Transit, Tokens, and Teaching

Whenever I create an assignment for my students, I do the assignment myself, and then tweak it if necessary before giving it to them. For my developmental (read: remedial) writing class, I created an assignment in which they had to tell about a small event (i.e. no deaths, major accidents or illnesses) that changed their approach/attitude to life. What they were practicing was using concrete detail, so they had to only tell the story and include no editorializing whatsoever – yet get across through the details exactly why/how the event changed them. I did something that I usually don’t do, which is share my own version of the assignment. They were moved enough by the piece and the fact that I had actually done the assignment, too, that we had the most special class period I think I’ve ever shared with students. That lovely energy has stayed with me, so I decided that it might be nice to share the piece that I wrote here. It was written in a terrible rush, and certainly is not the best sample of my writing, so I briefly thought about editing it. But since this is what they got, it is what I shall give to you:

No Token

I was a freshman attending a university in New York City, and I was broke. I wouldn’t get paid until the next day, and I was at my wit’s end because my paycheck would barely allow me to pay the rent. I had enough food to last another few days, but I had no subway tokens. It was 11:00p.m. and I was finally finished with a long day of studio classes and work, both of which took place in the same building on 42^nd Street. The only thing that stood between me and my apartment on 15^th Street was the lack of a subway token.

I could have walked, but it was the end of my busiest day, Thursday, and I was exhausted. Besides, I was a recent arrival in New York, and didn’t realize that the distance was even remotely walkable – the two areas seemed worlds apart to me. And this was 1989, long before the crack vials were cleaned up, and Times Square was disney-fied for middle American tourists. For a moment, I contemplated begging for the price of a token like I always saw the homeless doing, but in spite of my neediness, I didn’t look needy, and thought it wouldn’t be a successful endeavor. In retrospect, I’m not sure I would have been able to do it, anyway. I finally resolved to jump the turnstile; I didn’t feel good about stealing a ride, but it felt like the only choice I had.

It took me a while to get up the nerve to do it, but when I finally did, I felt a strange mixture of pride (for the smoothness with which I managed to do it) and embarrassment (for having to do it). No sooner had I started walking towards my train than a transit police officer pulled me aside and wrote me a ticket for $50. I had finally reached the end of my rope, and started to cry and blather about why they punish people who have no money by charging them money. I was frustrated, embarrassed, and angry, but the officer ignored me until he handed over the ticket and walked away.

On the train, I was barely able to contain the tears that now wanted to overwhelm me. I put my hands over my face and my head in my lap to avoid eye contact with anyone in that emotional state. I remained this way for all four stops, my $50 subway ride. When I emerged from the Union Square subway station, a man approached me and asked me if I was okay. I must have been quite distressed because when I finished the abbreviated version of my little story, the man took out his wallet and handed me a $50 bill. In amazement, I asked for his address so I could pay him back. He said to remember him when I next had an opportunity to be generous, and walked away.