There’s nothing like the bustle of the New York City railway line. All day, and all night, trains power through the stations, chugging along at breakneck speed.
I took the train yesterday, to a job interview. I sat quietly and observed the expressions of the people that sat beside me. They were thinking; I could tell. I could see the clockwork turning in their brains.
I had the sudden epiphany that all these people were heading out to make a name for themselves, with their sleek suits and leather briefcases and professional expressions. They took the train, it brought them to a brighter life.
The train didn’t move though, not in the progress sense of the term. It stayed on the same wrought, beaten path, furiously grinding away at the tracks; slaving forward, slaving back. If it was to move off the track, it would hurt those inside-- they would never reach their destination.
The train is my girlfriend’s father, who immigrated when she was 3, desperate for a real chance for his daughter to get an education. The train is my uncle, who works three jobs to pay for my cousin’s college tuition. The train is my mother’s best friend, who can’t speak a word of English but wants her children to have a comfortable life.
The train is every gas station worker who has abandoned their position as a medical doctor in their country. Every fast food chain employee, enduring all kinds of condescending tones because they can visualize their child with a diploma in their hands.
The train is every parent who has sacrificed their life so their child can have a brighter future. Every parent who misses their home.
I grabbed my briefcase and got off the train that day, looking admiringly at the strong steel walls that sheltered the people. The train was so industrial, so powerful.
I hoped it knew its worth.