Song in the Key of A

by Debbie Hall

     As a Southern transplant to New York State in 2004, and after being dumped only two months after my arrival by the boyfriend who was my reason for coming to New York, I was desperate to leave the small rural town in which I was trapped.  I longed to live in the New York Metropolitan area, where
opportunity flourishes, loneliness is quelled, and boredom is nonexistent.

     Having lived at the beach most of my life, I decided to venture out to Queens to scout locations for my new home.  What could be better than living in a sleepy little beach town within commuting distance to Manhattan? I could have the best of both worlds!  I'd heard Far Rockaway mentioned
romantically and fondly throughout my childhood, reminisced upon by old men eyeing jars of pickled herring or the last poppy seed bagel at the kosher-style deli we frequented for Sunday brunch in Florida.  Far Rockaway was my Emerald City – and the blue line was my yellow brick road…so on the A
Train I went – all the way to the end of the line.

     My adeptness at New York City subway navigation had been a recent development.  I finally understood The Map, I finally knew the difference between the uptown and downtown stairs, and I finally realized I didn't have to rely on inaudible conductors to identify the stops.  As I rode the train
with confidence, I felt very comfortable and knew exactly where I was going. I'd become so good at subway riding, I didn't even need to pull out The Map – I was a pro!  So onward I rode – from stop to shining stop.  As I got further and further away from Manhattan – I began noticing some demographic
changes.  I soon became the only Caucasian on the train, and soon after that, the only woman on the train.  My political correctness was slowly giving itself over to trepidation and something closely resembling fear.  I started looking around to assess the situation.  Trying not to make eye contact, I carefully watched a suspicious guy scanning the cars as he stood without even clutching a strap as the train sped east.  I knew he was going to do something and was holding my breath while I waited for "it" to go down.  I had a boot on my leg from recent ankle surgery so running wouldn't be an option.  I must've exhaled loudly when his criminal enterprise turned out to be that of a black market DVD salesman.  My fellow riders were apparently more seasoned and had cash in hand to offer this traveling entrepreneur as soon as the coast became clear.  I also began noticing a very large presence of law enforcement, for which I felt a tinge of relief coupled with the concern that this particular train required a level of monitoring this extensive.  At this point, I had a sinking feeling that my destination was not going to be the dreamy beach town for which I longed.  By the time I reached my intended stop, my former confidence had dwindled to a thinly painted mask – only in place to avoid becoming a victim – of what, I didn't know.

     As I exited the darkness of the station and walked toward the sunlight of the street, the sleepy beach town I'd envisioned could've been the set of a police drama, a bustling street scene replete with dealers and players and gangsters, and the occasional Chassid.  I'd come so far – I didn't want to
turn around and get back on the train.  Maybe there was still a chance that hidden behind the rough exterior of Far Rockaway was a beautiful little residential area that I could safely call home.  I spotted a police officer with a friendly face standing near the library.  I decided that he was my scarecrow and could show me the way to the Emerald City.  I walked over to him, injured ankle in tow, and stood waiting for an opportunity to ask him about the neighborhood.  He was standing next to a makeshift booth set up for literature distribution.  When he was no longer distracted, I quickly explained my reason for being there in a way that I hoped wouldn't seem bizarre – and asked him quietly if the neighborhood was safe.  He glanced carefully toward the woman of color next to him, and whispered
something to me.  I couldn't hear what he said and looked at him with confusion.  Then he said to me, "Let me walk you back to the subway."  Enough said.  This was not the way to the Emerald City and the confirmation I needed to know that Far Rockaway would not be my new home.  It had been a
long journey but it wasn't wasted.  I could cross this off of my list of things to see in New York City and focus on new horizons.  As I rode the A train back to Manhattan, the tension I'd felt eased and I was happy to have accomplished my goal – an expedition to rival that of Lewis and Clark, riding into the unknown via the New York City subway system.

     It was only after I'd arrived home and turned on the news that I discovered the real reason for the exaggerated police presence during my journey – there had been commuter train bombing in Mumbai, India that afternoon.  My fear of a DVD counterfeiter and being the only white woman on a subway train was abruptly brought into perspective.
 

Debbie Hall is a membership director for an historic site in upstate New York.