Tyler
I didn’t know what to do as I stood at the rail side waiting for the train to arrive.
I was alone.
I tapped my feet impatiently, wishing it would hurry up. It was late, about one o’clock in the morning, and my date was on another train headed home- headed west. Her train was on time.
I couldn’t say the same for mine.
I was impatiently waiting for the train going north.
I was standing at the connector, the middle stop; the train station that connected all ways- the North, East, South, and West sides of Atlanta.
The stop of diversity…Five Points.
You would come to this station to go downtown, to go to a Braves game, the airport, to work etc. It separated the venues, along with the races, the incomes, and the attitudes of Metro Atlanta.
The rich went north and west, the poor went east and south.
The college students went north and west, the thugs and drug addicts went south and east.
I was just a young, middle class, struggling college male trying to get home- northbound.
Marta is smarter is what I always heard.
It’s smart until you’re alone at night trying to get a ride home without driving (do you see the gas prices?), or taking a taxi (1.50 a mile? Screw that!). That, my friend, is when riding the Marta was just plain stupid.
The advertisements for riding the train were nice and attracting, polite and persuading. But the news stories about Marta were the opposite.
‘Young teen robbed and killed at Five Points station.’
‘Three friends were brutally beaten at the Six Flags Train Station after leaving the Six Flags Amusement Park.’
‘Girl raped in the bathroom at College Park Train Station.’
‘College student pushed onto the train tracks when the train arrives as a gang initiation.’
I didn’t want to seem terrified, but I was.
I stood there and prayed, asking Him to allow me to get onto this train, ride to my stop, get into my car and drive home without getting raped and killed by hoodlums who didn’t care about anything. I had a lot to lose, unlike the people who lived in the ghetto.
What made me feel even worse about this situation were the clothes I was wearing. I had on an outfit my sister picked out for me before she left for the Navy, and it’s been my ‘first date outfit’ ever since. Before she helped me out, I had no fashion sense whatsoever, and after she left, I could only see it getting worse. So I stuck to what I knew looked good. My white Polo shirt, Express Producer Khakis, white Aldo square toed shoes, and white rimmed D&G glasses were begging robbers to come strip me from my forged wealth. Little did they know, I only had a hundred dollars to call my own.
I heard a rumbling and felt the ground shaking.
I blew a kiss to God as the screeching of the brakes started.
The train was here.
I got on the train relieved- happy that I didn’t have to deal with the bull others had to deal with. Maybe they were busy robbing somebody else.
Smart choice on their part. I had nothing to give.
I closed my eyes as the train pulled from the stop and headed North.
I was relieved to be leaving behind the filth; the malevolent; the grime; the soil.
The opportunity…let them try to catch me now!
The blacks…
Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way racist. I have black friends! I talk to black people! I tutor them at school! Blacks are cool.
The ones who lived east and south weren’t though. Who do you think were doing the robbing, stealing, and killing on the Marta lines? White popes? People doing things with their lives like college students?
Every time you turn on the TV, you see a black man killing somebody. You hear about it on the news- them killing each other. You see the rap videos. They praise selling drugs, having sex, and murder. They don’t mind going to jail. And white people, we’re supposed to be the crackers. We’re supposedly the ones after them. According to them, they don’t do anything! We arrest them for no reason. We want them all in jail…we want to enslave them. We’re the reason they have drugs in their community. They need to get over the events that happened hundreds of years ago, and look at the present and try to better themselves instead of taking the easy way out any blaming everyone else for their problems!
Nigga.
They call each other that, and it’s every other word out of their mouth. But as soon as someone a little lighter says it, tension arises. Tension too thick to cut with a steak knife.
If you walk around downtown, you see the crack heads, the homeless, and the dealers. They are all black. They have nothing to lose. Why wouldn’t they rob somebody? A life in jail would be better than the one they have now!
The African Americans who live where I live have a head on their shoulders. I would call them more white than black. That guy running for president right now who is a little darker than everyone else is not black. I’m actually voting for him.
Racist?
My ass.
I took a seat, popped in my earphones and turned on my iPod. I relaxed a little. I could trust that I would get home safe. I was headed North.
I closed my eyes again, and listened to the sweet sounds of Pink Floyd.
Stop after stop I felt the train stopping and going; stopping and going. I had a long way to go, and I decided it would be nice to nap through it.
I could trust it.
Nothing happened on the north side of Atlanta.
I was alone.
I tapped my feet impatiently, wishing it would hurry up. It was late, about one o’clock in the morning, and my date was on another train headed home- headed west. Her train was on time.
I couldn’t say the same for mine.
I was impatiently waiting for the train going north.
I was standing at the connector, the middle stop; the train station that connected all ways- the North, East, South, and West sides of Atlanta.
The stop of diversity…Five Points.
You would come to this station to go downtown, to go to a Braves game, the airport, to work etc. It separated the venues, along with the races, the incomes, and the attitudes of Metro Atlanta.
The rich went north and west, the poor went east and south.
The college students went north and west, the thugs and drug addicts went south and east.
I was just a young, middle class, struggling college male trying to get home- northbound.
Marta is smarter is what I always heard.
It’s smart until you’re alone at night trying to get a ride home without driving (do you see the gas prices?), or taking a taxi (1.50 a mile? Screw that!). That, my friend, is when riding the Marta was just plain stupid.
The advertisements for riding the train were nice and attracting, polite and persuading. But the news stories about Marta were the opposite.
‘Young teen robbed and killed at Five Points station.’
‘Three friends were brutally beaten at the Six Flags Train Station after leaving the Six Flags Amusement Park.’
‘Girl raped in the bathroom at College Park Train Station.’
‘College student pushed onto the train tracks when the train arrives as a gang initiation.’
I didn’t want to seem terrified, but I was.
I stood there and prayed, asking Him to allow me to get onto this train, ride to my stop, get into my car and drive home without getting raped and killed by hoodlums who didn’t care about anything. I had a lot to lose, unlike the people who lived in the ghetto.
What made me feel even worse about this situation were the clothes I was wearing. I had on an outfit my sister picked out for me before she left for the Navy, and it’s been my ‘first date outfit’ ever since. Before she helped me out, I had no fashion sense whatsoever, and after she left, I could only see it getting worse. So I stuck to what I knew looked good. My white Polo shirt, Express Producer Khakis, white Aldo square toed shoes, and white rimmed D&G glasses were begging robbers to come strip me from my forged wealth. Little did they know, I only had a hundred dollars to call my own.
I heard a rumbling and felt the ground shaking.
I blew a kiss to God as the screeching of the brakes started.
The train was here.
I got on the train relieved- happy that I didn’t have to deal with the bull others had to deal with. Maybe they were busy robbing somebody else.
Smart choice on their part. I had nothing to give.
I closed my eyes as the train pulled from the stop and headed North.
I was relieved to be leaving behind the filth; the malevolent; the grime; the soil.
The opportunity…let them try to catch me now!
The blacks…
Don’t get me wrong, I’m in no way racist. I have black friends! I talk to black people! I tutor them at school! Blacks are cool.
The ones who lived east and south weren’t though. Who do you think were doing the robbing, stealing, and killing on the Marta lines? White popes? People doing things with their lives like college students?
Every time you turn on the TV, you see a black man killing somebody. You hear about it on the news- them killing each other. You see the rap videos. They praise selling drugs, having sex, and murder. They don’t mind going to jail. And white people, we’re supposed to be the crackers. We’re supposedly the ones after them. According to them, they don’t do anything! We arrest them for no reason. We want them all in jail…we want to enslave them. We’re the reason they have drugs in their community. They need to get over the events that happened hundreds of years ago, and look at the present and try to better themselves instead of taking the easy way out any blaming everyone else for their problems!
Nigga.
They call each other that, and it’s every other word out of their mouth. But as soon as someone a little lighter says it, tension arises. Tension too thick to cut with a steak knife.
If you walk around downtown, you see the crack heads, the homeless, and the dealers. They are all black. They have nothing to lose. Why wouldn’t they rob somebody? A life in jail would be better than the one they have now!
The African Americans who live where I live have a head on their shoulders. I would call them more white than black. That guy running for president right now who is a little darker than everyone else is not black. I’m actually voting for him.
Racist?
My ass.
I took a seat, popped in my earphones and turned on my iPod. I relaxed a little. I could trust that I would get home safe. I was headed North.
I closed my eyes again, and listened to the sweet sounds of Pink Floyd.
Stop after stop I felt the train stopping and going; stopping and going. I had a long way to go, and I decided it would be nice to nap through it.
I could trust it.
Nothing happened on the north side of Atlanta.
***
I opened my eyes to see how many stops I had left, and was staggered at the sight.
The people I saw were obviously headed the wrong way. I sat up straight and shut off my iPod. I thought I was alone on the train, but I guess the hooligans snuck on as I napped. They were probably plotting to do something right now. I pretended to be looking at my iPod, but I glanced at them a couple times.
There were three of them.
All in the same attire…the usual apparel. A long white tee that looked like a dress, baggy jeans that were sagged to their knees, and Air Force One sneakers. Each of them held a sports bag, which I doubted had anything ‘sporty’ in it. It was probably filled with drugs or money- or stolen items. Isn’t that what the song Duffle Bag Boy is about?
What were they doing?
Why were they headed to the North?
There was nothing up there for them!
Was I on the wrong train?
I sat up straight and pulled my earphones out. If I was going down, they were going to have to work hard. There would be no sneaking up on me tonight. I noticed one was looking my way. I looked back. I wasn’t going to look away and let them know I was scared
- because I was.
He looked away, and started talking to his friends. They laughed and carried on. I hated the way blacks were so loud and obnoxious. Yes, the train was public transportation, but it didn’t matter. You had to have an inside voice at times. I guess their parents were too busy in and out of jail to raise their children. I looked at the window beside me so I could see their reflections without them knowing I was watching their every move.
As I turned my head I noticed a man on the far side of the train in front of me.
A white guy, facing me.
He had his head down on the chair in front of him as if he were resting it, or taking a nap.
I relaxed a little bit, because I doubted they would do anything with a witness present.
I just hoped that he wouldn’t get off before they did.
1 comment:
wow you are the observant one i see.....
i too noticed 'The stop of diversity…Five Points'. As I am a member of frequent rider miles for marta being that I have sat on the train going all directions. Within each direction a complete change in general personalties would board each compartment. The most interesting of the N, E, S, & W is of course northbound starting from 'the stop of diversity'. The next time you ride pay attention to the race that hop on and off at the different station. It starts off as good mixture of white and black bodies. Then trickles down to predominatly white. IF you continue on the northbound train (not getting off and headed toward north springs station but toward doraville) the train becomes bombarded with hispancs, occasional blacks, and whites coming home from the airport. The funniest part of all that is the only time white people ride the train all the way to doraville is coming back from the airport with luggage in tow. Northbound is the most interesting to ride because you get the most diversity out of the Marta train system.
Just stating what I see!
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