“I’m never leaving New York again,” I say to my father.
We had been stuck on a DC Metro for the past half hour, due to a door malfunction.
The train conductor commanded, “Please step back from the doors” and “Customers please assist the attendants” over and over again. Apparently if there is a malfunction at a single door, they cannot isolate and override that door. Furthermore, they cannot isolate and override the car that that door belongs to. Finally, they cannot isolate and override the train that the car is connected to. Therefore that train had to end service.
Most of the DC Metro stations bring you to a massive, hideous tunnel, all of which are identical. They are lit from the bottom, giving it a sickly feeling. At the outer edges of the tunnel, huge fluorescent lights cast ominous shadows about the huge divots that “decorate” the over-sized half-pipe. The only other light source is at the very center of the tracks; light is cast from underneath a steel grating. The platforms are dangerously dim, and looking down through the vast emptiness of the gray tunnels gives the idea that you might be in a disaster movie.
The escalator only intensifies the experience. Scaling down into a steep concrete tunnel, the sounds of rubber against steel echoes like injured whale calls. As one passes the lights, the reflective shadows feel like someone is coming from behind you.
I take out my notebook to jot down this unpleasant experience, when a train shoots through the tunnel. It disrupts the emptiness I feel so disturbed by and stops a few yards past me. I run ahead, past the last two overcrowded cars and dart onboard, and my misanthropic DC Metro experience is suddenly flipped on its head.
Code Pink has taken over the car! Code Pink is an organization of (mostly) women who demonstrate with power, ingenuity and persistence against the Iraq war and future wars. I used to receive e-mails from them constantly, showing their progressive intensity and have always been quite impressed. They have had a field day with the Bush Administration.
Today, fully decked out in pink hats, buttons (Delegate for Peace), signs (Out of Iraq), and big foam hands with two fingers up instead of one, they are singing a raucous melody that perfectly befits the wild energy of the can-can.
“Oh, yes we yes we can-can
Bring our soldiers back-back
Torture we say no-no
Tear the prison down-down…
“What do we want? PEACE!
When do we want it? NOW!
Who’s gonna bring it? OBAMA!!!!
“We can end the war-war
It’s what we voted for-for
Bring our soldiers back
Da da da da da da da…
They exit the car to parade through the streets and leave behind a small mess of pink feathers and glitter. A little black girl with red ribbons in her hair darts across the train to retrieve a couple of those feathers. An animated Australian man takes a photo of her with his i-Phone.
“You are so cute, sweet heart! Would you smile for me?” A short-haired white woman behind her, who seems to have adopted responsibility of the adorable little girl, says “Don’t be shy”
She smiles, but mostly at the feathers in her hands.
“Say Ohhhhh” a group of rowdy Australians joins in “BAMA!!!!!”
“How come I didn’t get a picture?!” an excited little boy says. He’s got red ribbons tied around his wrists.
“Say it!” the photographer says, aiming at the boy aiming for attention “OOOOOOOBAMA!!!”
They exit at the next stop, but not before telling me that the ribbons say “Obama, keep your promises for peace”
