Sitting on the subway, on the way to work twice in one day. It's 7 pm. So sleepy. I look straight ahead and see a bear smiling at me. Or is it smirking at me? It has one bright eye that appears to be smiling, but another somewhat shaded eye that appears sinister, if only somewhat mischievous. The same goes for the mouth. Half and half. It's hard to tell what this bear is up to. It's got a good side, but it ain't all rainbows and unicorns either. I don't need to clap to keep it away. It's a teddy bear. This makes the smirking smile that much more unsettling. I would wonder how it got there on its own, but it's not even there. It's a picture of a teddy bear. An advertisement for an exhibit at this new MOMA building. I've been seeing this bear on the subway and having stare-down's with it ever since I moved back to New York. I almost miss my connecting stop because of our stare moment. I am listening to "Solo" by Ludovico Einaudi, which is a lot like his song "Mattina," which my sister was playing a lot this time four years ago when I was getting ready to begin the journey in India. Some guy interviewed in the movie Waking Life would call this a "holy moment."
Luckily I don't miss the connection and I'm safely on the 4 train, heading north to Fordham Avenue. It's express, so it doesn't take long to get from 59th to 125th street, but then there are ten more stops, because apparently people in the Bronx need a subway station every three streets. We go above ground at 161st Street, right by Yankee Stadium, home of the winningest sports team in American history. I've never liked them, but I'll let myself be inspired as I can see the seats and the field from my seat on the subway. That is, I can see them in the morning. It's night now, and it's not baseball season, so there is nothing to see. Besides, I keep closing my eyes and trying not to drift off. Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep, how I miss you.
This morning we talked about family roots and ancestors. Most of my students' ancestors are from the same countries that they are from. Americans tend to be different. We play the composition game. How much are you of this? Where are you from? No, not America. Where is your family REALLY from? My split is something like this: 50% England, 25% Ireland, 12.5% Germany, 12.5% Poland (or perhaps Belarus?). Anyway you trace it, we are pale and adapted to cold weather. My family name is Sanford. It was once Sandford, but they misspelled it on my grandfather's birth certificate, and the government never makes mistakes. Sandford means "sandy ford," or "sandy river." Ford is also a verb, which means to cross a river by walking through it. Pioneers and western settlers had to ford rivers all the time when they were heading west. I'm not heading west. I'm heading north to Fordham. When you say it, it sounds just like "Ford 'em," which means "ford them." I am very tired of my work schedule. It is starting to make sense to me that the first week of my truly full time schedule (the first one since harvest a year ago, when I worked 75-105 hours per week) I have been asked to substitute at night. It makes sense because that's the one thing I wanted to stop doing once I got more hours in a row in the morning and afternoon. But they needed my help and I'm trying to bargain for time off after Christmas (we are expected to be at work at 8 am the day after Christmas!). I shouldn't have to bargain because I'm not salaried, the whole idea of substitutes began with the teaching profession, and none of the students will be around anyway. Even so, I'm being extra good now so that I can use it if I need it later. The reason this trying schedule makes sense to me is that it's just like India: the first part was the worst part, and it was all easier after that. Once I don't have to go back to work at night, the day will seem incredibly easy to me, and I will continue to be productive at night.
I'm viewing this whole tiring work schedule experience involving four hours of subway commute time each day as a journey test packaged in with my transitioning back to New York move. It's not even that it's annoying at this point. I'm simply fighting to keep my eyes open at every turn. I'm seriously behind on sleep, and there's nothing I can do about it for now. But it's life, so even though these wide rivers keep popping up on the route, I've got to ford 'em.
Of course, as I think this, I am listening to music. "Graceland" by Paul Simon. Then I switch to the next song, "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes," whose soothing opening harmonic vocals lull me to sleep just as I approach Fordham Road. Luckily I am only gone for two minutes and realize what has happened at the next station, Kingsbridge. Plus I am twenty minutes early, so it's all good. The moon is very shiny too. It has an enormous halo around it, shining down on the gritty city sprawl of the Bronx.
After class I find out that the original teacher's wife is okay now and he is coming back to work tomorrow night, so I do not have to substitute and will have a normal day where I can nap and write.
Hallelujah!
Luckily I don't miss the connection and I'm safely on the 4 train, heading north to Fordham Avenue. It's express, so it doesn't take long to get from 59th to 125th street, but then there are ten more stops, because apparently people in the Bronx need a subway station every three streets. We go above ground at 161st Street, right by Yankee Stadium, home of the winningest sports team in American history. I've never liked them, but I'll let myself be inspired as I can see the seats and the field from my seat on the subway. That is, I can see them in the morning. It's night now, and it's not baseball season, so there is nothing to see. Besides, I keep closing my eyes and trying not to drift off. Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep, how I miss you.
This morning we talked about family roots and ancestors. Most of my students' ancestors are from the same countries that they are from. Americans tend to be different. We play the composition game. How much are you of this? Where are you from? No, not America. Where is your family REALLY from? My split is something like this: 50% England, 25% Ireland, 12.5% Germany, 12.5% Poland (or perhaps Belarus?). Anyway you trace it, we are pale and adapted to cold weather. My family name is Sanford. It was once Sandford, but they misspelled it on my grandfather's birth certificate, and the government never makes mistakes. Sandford means "sandy ford," or "sandy river." Ford is also a verb, which means to cross a river by walking through it. Pioneers and western settlers had to ford rivers all the time when they were heading west. I'm not heading west. I'm heading north to Fordham. When you say it, it sounds just like "Ford 'em," which means "ford them." I am very tired of my work schedule. It is starting to make sense to me that the first week of my truly full time schedule (the first one since harvest a year ago, when I worked 75-105 hours per week) I have been asked to substitute at night. It makes sense because that's the one thing I wanted to stop doing once I got more hours in a row in the morning and afternoon. But they needed my help and I'm trying to bargain for time off after Christmas (we are expected to be at work at 8 am the day after Christmas!). I shouldn't have to bargain because I'm not salaried, the whole idea of substitutes began with the teaching profession, and none of the students will be around anyway. Even so, I'm being extra good now so that I can use it if I need it later. The reason this trying schedule makes sense to me is that it's just like India: the first part was the worst part, and it was all easier after that. Once I don't have to go back to work at night, the day will seem incredibly easy to me, and I will continue to be productive at night.
I'm viewing this whole tiring work schedule experience involving four hours of subway commute time each day as a journey test packaged in with my transitioning back to New York move. It's not even that it's annoying at this point. I'm simply fighting to keep my eyes open at every turn. I'm seriously behind on sleep, and there's nothing I can do about it for now. But it's life, so even though these wide rivers keep popping up on the route, I've got to ford 'em.
Of course, as I think this, I am listening to music. "Graceland" by Paul Simon. Then I switch to the next song, "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes," whose soothing opening harmonic vocals lull me to sleep just as I approach Fordham Road. Luckily I am only gone for two minutes and realize what has happened at the next station, Kingsbridge. Plus I am twenty minutes early, so it's all good. The moon is very shiny too. It has an enormous halo around it, shining down on the gritty city sprawl of the Bronx.
After class I find out that the original teacher's wife is okay now and he is coming back to work tomorrow night, so I do not have to substitute and will have a normal day where I can nap and write.
Hallelujah!
No comments:
Post a Comment