Early fall always had a way of littering the ground with leaves and staining Pauline’s car with pollen. However, her car was about five steps too far from the house to even reconsider taking any allergy medicine. Maybe one day when her indolence would evaporate, and she would know what it felt like to breathe freely in all seasons.

That day was but a distant fantasy to her since thoughts of possible meals constantly muddled her thoughts. Merging onto the surprisingly empty Long Island Expressway took no effort on her part, as she mused to herself about the new items on the Taco Bell menu, where quality meat quantity. The homemade sandwich perched passenger side was not nearly as friendly as a foil wrapped $5 burritos.

Pauline was running late; as usual. Taking the 30W exit ramp too fast jostled a couple of objects from the passenger seat; a cigarette box, a couple of pens, and the sandwich found a new home under the passenger seat. Despite being homemade, the sandwich was acting ungrateful. She swore under her breathe that Taco Bell would never do this to her.

Despite food being against her, traffic was flowing well up to the pre-Midtown Tunnel toll booths. Squirts of hyperactive taxis forced themselves into the too-narrow lanes. Nothing seemed right about the tunnels; they were too dim and seemed unsafe to pass; perhaps humans were never meant to zip around in little metal tubes through tight concrete pipes. Why did commuting always involve tubes? Why are all modes of transportation fast moving metal boxes? Who thought this would be safe?

Her Chevy was greeted by blinding streams of light as it roared out of the tunnel. She was still late. The terror of the tunnels would never hold her back from racing to meeting at the station. She was late, and Jason would be disappointed. In one flowing motion she flowed from 33rd Avenue to Lexnington.

She was late, and everyone will watch her walk in awkwardly. Just like the Board of Directors meeting last year. Man, she still felt the burning stares of the Undergraduate Student Government senators, who lost interest in their catered sandwiches after the disruption. Fake politico pricks. She was late. The light on 28th and Lexington was red. She was late.

A stream of students blocked her attempt to turn onto 26th Avenue. She was late. But not late enough to risk a student’s life. She was late. She was late. She was late.

The parking lot attendant shoved a poorly torn ticket into Pauline’s hand. She was late. The ticket for the lot was missing a corner, but it would still scan. She was late.

There are always too many students in the plaza during noon. She was late. They were getting in her way. She was late.

She shoved through them. She was late.

She did not care. She was late.

She finally arrived at Baruch, late.

In many ways, language is the root of understanding one’s own existence. Marlene Nourbese Phillip emphasizes this idea by denying English as her “mother tongue”, rather referring to it as her “father tongue”. At face value, the poem highlights the same ideas as Frederick Douglas’s Narrative, including the devaluing of slave’s life through the stripping of his or her family’s culture and practices by changing their names and forcing them to speak English. Phillip’s discontentment in English can be seen as she goes from failing to enunciate “language” to “languish” to finally saying “anguish”. In her eyes, English is associated with pains and sorrow that befell her people in the past.

Upon breaking down the poem further the idea of a “mother” and a “mother tongue” begins to represent more than just a language that Phillip grieves for, but more of the essence of what a mother represents, which is stability. This symbol is apparent as Phillips goes from saying that she has “no mother tongue” to “no mother to tongue”. Though only a one word change, the statement goes from saying she has lost her culture to saying that she has lost her source of comfort and security.

This symbol of the loss of mother parallels the reality Douglas was born into. As a child, he was separated from his mother, which was a common practice for slaveowners to do in order to manipulate a slave through emotional isolation. Much of the practices that went along with slavery often aimed to keep the slaves low in spirits to actively repress any possible mutinies and rebellions amongst their workers. Both works echo the idea that the history behind English in conjunction with slavery is nothing but hardship and forced ideology that the white man’s forced words and culture were worth more than those of the slaves.

One: 179th Street Station

“I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice. I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, sounds of the city and sounds out of the city.” – “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

Many early memories of being dragged through the boroughs seem to begin at the 179th Street F train stop. I used to loathe the humid, Manhattan-bound train as a child. But upon beginning college, the white noise of the commute from Long Island began to grow on me. Surprisingly, the incessant hum became one of the few sounds that would put me at ease when stressors from home or school became overwhelming. The ride would allow me to unplug from a world that constantly demanded participation. Over time, listening to idle chatter and conversations lacking context developed into drabbles I wrote to pass the time. As a journalism major, hearing people talk and watching them interact was always one of my favorite things to observe.

 

Two: Pennsylvania Station

“And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years.” – Genesis 1

In sophomore year of college I learned firsthand at Penn Station that sunrises were less romantic the more you witnessed them. Nearly every Thursday, I would miss the 3AM train home because I ended up working too late at the college’s newspaper office. Many Friday mornings were spent writing late news articles and waiting for the sunrise to signify the next LIRR train home. With sleep evading me most nights, I made it a goal to work diligently enough see both sunrise and sunset each day. At times the sun was the only thing that kept me sane as sleep-deprivation often made weeks feel like months. I cannot look back on my time as an editor at The Ticker without feeling a slight sting, as if looking directly into the rising sun.

 

Three: Williamsburg Bridge

“My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs. On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps. All below duly travel’d, and still I mount and mount.” – “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

By my third year at Baruch College, I had abandoned my two previous commute routes for the most part. Oddly timed obligations and heavy audio equipment forced me to frequently take the Williamsburg Bridge to and from Long Island. The change in commute over time seemed to parallel my rise in personal successes, as I have moved on from subways and railroads to the comfort of taking my moving couch to the city most days. Now whenever I am working near the bridge or trapped in gridlock, I cannot help but smile about what has changed and wonder if the strange pattern will continue.