Stories from the A and G Line.

As a person that uses public transportation in New York City, I try to expect for the best. I do throughly enjoy commutes without the smell of urine and feces. I do enjoy commutes without fight or better yet, a train that actually gets to its destination on time! This week I wanted to share a few stories with you.


The G train, which is just not my favorite train, came and I took it.  I sat down next to a Ukrainian woman who hated New York. She told me what has so bad about the subway, New Yorkers and America. “Americans do not care how people are actually doing. Americans are so fake. Look at how people come on the train: saggy pants, mismatching clothes and I wonder if they shower?”

As she continued her rant of all things that are horrible in New York. It became very clear that she really disliked things that might be closely (stereotypically) associated with people of color. I had an open mind, until I prepared to leave the train and this women look at me and told me how I was not like the others.  I was clean, sophisticated, and educated.  Happy Tuesday, right?


I had to get my behind to hot yoga. My intention for the day was to help Troy Davis. As I ran to get into the class, I sat down and Troy Davis helped me.  Ninety minutes later, exhausted and a bit nauseated Troy Davis was still on my mind.  After a long day, As I got on the train heading home, I was not feeling my best, but I was trying to remain optimistic about Troy Davis and the next few hours.

An elderly man got on the A train. It was pretty clear, he was down on his luck and trying to make a few dollars. He had his guitar and was so scared to sing. He started to sing and could not remember all the words. He finally came next to a police officer who gently told him, “can you please try singing that song? It is one of my favorites.” The elderly man, took a second to get himself together and with the help of the train, the words came out. The man was so overwhelmed, he started to cry.  He told everyone thank you and continued singing with the help of the train. He finally started to smile and for a moment, it become clear that more good things were to come.

As I made my way home, I felt like complete crap and thought about Troy Davis. I collapsed when I got home. I went to bed hoping for the best and asking the universe to spare his life. I passed out.


As I woke up Thursday morning, I read the news.  Troy was killed. Troy Davis was dead.  I am Troy Davis. We are Troy Davis.  I wanted to believe that so many other people would believe and see that we are Troy Davis. I still believe that we are Troy Davis.




~ by travelling womanists on September 23, 2011.

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