Saturday, August 25, 2007
Subway Thoughts
As I walked to the subway to get back into the city, I tried to replay in my head what had just gone on at my mother's place and wondered why it had ended so badly. I had imagined this would be a warm reunion, an opportunity to catch up -- I had something to tell. I'd travelled around the world a bit, I had seen something. For once, I felt engaged and excited by my work, by my life. I was happy. I felt confidence in myself. I would have loved to have talked about it, I would have loved to have been asked and given the opportunity to.
But, instead, it was as though nothing had changed, as if I'd never left, never had gone somewhere or seen some things that no one of my friends or family ever had. And, it hurt to think that people close to me could have absolutely no interest in hearing about it. Was this some kind of reverse culture shock, perhaps? When I first decided to leave, I remember one of my friends supporting me, saying that I should try something new, that New York would always be there, and that it wouldn't really change; "what ever changes in New York," they would say, "a new restraurant opens, another one closes." So, I reasoned that while I might have experienced a new world and perhaps a life-changing experience, her world was the same, and nothing had changed but the opening and closing of restaurants that she never went to anyway. She didn't go to restaurants. And there was nothing likely to inspire her to see the world differently; as ever, she remained vocal with her grudges about my father, about men in general. Perhaps had she lived in the desert and saw the futile attempts to sweep away dust, she might no longer express her urgency to always keep her house clean, free from the dirt people on the street brought in, the messes her children left years ago in their closets. But she had not spent any time in the desert and maybe could never understand it.
The desert had changed me and I saw things differently now, and I had to realize that perhaps, coming home, I might be alone in the way I see things. Had I gone crazy, as my mother said, living overseas; this was my worst fear. But, I told myself, that my mother was probably not the best arbiter of sanity. Most likely, things for me at home would never be the same. Mother was clearly very upset; in leaving, I had disrupted everything. The time away had defamiliarized me with things that maybe once I could tolerate, but now saw quite differently. Perhaps they changed me -- and I didn't recognize it; perhaps my mother now saw a son she didn't recognize; I talked back, expressed contrary opinions, refused to do what I was told. Rather than being the dutiful son that she had expected to return, she saw a prodigal son.
Deep in my thoughts, I hadn't paid attention to the train stops. It had been so long since I'd been on a subway, or public transportation for that matter. I forgot that when you don't pay attention on the train, you can miss your stop, have your wallet lifted, or fail to notice an attractive stranger who is staring directly at you, one of the pleasant things that I had completely forgotten about. Yes, I was used to people staring at me in Tashkent, but there seemed to be nothing sexual in the stares whatsoever; it was more their innate ability to identify foreigners and endless curiousity in them. And whereas being stared at in public in New York had always embarrassed me, this time it felt so nice, to remember what it felt like to have people find you attractive, to find you sexual. Of course, at this moment, sex was the very last thing I was thinking of, absorbed in the problems with my mother, but it did lift my spirits to see the welcoming eyes of someone, even though it was a complete stranger, an attractive one at that. Just his look alone, I thought, was no finer escape from my troubles.
However, the train had stopped at 79th street, and I bolted from my seat to exit. When I turned around to watch behind the closed doors to see through the glass if he was still looking at me, as sometimes it happens, I saw his seat was empty and he was standing right beside me on the platform, smiling right down at me.
As I walked to the subway to get back into the city, I tried to replay in my head what had just gone on at my mother's place and wondered why it had ended so badly. I had imagined this would be a warm reunion, an opportunity to catch up -- I had something to tell. I'd travelled around the world a bit, I had seen something. For once, I felt engaged and excited by my work, by my life. I was happy. I felt confidence in myself. I would have loved to have talked about it, I would have loved to have been asked and given the opportunity to.
But, instead, it was as though nothing had changed, as if I'd never left, never had gone somewhere or seen some things that no one of my friends or family ever had. And, it hurt to think that people close to me could have absolutely no interest in hearing about it. Was this some kind of reverse culture shock, perhaps? When I first decided to leave, I remember one of my friends supporting me, saying that I should try something new, that New York would always be there, and that it wouldn't really change; "what ever changes in New York," they would say, "a new restraurant opens, another one closes." So, I reasoned that while I might have experienced a new world and perhaps a life-changing experience, her world was the same, and nothing had changed but the opening and closing of restaurants that she never went to anyway. She didn't go to restaurants. And there was nothing likely to inspire her to see the world differently; as ever, she remained vocal with her grudges about my father, about men in general. Perhaps had she lived in the desert and saw the futile attempts to sweep away dust, she might no longer express her urgency to always keep her house clean, free from the dirt people on the street brought in, the messes her children left years ago in their closets. But she had not spent any time in the desert and maybe could never understand it.
The desert had changed me and I saw things differently now, and I had to realize that perhaps, coming home, I might be alone in the way I see things. Had I gone crazy, as my mother said, living overseas; this was my worst fear. But, I told myself, that my mother was probably not the best arbiter of sanity. Most likely, things for me at home would never be the same. Mother was clearly very upset; in leaving, I had disrupted everything. The time away had defamiliarized me with things that maybe once I could tolerate, but now saw quite differently. Perhaps they changed me -- and I didn't recognize it; perhaps my mother now saw a son she didn't recognize; I talked back, expressed contrary opinions, refused to do what I was told. Rather than being the dutiful son that she had expected to return, she saw a prodigal son.
Deep in my thoughts, I hadn't paid attention to the train stops. It had been so long since I'd been on a subway, or public transportation for that matter. I forgot that when you don't pay attention on the train, you can miss your stop, have your wallet lifted, or fail to notice an attractive stranger who is staring directly at you, one of the pleasant things that I had completely forgotten about. Yes, I was used to people staring at me in Tashkent, but there seemed to be nothing sexual in the stares whatsoever; it was more their innate ability to identify foreigners and endless curiousity in them. And whereas being stared at in public in New York had always embarrassed me, this time it felt so nice, to remember what it felt like to have people find you attractive, to find you sexual. Of course, at this moment, sex was the very last thing I was thinking of, absorbed in the problems with my mother, but it did lift my spirits to see the welcoming eyes of someone, even though it was a complete stranger, an attractive one at that. Just his look alone, I thought, was no finer escape from my troubles.
However, the train had stopped at 79th street, and I bolted from my seat to exit. When I turned around to watch behind the closed doors to see through the glass if he was still looking at me, as sometimes it happens, I saw his seat was empty and he was standing right beside me on the platform, smiling right down at me.
Labels: Subway Thoughts
¶ 8:31 PM
