It is difficult, in a city of 8 million, to define what is personal and public space. I consider my lap to be private space on the subway though I understand the occasional accidental butt-to-knee brush is just a way of New York City life.
The other night as I sat on the 6-train on my way to meet a friend at Astor Place, a bit weary from a pizza overdose and full-on nosebleed during lunch, a middle-aged woman, heavy-set, wedged herself into a sliver of space between me and another seated commuter, flattening her right butt cheek up against my knee in the process. I woke up from my half-nap and looked up. Maybe I scowled. I sometimes do that when I feel an unwarranted butt cheek against any part of my body.
She snapped harshly, “Instead of giving me that look, you could move.”
For those of you unfamiliar with the 6-train – there is a long pole that divides the long plastic bench anchored to the side of the subway car. I was sitting next to that pole so when she sat on me, I got uncomfortably pinned against it. There was nowhere to go except away and I wasn’t going to give up my seat for someone who could use a bit of standing once in awhile.
But I shrugged off her comment and returned to my half-nap. It was New York City. Things like this happen.
A few moments later, the woman’s voice cut across the steel roar of the subway car.
“She is so rude, you know,” she exclaimed to her friend, who stood in front of her. “She gives me this nasty look and doesn’t apologize. She could move over. I mean, seriously people these days.” She went on and on, putting me down.
I was tired. I had one more subway stop and then I would be free of her. But last night with a friend, our conversation meandered to the topic of racial stereotyping. The Asian Americans she knows are passive, quiet, she admitted sheepishly to me. Unfortunately, I couldn’t agree with her more. I’ve been teased and bullied all my life, from being told to “Go drink your Wonton soup” to “Smile China girl!” to “I’m going to rip that shiny pony tail out of your head” to sexually explicit comments based on my race. And many more. I usually don’t say a word.
Like a sponge I had absorbed all the abuse, slander, injustices and “worked hard” at being better. A friend pointed out to me once, “Rebecca – when you text someone a sarcastic joke, you don’t need to follow up with 3 smiley faces. They’ll get it. You won’t hurt their feelings. You’re too nice.”
Well, here was my chance to prove them wrong.
I woke myself up slowly, turned to her and said firmly, “I think you’re taking this too personally. I didn’t give you a look.”
Her eyes widened, as if I had cussed her out. She started bad mouthing me again to her friend.
“Can you please stop talking about me? I’m right here!” I exclaimed, raising my voice slightly.
She looked a bit baffled and stuttered for a moment but then continued to prattle on to her friend about my behavior. We got into a little debate about public space. To me, she made no sense. I knew I was wasting my breath but I argued anyway. Fortunately, the Astor place stop rolled by and I left.
In hindsight, I am still wondering whether I accomplished anything. I didn’t feel proud of myself. I felt embarrassed. I wondered how much of my relationship with strangers is based on their stereotypical view of Asians? Do I somehow invite bullying? Does my perceived weakness or passiveness, my petite-frame, my baby-face egg them on?
All I know is, I might be considered a “model” minority or a “silent” minority but I am not invisible. I didn’t make history last night, that’s for certain. But no one gets to sit on my knee and then put me down as if I am not there.