Radio Workshop

Burrowing into the Boroughs (Transcript)

by Piya Kochhar

The first time I came to New York I didn't travel past the 4,5,6 line. I was 22 and in advertising. My radius was grand central and a risky adventure was Chinatown. I thought the city was all about dreams slowly deflated and empty windows to vacantly look out of. I didn't like it one bit.

The second time I came here I was 26 and a journalism student.

My first assignment involved going to a place called Flushing. I remember looking at my metro map, my finger moving tentatively way past the 6 line into the boondocks of the number 7 train...Further further further to the last stop on the line. Where was this place?

I remember that ride. The train seemed like it had another country or two trapped within it. Where were the perfectly groomed blonde haired ladies; the slumped shouldered suited men? This lot wore colorful sweaters and sneakers and carried plastic bags with strange fruit and plants peeking out.

I sat beside an elderly Chinese woman. When the train suddenly emerged into daylight and I whipped my head around at the sun coming in and the city sprawling beyond, she smiled and handed me an orange. She told me she'd left her husband in China and hadn't seen him in 15 years. But she wanted her children to have a future and this city was it.

I traveled the seven line almost every week that semester. My favorite character was a tiny gray-haired Irishman. He always wore a shamrock shirt and walked silently down the car with one hand out-stretched. It wasn't until he had passed, that you'd know he was asking for money.

As the year wore on, I branched out to other lines. Once, on the 9 train, I eves-dropped on two African American women talking about a lady who was struck by lightening a month before her apartment building caught on fire. "And the thing is," said one to the other, "It happened on the night of a meteor shower."

On the F train late at night, a man sang Forgive Me almost to himself, and every-one turned their heads to listen. On the J, a burly looking teenage boy read Shakespeare and nearly missed his stop. The Z took me to a strange place called Richmond where gothic churches lined suburban streets---was this still New York? Another time on the E, a woman navigated her way through the train holding an empty picture frame tightly in her hands.

When I finally rode the green line again it felt foreign. This time round two blond haired boys chanted "astor place," giggle giggle giggle. Then again, "asssssstor place." Giggle giggle giggle. Their nanny rolled her eyes, while everyone else in the car tried not to smile.

Of course there were the jerks too--the ones who pushed past doors and took up two seats. But that's all part of it. The first time I came here I thought this city was all about big dreams dashed and fairytales gone wrong. I don't know what changed, but now when I look, I see a motley bunch--within a limited space, within a limited time-- making their best go at life. You could say, New York's story is in its commute.

Piya Kochhar, Columbia Radio News