep now cause if he does, when I get him home he’ll be all awake and running around like crazy!” The mother said exasperated as she playfully poked with her son’s cheeks to keep him from drifting into said nap.
As we departed from 59th Street Station, a performer was getting ready to sing to the train car. She was fiddling with her boombox. Na’qan’s mom rolled her eyes saying that she didn’t sound good. I merely assented. I loved subway performances. The performer had the boombox play a slow acoustic beat while she sang a sweet original tune. She crooned, stop staring and start living.
“She’s alright. The beat is too slow.” Na’qan’s mother said. I nodded.
There was another baby across from us. The father was standing beside the stroller. The mother and grandmother had found seats and were seating beside the baby in the stroller. Keeping her occupied, cooing and adoring. The grandmother overheard Na’qan’s mother and tried to get the two babies to connect and keep Na’qan up. Look at that baby she said to her granddaughter. The mother was trying to clap to the music, get the baby to listen and enjoy. She then looked at the standing father. Where are we getting off? What’s the next stop? Na’qan’s mother said 125th. I don’t think they heard her. The father said no, we are getting off 175th.
I stared at the two babies. I also sighted one more closer to the street performer. She was also with her mother in a stroller. Subways needed to do a better job of accommodating strollers. Seats could flip up and down so a baby could be right beside the mother and avoid people’s path rushing in and out of the car train. I thought about all the times I complained about lugging a backpack or even a suitcase on the subway and thought about families with strollers. And no working elevator and the rush of folks crowding a stairwell.
All these babies were born from different mothers into different families. They would go on living very different lives. They might already. I thought about baby formula, Nikes, preschool, and money. I glanced and compared the styles and conditions of the strollers. I thought about all the different subway stops babies and their families would get on and off. The stops they would never get on and off. But somehow all these babies were riding the same train with me. That had to mean something right? The egalitarian thought gave me wary hope.
“Do you need help with the stroller up the stairs?” I asked Na’qan’s mom.
“Nah.” She said. “The elevator works on 125th.”
I nodded.
The A train opened its doors. We had arrived at 125th. I got off with Na’qan and his mother almost sheepishly. The moment between us was over in that train car. She headed for the elevator and I to the stairs. The sun had entirely set since I had gone underground. I could smell the thick humidity of incoming rain and couldn’t find the moon. Just the city lights. I later saw Na’qan in his stroller with his Mom on the other side of the crosswalk on 125th street. She had her headphones in and she was ready to get home.