Written By: Cornelius Minor
“You know you love me, I know you care… Just shout whenever, and I’ll be there.” He sang this. Loud. The pop bounce was in it. The youthful falsetto was there. I exhaled sharp frustration, and scowled up from my cell phone. As the train doors closed, my eyes scanned the car to see if I could locate the singer in the crowd of people who were still shuffling into their morning commute positions — by a pole, corner seat, or jammed in by the middle doors. The 2 Train is a phenomenon of a place some mornings. And sometimes I don’t want to be bothered.
Before I could see him, I heard him. Again. “You are my love, you are my heart… And we will never, ever, ever be apart…” I started moving my lips. Not quite singing, but whispering along with the still-unseen singer. I was vexed by this intrusion, but that song is so damn catchy. The electronic conductor announced the next stop and warned us to stand clear of the closing doors. But nobody on the train heard any of that, because someone was singing Justin Bieber’s classic song, “Baby”, like the lyrics were gonna save Brooklyn.
By the time he got to the third couplet, I was a believer too. “Are we an item? Girl, quit playin’… ‘We’re just friends,’ what are you sayin’?”
A smile, at no one in particular, eased its way across my face, and the 2 Train pulled away from the station. I am usually slightly annoyed when I get on the train where some person is breaking the delicate peace of an NYC commute with unwelcome music. In that moment, my annoyance faded into Bieber’s early bubblegum sound over the predictable rumble of The 2.
The singer emerged from the far end of the train and continued; earnestly, “Said, ‘There’s another,’ and looked right in my eyes… My first love broke my heart for the first time, and I was like…”
Everyone on the train seemed to understand what was coming next. A lot of us smiled. It hit us all at the same time. There was more than one voice singing now.
“Baby, baby, baby, oh… Like baby, baby, baby, no… Like baby, baby, baby, oh… I thought you’d always be mine, mine…” This moment — random Brooklyn people singing together on the 6:50am Harlem-bound 2 from Atlantic — felt like a triumph of humanity.
I smiled again, and for a moment, I could not remember what, on my cell phone (or in my life), was frustrating me so much. This was a surprise oasis. The 2 Train is a phenomenon of a place some mornings. I felt surprisingly unbothered.
What This All Means
Something was different now.
Even the lady sitting to my right reading Shakespeare sonnets put her book down. She stared and half-smiled. Maybe because she was distracted by the moment or maybe because a modern day bard was living out the pop version of Sonnet 116 in our train car. Many people seemed to acknowledge this small miracle before returning to their concerns.
As the guy in the corner moved to exit the train car, he made eye contact with me, “Say, Brother, I’m overwhelmed by life right now. Can you help me out with something to eat or a dollar?” In a world of tap-to-pay and checking account balances that hover perilously close to overdrawn while I’m waiting on the 1st or 15th to bless me, I could only offer a granola bar.
He took it, nodded his thanks, unwrapped it, and ate silently while waiting for the door to open at the next stop. Another woman offered a banana. He smiled at us both, waved his thanks, pocketed the banana, and exited the train. The doors closed.
“Baby, baby, baby, oh… Like baby, baby, baby, no… Like baby, baby, baby, oh… I thought you’d always be mine, mine,” but now the song was no longer on the far end of the train. It was in me. And this man’s spirited presence was, somewhat surprisingly, in my heart.
Unifying an entire train car was not his only miracle. I had just watched this man ask for help — a thing that I struggle with daily. He is a person. And, in that moment, he was a lesson in resilience.
I thought about what this could mean for me and what this means for us —
New Yorkers who live among millions, but sometimes see no one;
Americans who watch ESPN to argue about the number of dollars on the contracts of athletes that we don’t even fund, but are silent when NPR describes how the politicians that we do fund wield policy to detain and divide immigrant families in our own towns;
Global citizens who have yet to develop an understanding that peace begins with the truth that guns and bombs are never a solution no matter who’s aiming them, and that children should never be the targets no matter whose children they are. Sudan. Gaza. Ukraine. Brooklyn.
Seeing Each Other
I don’t think that resilience means that I’ve got to “toughen up” or “go it alone”. I’m growing, and I refuse to subscribe to any doctrine that judges my humanity on a scale proportional to the amount of hardship I can endure.
I don’t want to be known for my ability to survive or persevere. I recognize that these are necessary traits, AND I understand that mere survival is not fully living.
Survival is not the story I wish to tell. Rather, I want to be known for my ability to cultivate — to build friendships, communities, organizations, and families where we are each other’s strengths and we can be each other’s teachers.
Resilience, when reduced to an individual trait, is mostly about coping with our woes. This fails to change the harsh, sometimes inhumane, conditions that push us to our limits. It simply allows us to survive those conditions until tomorrow.
Collective resilience, changing our conditions as opposed to merely coping with them, is a different thing altogether. It is built on the understanding that the act of carrying my own hardship does not mean that I must be inattentive to the struggle of others. It means growing the understanding that many of our struggles are CONNECTED, and learning that our healing can be connected too. Collective resilience asks the question, “How can we work together to change our reality in small ways so that the conditions that push us to our limits are not as omnipresent?”
I did not fully realize it at the time, but five mornings a week on the same train, stressed about the same job and the same bills, are some heavy conditions for me and countless others on that train. And though he was carrying his own hardships, a man on that same train lightened our load for just a short moment. This was a gift, and this gift allowed me the space to reciprocate that same generosity.
This principle works in all the spaces that we share with other people. This is understanding that the grandmother caring for her two grandkids next door is just as overwhelmed with her work at the hospital as I am with my job at the school. Being “nice” to her when we see each other is one thing. Inviting her and the grandkids over for dinner on the day she has to work a double costs me nothing, and it saves her a world of stress. I was making that pot of spaghetti anyway.
We need more of these small revolutions.
I do not want to leave the next generation with a blueprint for surviving difficult moments. I want to empower them with a roadmap for changing harmful realities — for themselves and for each other.
This can only begin if we truly strive to see and understand each other. This does not mean that I’ve got to completely reinvent myself, but it does mean that I can be a little more open to the experiences of others. I can be more open to the understanding that a smile or a granola bar or a neighborly act from me can be monumental for the person receiving it, and it can be instructive for the people witnessing it.
I cannot observe that, “we need change in the world” without exploring the ways that I can change myself. The world won’t change unless we do.
I believe in this future. I have seen it. When everyone was being cold and closed off and stressed, I once saw a guy start a small revolution with a Justin Bieber song and a genuine request for help. People softened, momentarily understood each other, and helped each other. We all got to work on time, and nobody had to go alone. We can learn from this.
