Letter from the Editor #5
Do I LOOK like someone who needs you to give up your subway seat for her?? (Please say no.)
Readers,
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On Sunday I met some friends in the city. After the Trailways from Kingston dropped me at Port Authority Bus Terminal, I hopped on the downtown C train.
I love New York City, and I love the Subway. (It just celebrated its 121st birthday.) I appreciate how efficient it is—how quickly and reliably it transports you from one neighborhood or borough to the next. I enjoy communing, however briefly, with so many humans I’ve never met before, from all walks of life. The people-watching is unparalleled.
In my upstate life (aka, “my life”) I muse aloud often that I wish we had a mid-Hudson Valley line. Seriously, I’d take part in so many more social and cultural activities in nearby towns if I didn’t have to drive a half-hour or more there and back, especially in the dark, or in wintry driving conditions.
This stop is Accord. Transfer here for the trains to Catskill and Rhinebeck. Next stop: Kerhonkson. Stand clear of the closing doors.
Music to my expat ears. A girl can dream.
On Sunday, though, I had a startling experience when I got on the train at Eighth Avenue, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
All the seats were taken, so I stood, staring at the subway map over a young woman’s shoulder. I didn’t need to consult it for where I was headed, but I like maps, and I also like to make sure I stay current with the latest changes to that particular one. Having committed to memory which trains go where makes me feel like I’m still A Real Deal New Yorker™, an important part of my self-image, despite (because of?) having left the city 20 years ago.
I clocked the young woman as late 20s, early 30s. She apparently clocked me as ancient, because when she looked up and caught my eye, she felt it necessary to make a big show of offering me her seat.
“Oh, oh!” she said, as she began to stand. “Please, take my seat!!”
I’m sorry, what??
“Thank you, but that’s not at all necessary,” I insisted.
I clocked the young woman as late 20s, early 30s. She apparently clocked me as ancient, because when she looked up and caught my eye, she felt it necessary to make a big show of offering me her seat.
“Please! Please, take my seat,” she went on, loudly, smiling at me entirely too enthusiastically, an expression you might show a crying toddler in an effort to change her mood. “It feels like my duty, and I’m so happy to do it.”
Your duty?! Lady, I’m newly 60 and fully ambulatory. I wasn’t even weighed down with bags that day—just a small pocketbook and light tote. Why the hell did she feel the need to swoop in and save me?
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, and it was. That was not lost on me. But now the whole car was watching. “Listen, I’m only going a few stops,” I added, “and I’m fine. Really.”
She tried again.
“Please,” I begged, “don’t.”
I might have said it a little sharply. She looked deflated. I almost wanted to take the seat to spare her feelings, especially since this was playing out before such a large and attentive audience. (I hope there’s not a TikTok of this exchange circulating.)
But more than that I felt chastened, and insulted. Couldn’t she see that I’m also 10-and-a-half? That I’m often told I look young for my age?
I wondered about times I may have been overly solicitous, or in some way condescending, toward those senior to me. Oof. Not a good look. Lesson learned.
I didn’t waste a second before judging myself. How vain of me to feel insulted! From 42nd Street to West 4th I interrogated my internalized ageism (we all have it), and how my reaction might have reflected that—a sort of mental inventory I’m always taking, in capacities both professional and private. I came up with no simple answers.
Then I wondered about times I may have been overly solicitous, or in some way condescending, toward those senior to me. Oof. Not a good look. Lesson learned.
The experience was diametrically opposed to the one I had last winter, in which a 27-year-old tried to pick me up at Superiority Burger. It turns out I much prefer being mistaken for younger to being mistaken for older. Sue me.
***
Fortunately, Sunday afternoon I was headed somewhere that would help me briefly forget that embarrassing (but also enlightening) Subway exchange. I was meeting friends at The Village Underground for the taping of
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