Belly Flop
“On the subway platform I made a slow, uneven beeline for the bench. I took small, flat steps. No offense to Japanese women, but I was doing a Japanese woman shuffle. The less ankle motion, the less time on any one foot, the better. I shuffled around girls reading books; guys reading magazines; a couple couples commuting together, all obviously oblivious to my throbbing, aching foot pain. When I plopped down on the bench, it was like getting a big hug after a hard cry.
“As the 1 local train came barreling down the tracks, I waited to stand up until the last possible moment to make it in the door. Once in, I shimmied around people and their messenger bags, computer cases and other extremities to the middle of the car where I could stand in closest proximity to the most seats. This would give me the best chance of being offered one. I held on tight as the train started moving and sped up down the track. My knuckles were turning white with the pressure of hanging on. I felt my pinky toes go numb. I looked down the line at the seated people, my belly now eye-level to them. A guy fiddled with his iPhone. A girl closed her eyes like she was sleeping. Another one quizzed herself with flashcards. Could they not tell I was pregnant? I opened up my coat some more to expose my belly. A guy read a tightly rolled up copy of the New Yorker. A girl bopped her head up and down to a beat coming out of her headphones. I looked. No, I stared, at each one of them. And no one looked back up at me.
“The train jerked around a curve and lurched to a stop at the next station. One person got up, but a guy nabbed the seat before I could get there. I had to stand until another stop. My feet throbbed. I hoped my burning, numbing toes wouldn’t have to get amputated. I shifted my hand on the pole. It felt cold and unfamiliar. I brought it back down to where had been; it was warm. I owned that spot—and it was all I would get. I watched the sitters read, study and play phone games. I studied the freckles on one man’s balding head. I analyzed the pattern of chest hair crawling up a man’s shirt collar. I gaped at a woman’s breasts just to see if she’d notice. Were they consciously ignoring me? Did sitting mean that much to them? Could this really be happening? I started to grimace at every turn. I shifted my weight so often I probably looked like a child with a bathroom emergency. I even groaned at one point. And still no one budged.
“I began to curse each one of them in the row. ‘I hope someone steals your stupid iPhone,’ I thought. ‘I hope you go deaf from your blaring headphones. I hope you fail that test you’re studying for. I hope you slip on the platform and fall. I hope you fall on to the tracks and get hit by a train.’ I was pissed.
“I stood all the way from 86th Street to 14th Street. When I got off the train, I rushed to the nearest bench for relief. Once I got there, I cried my eyes out like a stereotypical, over-emotional, fat-ass pregnant woman. And then I cried because I was acting like a stereotypical, over-emotional, fat ass pregnant woman. I cried because my cankles hurt in my rain boots and because I was someone who had cankles. I wanted desperately to connect with someone who felt like me, who knew what it was like to get screwed by your body and screwed by the people of New York. But I was alone. Strangers just kept walking past me. A crying pregnant lady isn’t cause for pause in this city.
“From that day forward, my skinny bitch attitude was dead. Skinny bitch died. Whenever I spotted a child, a mom-to-be, an elderly woman or man, a girl with huge heavy shopping bags, I’d reach out them and say, ‘I know what it’s like to need a seat. Here, have mine.’”
Jennifer stopped talking and smiled. Her story was over. “Thank you!”
The quiet audience unenthusiastically applauded. Jennifer noted the weakness in the cheers. “Misunderstood again,” she thought. And as she walked off stage, a guy hollered, “Now you’re a MILF!” The crowd erupted in gregarious, boisterous laughter.
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March 15th, 2010 at 3:01 pm
What angers me about the speaker is the disregard for the idea that other pregnant women might actually want a seat when offered. By arguing with polite people, she’s essentially deterring them from asking another woman the same question, and this is how manners and thoughtfulness continually dissipate from our society.
I’m also amazed at the idea that she calls her predicament being “screwed by the people of New York,” but all she had to do was ask for a seat. That’s all. In a way, that sums up some of the tragedy of people in this city — painfully self-absorbed, terrified of interaction, and eager to blame others for their problems. I still wouldn’t live anywhere else, though…