The Empty Seat Dilemma
And other anxious thoughts
Do you ever have that experience where you’re sitting on the subway, and then nearly everyone in your portion of the train car gets off at a certain stop, except for the person sitting right next to you? When this happens to me, I’m tasked with the humdrum yet surprisingly difficult decision of whether to slide away from the person.
If I stay where I am, am I clinging to a stranger with no regard for personal space? Or would it be more rude to move? If I move away, does it seem like I’m implying that my “seat neighbor” smells bad? If the person is a man, is he going to think I find him creepy? Will I have to follow my quick slide to the right or left by giving him a “don’t worry, you don’t smell” look and then giving the rest of the train a “just to clarify, he’s not creepy” look? Here I am worrying about my mere existence potentially hurting the feelings of a man that I don’t know. And here I am being angry at myself over that instead of being angry at society.
Besides, he could be creepy. It’s that thing they always say: “Not all men, but enough.” In other words, enough men are a threat to women and feminine-presenting people that we have to be wary of all men we don’t know (and some that we do know). Would moving away from him indicate to me whether he’s creepy, because if he reacts badly, that would make him creepy? Would my “don’t worry, you don’t smell” look be seen as some kind of invitation?
Maybe this is a metaphor for how I am in relationships—both romantic and platonic. I’m afraid to get too close to people, but also afraid to let them go. And I think about what everyone else will think. And I generally think a whole lot more than I have to.
Whenever a subway etiquette issue like this pops into my brain, I’m left with the identity crisis of whether I’m a real New Yorker. I was born in a Manhattan hospital, I lived in Brooklyn until age 11, and then I moved to Long Island, but still visited my dad’s house in Brooklyn every other weekend throughout middle and high school. And now here I am, living in Brooklyn again.
As a person partially raised in Brooklyn, and as a biracial person who never really fit into my largely white, conservative, suburban Long Island community, I understand why Long Island isn’t “real New York.” If I’d been born and raised on Long Island, I’m sure I wouldn’t call myself a real New Yorker. Right? But I would be more of a real New Yorker than someone from Wisconsin. Right? (That was a random state that I chose, I promise.)
But that’s a hypothetical of course, because I, a person who has spent a solid chunk of my life in Brooklyn, am more of a real New Yorker than someone from Wisconsin. I’ve definitely had moments interacting with people from other U.S. states where I’m thinking “Please walk faster” or “Please talk faster” or “Why is it so hard for you to believe I’m Black?” Okay, maybe that last one is an issue that came up on Long Island too, but the other two aren’t. Regardless, the point still stands that while some transplants stick out like a sore thumb, I don’t stick out more than a hangnail. Sometimes I doubt that I stick out at all.
My dad used to insist that I tell people that I’m from Brooklyn, arguing that it was the truth (he will likely say something to that effect when he reads this). So when I was in college, I used to say “I’m from Brooklyn and Long Island,” which would make people understandably confused. But what else was I to do? I mean, I bristle when people say “in Long Island” instead of “on Long Island,” which is a reaction only a Long Islander would have.
Sometimes when I say I’m from Long Island, I’m saying it to imply, “I’m from Long Island, so I’ve definitely been exposed to quite a bit of racism.” Shouldn’t I be able to express that resilience? Also, middle school and high school are pretty formative, and I attended both of those on Long Island. High school me didn’t have the independence of a New York City kid. In fact, I often used to look at Brooklyn kids with jealousy as I walked the sidewalks with my dad and stepmom on the weekends. The point is, I’m at least kind of from Long Island whether it’s cool or not (Narrator: “It was not”).
So yes, all this goes through my head as I’m contemplating whether or not to slide over to another seat. And by the time train has reached the next stop, someone sits on the other side of me, stripping me of the option to move, and saving me, at least momentarily, from my identity crisis.
Thanks for reading!
XOXO,
Zola