I’m heading home on the Q train from another late night ride. It’s maybe 3 in the morning. The train car is mostly empty. I’m nestled in a corner seat at the back of the car where it’s warm and I can see everything.
The train arrives at the Beverly Road station and a middle-aged black woman steps onto the train. She’s well-dressed, so I don’t think much of her. That is, until she approaches two white women quietly talking. The black woman hovers over them and begins to scream in French. Cursing out both women for the color of their skin. Most likely for the wrongs done to her by similar women. But not these women, I say to myself.
The two ladies don’t know what to do. They lean away but there is nowhere to go. We enter the Church Ave station as the shouting continues. The doors close and the train keeps moving. There are others in the car, but no one helps. They choose to mind their own business.
Just the previous week, while riding to nowhere, I caught a black man touching an older Russian lady. She was asleep as he gently slid his hand across her leg. I was horrified and froze. Why did I freeze? I had to help, but I suddenly felt helpless like a child. I decided to stare the man down. To let him know that I saw him. As we rolled into the next station, he got up and got off. The woman awoke. She looked directly at me. “You should be careful when you sleep,” I told her. “That man was trying to touch you.”
“When I opened my eyes and saw you, I knew I was safe,” she told me with a smile. Was she? I felt like a coward. Caught up in a past trauma I couldn’t even remember. Would I allow my trauma to keep me from helping these two ladies?
I stood up from my safe corner and approached the woman. “Arrête!” I demanded, trying to drop the ‘e’ to make the appropriate Parisian UH sound. It had been ages since I’d been to Paris. It has been ages since I’d been anywhere. Struggling to keep my own psyche together against some unknown threat I couldn’t figure out. “Arrête,” I said again.
The black woman turned from her target and approached me. “And who are you?” She demanded. “I’m God.” I replied. That made her laugh as she pushed her chest into mine, moving me back.”
“And so are you. You just forgot.” I told her. That caused her hatred and anger to unleash upon me. Face to face, she kept ramming her body into mine. As her rage increased my fear disappeared. “I love you,” I told her. “I hate you.” She replied.
Love and hate moved back and forth between us as we began to roll into the Prospect Park station. With each declaration of love, I could feel my spirit lifting. All fear and concern for self evaporated into a strange euphoric bliss. “I love you,” I said again with a smile. “I love you,” I said as laughter began to spill out. “I love you!” I yelled as I stepped off of the train and allowed the doors to close between us. There was so much energy flowing up from my feet to my head. So much joy and love as if God was truly there within me at that moment.
Recently, after returning home from a mental institution with the help of my sister, I wanted to leave and go on another one of my late night walks. My sister was sleeping as I quietly went for my shoes. Just then, my paranoia kicked in. I suddenly felt watched again. At the same time I noticed my sister stir in her sleep. I stopped and sat down on my bed and watched. Each time my paranoia kicked in, my sister stirred. That can’t be a coincidence, I said to myself. Even if it was, I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t bare the thought of something happening to her. I decided stay and keep watch. And here she was trying to protect me. Both of us had experienced enough trauma in our lives. And both were trying to make it stop.
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