by Jamie A. Thomas
Standing Room Only.
"That's why I'm voting for Trump, send all ya'll motherf***ers back on the banana boat."
By the time the train finally arrived, the platform was already crowded because of delays on the Market-Frankford line. We all piled onto a train just as packed. I quickly checked my phone. It was 12:40pm, standing room only. I had to reach over someone's head with my left hand to grab hold of the nearest handrail, and steady myself before the train took off again.
As the doors to the SEPTA train closed, I found myself face-to-face with another passenger, and was quickly reminded of my many times riding insanely packed subway lines underneath the vast expanse of Mexico City years ago. Millions of people circulate through the Distrito Federal everyday, and at the time, I became one of them, living in Mexico's largest urban center for more than a year during my fieldwork. The city's peak-time trains and buses were always a miasma of bodies, with more passengers than I could ever count, more stories than I could ever hope to know. But during each ride, I'd find myself face-to-face with someone new, avoiding their gaze while monitoring my personal space. I wondered where they were going, or what they did for a living, what part of the country their extended family was from. Sometimes we might share the occasional word or two, a brief exchange of greetings or "Pase", "¿Quiéres sentar?", "Gracias."
So when I got on the Philly subway earlier today, after passing by the ticket booth with my $2.25 in exact change, it all somehow felt familiar. And even though I could see the nearest oncoming train car was totally full, the thought never occurred to me that I should pass up the train for an emptier, more breathable ride. I waded through the train's crowded entryway, as did two or three or four others behind me, and then the doors unceremoniously closed.
So when I got on the Philly subway earlier today, after passing by the ticket booth with my $2.25 in exact change, it all somehow felt familiar. And even though I could see the nearest oncoming train car was totally full, the thought never occurred to me that I should pass up the train for an emptier, more breathable ride. I waded through the train's crowded entryway, as did two or three or four others behind me, and then the doors unceremoniously closed.
She Had a Captive Audience.
The next time the doors to the train opened, an exodus of departing passengers faced the glut of oncoming riders. Getting the off the train was becoming a hassle at this stop. But there was one woman standing by the inside of the train doorway who spoke up, and demanded an oncoming passenger wait his turn before entering the train. I couldn't hear the exact onset of the exchange, but the woman made it clear that the man had pushed her, and she wasn't happy with it. She then took to standing as a sentinel at the inside right of the doorway, to block oncoming passengers and allow the exit of others.
Ultimately, the same man entered, the train's doors closed, and their verbal exchange escalated as he passed by her on his entrance. All I could hear besides their voices was the sound of the train moving along the rails below us. Beyond that, everyone else on the train was a silent observer--so was I.
Ultimately, the same man entered, the train's doors closed, and their verbal exchange escalated as he passed by her on his entrance. All I could hear besides their voices was the sound of the train moving along the rails below us. Beyond that, everyone else on the train was a silent observer--so was I.
W: "Lemonhead bitch...why you pushin on me, wait and let these people off!"
M: "...School?"
I didn't know what he meant by it, but the woman interpreted his utterance as an attempt at disrespect. Before a captive audience, she went on to openly chastise him at descriptive length, sometimes receiving subtle nods of affirmation from another woman near to her who I could only assume was her friend or riding companion.
The woman herself appeared to be African American, and her speech relayed a feeling of familiarity and ownership of her place in Philly. She was from here. The man was shorter than her, and appeared to be Hispanic. While the woman faced away from me and my position on the other side of the train's entryway, the man walked around to grab onto a handrail towards the center of the train car in a position facing me. I had a clear view of his face as the woman's barrage of insults directed his way continued. He didn't say much in response, but I could detect an accent of some kind. Maybe he wasn't originally from Philly. Neither was I. He just glared, and slowly shook his head.
The woman herself appeared to be African American, and her speech relayed a feeling of familiarity and ownership of her place in Philly. She was from here. The man was shorter than her, and appeared to be Hispanic. While the woman faced away from me and my position on the other side of the train's entryway, the man walked around to grab onto a handrail towards the center of the train car in a position facing me. I had a clear view of his face as the woman's barrage of insults directed his way continued. He didn't say much in response, but I could detect an accent of some kind. Maybe he wasn't originally from Philly. Neither was I. He just glared, and slowly shook his head.
The Subtext Was Still There: Inequality.
The woman turned to face him, and was audible over two rows of seated passengers beyond those of us standing in the entryway: "Naw, I ain't in school, I'm older than you, motherf***er...that's why I'm voting for that--what's his name?" Her friend's reply filled in for what all of us on the train were thinking in response: "Trump." And then: "That's why I'm voting for Trump, send all ya'll motherf***ers back on the banana boat."
There was a bit more to it, something about paying too many taxes and having "them" come in and benefit from it, (I'm only including in my account what I can directly remember) and then she got quiet. No one else said anything, not even the man.
I looked down at my feet--or my shoes, rather. It was a rainy day, everyone had sneakers or boots on, some carried umbrellas, and here we were, all on the same train. I couldn't help but think how the exchange I had just witnessed had manifested so much inequality. There was no way you could mistake the exchange between woman and the man for some type of conversational alignment. Their manners of speaking were the antithesis of equal--one person got all of the words in. She spoke louder than he, and arguably with more force. These were not moments of communication.
Still, the subtext was one of access to opportunity. As I stood there in the train car, within sight of the both of them, I reflected on how this woman's anger was drawing upon her reality of being financially exploited, misunderstood, and undervalued. She was disempowered, and it could have been that hurling insults at this man she couldn't and would never know personally, would momentarily counteract those feelings. The man was disempowered in more than one way, too, but perhaps differently. Circumstances had required him to work his way onto a crowded train, and that had caused friction. Then, he seemed to have few words in English to verbally participate in an exchange that had openly escalated. This was not ideal communication. Rather, it was an example of linguistic inequality.
There was a bit more to it, something about paying too many taxes and having "them" come in and benefit from it, (I'm only including in my account what I can directly remember) and then she got quiet. No one else said anything, not even the man.
I looked down at my feet--or my shoes, rather. It was a rainy day, everyone had sneakers or boots on, some carried umbrellas, and here we were, all on the same train. I couldn't help but think how the exchange I had just witnessed had manifested so much inequality. There was no way you could mistake the exchange between woman and the man for some type of conversational alignment. Their manners of speaking were the antithesis of equal--one person got all of the words in. She spoke louder than he, and arguably with more force. These were not moments of communication.
Still, the subtext was one of access to opportunity. As I stood there in the train car, within sight of the both of them, I reflected on how this woman's anger was drawing upon her reality of being financially exploited, misunderstood, and undervalued. She was disempowered, and it could have been that hurling insults at this man she couldn't and would never know personally, would momentarily counteract those feelings. The man was disempowered in more than one way, too, but perhaps differently. Circumstances had required him to work his way onto a crowded train, and that had caused friction. Then, he seemed to have few words in English to verbally participate in an exchange that had openly escalated. This was not ideal communication. Rather, it was an example of linguistic inequality.
We're All on the Same Train.
Eighth Street. Eleventh Street. The train moved forward, making other stops, and I stood, leaning on a guardrail in the entryway, waiting for my own stop and reflecting on the both of them, the woman and the man. I knew so little about either of them, but in their exchange I witnessed a profound inequality that went beyond their physical encounter. The language we use with each other belies our conceptions of each other's worth. At a time when we're more connected across digital spaces and networks than we've ever been, we are finding it all the more difficult to coexist on the same train, in the same city/country/planet. And yet, despite all of our differences there we were, all riding in one subway car.
Respect grows when we learn about one another, and when we share the burden of challenging conversations that lead to introspection and encourage change. While the train car wasn't the best place for these conversations, I was still proud of myself for not immediately siding with the woman when I had seen it all go down. Instead, I made an attempt to more critically process what I had witnessed, and think about the humanity of each of them, the woman and the man. It was a move away from a passive recording of events, and move toward critically engaging the impact of the exchange I had observed and participated in while on the Philly subway.
These are moments of reflection I know I have encouraged through the #LanguageStory project, by sharing my insights on human experience and human interaction, but also as a critical pedagogy I facilitate with my students. I approached my students as a project team, and encouraged them to view the project as their opportunity to engage more with Philadelphia. I directed them to talk to people they didn't know about places they had begun to observe and participate in for the project: a restaurant, Quaker Meeting, coffeehouse, community center, knitting collective, urban mural.
Respect grows when we learn about one another, and when we share the burden of challenging conversations that lead to introspection and encourage change. While the train car wasn't the best place for these conversations, I was still proud of myself for not immediately siding with the woman when I had seen it all go down. Instead, I made an attempt to more critically process what I had witnessed, and think about the humanity of each of them, the woman and the man. It was a move away from a passive recording of events, and move toward critically engaging the impact of the exchange I had observed and participated in while on the Philly subway.
These are moments of reflection I know I have encouraged through the #LanguageStory project, by sharing my insights on human experience and human interaction, but also as a critical pedagogy I facilitate with my students. I approached my students as a project team, and encouraged them to view the project as their opportunity to engage more with Philadelphia. I directed them to talk to people they didn't know about places they had begun to observe and participate in for the project: a restaurant, Quaker Meeting, coffeehouse, community center, knitting collective, urban mural.
Linguistic inequality mirrors the deleterious effects of
unequal access to opportunity across multiple sectors of society.
By engaging with new people, and asking new questions, my students arrived at a greater awareness of the city around them. Discussing their projects throughout the semester, we began considering how we could use communication and story-sharing as a stepping stone to working for societal change. In class, I facilitated our discussions of how we can use what we learn to grow moments of talk into meaningful engagements with difference, by sharing the communicative burden of discussing racism, sexism, and any -ism, and having the courage to question our persistent beliefs about the world. Since then, our in-class conversations and my students' recent fieldwork have extended #LanguageStory by including the voices of Philadelphians in visual commentaries on life in the city, from Swarthmore to Germantown, the Gayborhood, and beyond.
Together, we are using this video project and blog to more deeply consider our lives as a dynamic matrix of interactions in landscapes of words, sounds, and culturally-informed language. This is the core of our paradigm of engaged research. In this way, we follow in the footsteps of so many others, activists, sociolinguists, and anthropologists--notably Dell Hymes--who have also angled for our exploration and study of human behavior and interaction to further our understanding of how linguistic inequality mirrors the deleterious effects of unequal access to opportunity across multiple sectors of society.
While my Philly train ride wasn't the best time for me to make a rousing speech about inequality and inequity, it did become a place for to engage in deeper self-reflection. My conclusion? We're all on the same train.
Together, we are using this video project and blog to more deeply consider our lives as a dynamic matrix of interactions in landscapes of words, sounds, and culturally-informed language. This is the core of our paradigm of engaged research. In this way, we follow in the footsteps of so many others, activists, sociolinguists, and anthropologists--notably Dell Hymes--who have also angled for our exploration and study of human behavior and interaction to further our understanding of how linguistic inequality mirrors the deleterious effects of unequal access to opportunity across multiple sectors of society.
While my Philly train ride wasn't the best time for me to make a rousing speech about inequality and inequity, it did become a place for to engage in deeper self-reflection. My conclusion? We're all on the same train.
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