F.O.B. Rapid Transit

To commute to work each day on the MTA subway system is to witness the diversity of New York City, warts and all. I intended this blog to have a cultural/political arc but my most common observations of my fellow Han must come first.

1. Spitting.
Male and female FOBs (Fresh-Off-Boats) often lean their heads over the edge of the subway platform, let out a hacking hiss to prime their payload and eject a gob of spittle and mucus into the tracks, inflicting this unpleasantness upon every commuter and tourist in his or her vicinity. Us ABCs (American-born Chinese) lose much face. I don't know whether they spit because they can't stand still and must punctuate every moment with something, or they suffer respiratory complications from smoking the cheap smuggled "Double-Happiness" Shuang Xi-brand cigarettes (with the bright red packaging). If it's from the cigarettes, then the spitting is excusable; a small price to pay to speed up death, which can only mean one less useless eater to collect Social Security.

2. Picking nose.
In China, I'm sure sitting thigh-to-thigh, elbow-to-elbow against strangers is the perfect time to begin excavating nasal particles and obstructions. Once extracted, it is often rubbed about in the hand as if matter was magically destroyed, defying all laws of physics. Is it any wonder less and less straphangers want to touch the railings? Sometimes, they look around after picking their nose to see if anyone was looking at them. Usually, I stare at them. Some of them stop when they notice me staring. Some take second takes to confirm that I'm staring at them. YES I'M LOOKING AT YOU, YOU FUCKIN' FOB! FUCKIN' WAKE UP FROM YOUR DAYDREAM AND REALIZING EVERYONE'S LOOKING AT YOU! IF YOU DON'T WANT PEOPLE TO THINK YOU'RE A DIRTY PIECE OF SHIT, THEN STOP PICKING YOUR NOSE! But the FOBs don't care.

Oh yeah, if they're picking their teeth with a toothpick, they cover their mouths out of politeness. No matter how many public service announcements explaining the unsanitary practices described here, no one gets it.

3. Not getting up for elderly persons or pregnant woman.
When the train pulls into a station in proximity to an ethnic enclave of Han* Chinese, young and old rush on board to grab all available seats. What happens to the old men and women with canes, walkers or heavy bags who can't compete in the Darwinian race? The prevailing attitude among the FOBs is: FUCK 'EM. And if someone does get off for the old lady, another FOB misses that social cue and tries to sit in the seat. WHAT DID YOU THINK I GOT UP FOR YOU, FOB-ASS BITCH? I'M GIVING UP MY SEAT FOR THE OLD LADY, NOT YOU! YOU CAN FUCKIN' STAND! I'M SURE YOUR SELFISHNESS IS COMMON PRACTICE IN YOUR MALTHUSIAN METROPOLIS-OF-ORIGIN, BUT THIS IS NEW YORK FUCKIN' CITY!

So I blocked her with my arm and let the old lady sit down. She was about thirty-years old, semi-cosmopolitan and glaring at me for daring to make physical contact.

I do see those Chinese in their late teens are much more likely to give up their seats, so there is hope. I learned to give up my seat not from my parents, but from the Boy Scouts, one of the last institutions of traditional Anglo-American life for boys, at least in NYC (the Mormons hold the BSA banner now). Lamentably, many immigrant children will never be exposed anything but the coarse, crude value system of peasant cultures. The local Han of Brooklyn have little interest in child development beyond SAT scores and see little value in extracirricular activities much less institutions offered by the local organized houses of worship, but I digress.

Here are some reasons why I don't even stand when I get on the subway:
I won't risk falling asleep and missing my stop.
I can clearly see the name of the station without bobbing and weaving for a gap.
I can quickly move away if an unstable person or disorderly group enters the train.

*(on the N "Sea Beach" line, it's 20th Ave, 18th Ave, New Utrecht, Fort Hamilton Parkway and of course, 8th Ave.)

4. Eating.
In the morning, many Chinese eat their breakfast in the form of a Cha-Shu-Bow pork bun and a cup of tea or coffee. That's fine, but some whip out lunchboxes with home-cooked meals that may seem entirely normal to them but smell absolutely horrible to the uninitiated. Chopsticks a-flyin', sauces splashing, lips slurping. Oh yeah and chewing with their mouths wide open, sharing their digestive process with the rest of us. (Although I'm guilty of the same crime when chomping down on a magarita slice with sun-dried tomatoes and basil leaves from Pizza Royale.)

5. Waiting until the last moment to get off the train.
I will include non-Chinese FOBs as well in this segment. They will watch as the train pulls into the station. They will stare at the name plate but they will not get off. When the two-note tone sounds, signalling the closing of the doors, the FOBs rush out or into the train, often getting themselves or their bags pincered by the doors. Somethings, this causes a mechanical problem with the doors and the whole train has to be discharged and put out of service.

Why wait? I suspect the language barrier. Many immigrants cannot read the MTA subway map or the station names, or even the alphabetic designation of the train line. Some were probably shown which station to get off at from a short tour from a fellow countryman, which means a weekend service diversion or detour means hours lost in the system. The FOB would not have understood the broadcast announcement or the postings taped to walls, windows and support beams. Some may simply navigate by the appearance and configuration of the train station and the color and shape of the sign on the train.

6. Holding the door. Often the train enters the station just as a large group is coming down the stairs. One of the group will hold the door open and wait for their friends and family to wobble on down and catch up. I will not restrict this criticisms to FOBs but I see it on a daily basis at the 8th Ave station. The proper procedure would be to randomly post a cop near the trouble spot so the offender could be picked up immediately. The offender should be given the full fingerprint/immigration run down and if it turns out he/she's undocumented, oh well! Nothing like getting deported for holding the subway door to make the front page of the Sing Tao Daily to encourage proper behavior.

Finally.
I can't shake the feeling that those behaviors of my brethren reflects negatively on me. But I don't let it get to me. I give up my seat and exchange smiles with a grateful elderly person. I keep a handkerchef and discretely wipe my nose if necessary. And to anyone who thinks I am in some way betraying my people by airing this dirty laundry, then DON'T SPIT, DON'T PICK YOUR NOSE, GIVE UP YOUR SEAT FOR OLD PEOPLE, DON'T EAT IN PUBLIC, GET OFF THE TRAIN WHEN THE DOORS OPEN AND DON'T HOLD THE DOOR!

Is there wonder why China attempts to train its departing tourists on proper manners?
http://www.atimes.com/atimes/China/HJ05Ad01.html

And so it begins...

During a brief nap, the documentary "The Saltmen of Tibet" came on TV, with its thundering drums and dissonant horns reverberating in the vast expanse. In that semi-conscious dream state, I recalled fragments of passages from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. All the passing thoughts and observations from years past flooded back and thus I awoke to fix them in space and time through this blog.