I have resided in this bustling metropolis for over a year and a half now, and each subway ride unveils a series of captivating encounters. On most occasions, particularly when I find myself traveling alone, I am confronted by the stark realities of homelessness or inebriation.
New York City’s subway system harbors countless shortcomings, making it one of the least accommodating for older individuals or those with disabilities. Devoid of a functional design, navigating these underground labyrinths becomes an arduous task.
Yet, it isn’t solely the elderly and those with physical challenges who face adversity within these subway tunnels. For a young woman like myself, it can often expose one to a distinct peril. I’ve witnessed numerous instances that have left me unsettled as if my very safety hung by a thread.
New York City transforms at night, and Times Square, in particular, undergoes a metamorphosis when you find yourself, a young woman, returning home in the silent hours of 2-3 a.m.
I hail from a place where safety was scarce when you lacked resources. In my homeland, we struggle with the specters of unrestrained gangs and narcotics, and if you are unlucky, you get involved in that life or are born in it.
It’s a common belief that migrating here would offer a sense of security, and to some extent, it does. However, life in a city that never sleeps often introduces you to doubts that challenge this perception.
Two harrowing incidents made me question whether I was safer here than back in my hometown.
One night, I had concluded my day’s endeavors, exhausted and yearning for the comfort of my bed. The clock struck 3:00 a.m. as I embarked on the subway journey, specifically the 7-line bound for Queens. Fatigue weighed heavily on me, and my instinct was to drown out the world with my headphones.
I preferred not to engage with anyone.
As I traversed the labyrinthine passages of the Times Square subway station, trying to locate the 7-line, something extraordinary occurred. Out of nowhere, and when I say nowhere, I mean I was meticulously avoiding any form of contact with fellow passengers when a towering, robust man shoved me to the cold floor.
I blanked.
There was ample space for him to pass unhindered, yet he chose to push me. In that fleeting moment, a single question reverberated.
Why?
What compelled him to commit this act of unprovoked aggression?
It was then that I was made acutely aware of the perils lurking within New York City’s subway system and the nocturnal transformations that gripped the city.
As a woman, I felt more vulnerable with each step, aware of the penetrating gazes of those trapped by drug-induced stupors in Times Square at midnight. The night air grew chilly, yet I often wondered if I should put on my jacket, driven by an unsettling sensation of being watched, even in eighty-four-degree weather.
That’s when anxiety began to claw at me.
Safety felt like a distant memory at this hour. My second encounter paralleled the first, this time involving a homeless man. Much is said about homelessness in New York City, but the city’s homeless individuals exhibit a different breed.
If luck is on your side, you might stumble upon those who have succumbed to the numbing embrace of slumber, the innocuous homeless. But then, there are the others, the volatile ones, driven to the brink by crack cocaine or other substances.
They can pose a genuine threat, and as mentioned earlier, the fear intensifies when you’re a woman. In this particular incident, I was prepared to defend myself. I carried pepper spray and was ready to employ it.
I was at the 69th Street station in Queens this time, wearing my headphones, as always. A man, who appeared disoriented and emitted a pungent odor, tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey, pretty face,” he muttered. I chose to ignore him, having learned my lesson from previous encounters.
However, he persisted, repeatedly referring to me as “pretty.” Just as I glanced back, my train arrived, and I hurriedly entered, yet he followed. His relentless gaze never wavered, even as I shifted to another carriage. Panic began to set in.
Eventually, it was just the two of us in that carriage, and fear gripped me tightly. He inched closer, continuing to utter “pretty.” In that paralyzing moment, I reached for the pepper spray concealed in my pocket and aimed it squarely at his eyes.
Fate smiled upon me, for the train made an unscheduled stop mere seconds after I had deployed the spray.
I cannot say for certain what became of him.
I didn’t look back.
I patiently waited for the next train to pull into the station. My adrenaline was coursing through my veins, yet I couldn’t help but ponder why we must endure such ordeals. Life, as my father used to say, is fraught with danger at every turn. Those late-night subway journeys led me to the conclusion that New Yorkers are indeed a resilient breed.
This is a city that toughens you, and it’s not merely the world’s most expensive, vibrant, and fashionable city—it’s also a place where you must remain vigilant, especially near the witching hour.
These anecdotes shall forever remain etched in my memory, serving as a stark reminder that danger knows no boundaries. To all the young women navigating the labyrinthine passages of New York, I offer my respect and admiration. And always remember to carry your pepper spray as you venture forth.
Stay prepared, for in the depths of the subway at night, it often feels like a jungle, where predators lurk in search of prey, and where I, too often, feel like the hunted.
