Letters with love: My first love will always be New York City

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Oh L-train, how I miss you so. Being so far away from you has been hard. Don't get me wrong, I love Geneseo, but I miss every grimey part of you.

Dear L-train,

Somehow, I always manage to catch you on time. You're a ten-minute walk from my place—a ten-minute walk with dog crap piled on the fenced trees, gutters that reek of dead rodents and rotten leaves, and a pattern of black polka dots on the sidewalks. Growing up, you realize that generations of high schoolers and their bad habit of spitting gum on the floor created a beautiful graffiti pattern on the concrete blocks.

At the intersection of Moffat Street and Wilson Avenue lies the L-train— the Wilson stop. The exterior was built in the late 1920s, with cream and dark green tiles patterned in waves. The sign for the stop is old; it’s gold letters long turned brass. The turnstiles are new, however, probably installed in the 2000s. On a good day, when my actual neighbors use the train, I can skip the fare because someone usually leaves the accessible door open. When I fear the police, I use my MetroCard or credit card. On a normal day, I hop the turnstile.

I can usually make it to the end of the platform when you arrive, L-train. The best tip I have for New Yorkers is to preemptively wait at the back of the station tracks; that way, you can properly tell which cars are full and which aren’t. This, of course, does not apply during rush hour, as everyone will suffer the train together.

Most times, the door is already open when I reach the platform, forcing me to take the middle of the train. The middle is fine— that’s typically the most crowded —but on the L, you always see the same kind of person.

I bet the next time I take the train and end up riding the middle, I’ll come across a young liberal couple with either dyed hair or piercings. I’ll come across a parent and child; the child in a stroller on the parent’s phone watching YouTube. I’ll come across a single man who is either listening to music or texting someone, likely his situationship. I’ll come across three people who look like me— a woman of color in her young twenties, also listening to music while secretly showing off an expensive item. My expensive item of choice is my phone, paired with wires, of course, and an outfit that’s way too casual to let you know that I grew up in the neighborhood— I am considered a native New Yorker.

The weather is starting to warm up again, yet coats are still out. I once saw an elderly woman bundled up at 70 degrees. I thought old people were supposed to get hot flashes, but I would also layer myself up instead of freezing in the tunnel winds. I think that when I grow up I want to own one of those old Brooklyn brick houses, with a backyard and a tiny metal gate. My metal gates would be black, and I’d have metal statues of lions, like the ones at a public library.

I wish I could say I still love New York City, but I started to hate it more and more every day. How have I been able to find comfort in staring into faces I know I will never see again?

Looking at those crying for help and blindly looking away out of fear for my safety. Out of the worn pockets of my wallets, my stripped paychecks go into the hands of my expenses, yet I feel terrible for not contributing to the expenses of others. Ben and Jerry’s costs $10 per pint if you’re shopping at the deli, Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, or some small local business; anywhere you go, it feels like you inhale a cheap fix and exhale a quarter for every minute spent living in New York City.

Corporation or small-scale, this fashionable lifestyle has sucked the living wages out of my hands, out of my worn shoes, out of my thinning and falling hair, out of my genetically modified food, out of the cigarette butts trashed on the roads as a result of consumerism and a fast-paced lifestyle.

You’re a filthy city, you’re a filthy train, but I love you. I am too small to clean you— no one will join me. I am ashamed of not trying harder to take care of you. You’ve grown a spirit, too, L-train; you deserve to be cared for, too.