If I could have it my way, I'd order a cappuccino every morning from La Colombe in their signature china. "To stay," as they say in New York.
Unfortunately, at $4 a cup, I will have to settle for homebrewed coffee (currently roasted by Stumptown), which I won't complain about because with one+ month of ownership, cleaning my french press isn't all that awful just yet. I'm still having a blast being my own barista, but until that gets old, I'll just have my eye on the Nizza and Lyon. I don't know why I'm obsessed with writing about coffee. Well, actually, I do know. It's because coffee is one of the most fascinating pastimes and people who equally love it as much as I do have some sort of exquisite way-of-being that I just want to establish some sort of connection with them. I can attest to at least one relationship that has flourished because of this equal fascination (his name starts with a "C," except circa 2012, because today, coffee is no longer what fuels him-- it's just love of work).
Don't get me wrong, I'm nowhere near the status of a connoisseur, yet here I am writing yet another line pertaining to coffee.
Really, what I wanted to say is that I wish I could be drinking that exact cup of coffee at La Colombe that converted me to a cappuccino lover while writing about what I'm about to write about.
Let's agree on something here: it's annoying when New Yorkers talk about subway problems.
But most people who commute via subway have some sort of story to share about their experience more so when their commute is routine and then something interesting happens. And, well, I have a story too, and it's not because I can have one, it's because I view myself as a third party bystander (not a native, not a tourist) and therefore have much more to say.
Obviously, different subway lines carry different demographics of people, because unfortunately, NYC is a high regionally segregated city. As soon as I entered an unfamiliar subway car, a black woman, roughly in her late 30s, must have been in the middle of her vocal hatred for all races, including her own. My presence interrupted her flow of insults to Indians, chinks, and crackers-- so she had to drop it in, "you don't think I see that chink standing in front of me?" referring to me. No one near her was looking at her. "My racism is real," she said, with more vulgarity than I could imagine. "I took a black studies class," she tried to justify her education. "I paid $2.50 to ride with you dirty mother fuckers-- don't talk to me!" she said when one person tried to speak up.
I felt sorry for her, foolishly calling everyone ignorant, insulting strangers because she has no other form of power in her life. I kind of wanted to sock her in the face and ask her how much she thinks everyone else paid to ill-fatedly ride with her.
I have a lot of issues, but one of them in particular came to my attention a couple nights ago when I received an extremely long text regarding an apathy I carry that prevents me from "seizing the world by its neck," and the problem is that I am keeping my radical opinions to myself. The reason for that, the text explained, is because I have a "distaste for the zealous, greedy, and selfish." Which, unfortunately, is quite true. My family calls it a "superiority complex." Often times, I'm silent not because I don't know what to say, but because I have a horrible "distaste" for people who don't seem to get it.
This magnificent pronoun covers the following (or, "what is it that they don't get?"): individualism, civic duty, that humans may have beliefs that differ from yours and it's okay (whether you let them decide to go to hell or not), basic social awareness and etiquette, and mutual respect.
It's okay that this woman had set beliefs and was telling people about it. It's hard to change the opinion of a self-proclaimed racist. But I wish I could have said something. Of course, it would be at the risk of her threatening my life, but at least I would most likely be speaking for the majority of the people helplessly listening to her, feeling uncomfortable. Shaking your head and rolling your eyes won't move her burning passion. I didn't say anything not only because I didn't want to get hurt, but like always, because I didn't think she deserved to know what I thought. That her blind foolishness was her loss. Then again, had I spoken up, I highly doubt she'd go home and think about what that fucking chink said to her on the subway, but at least she'd know that she's not an all-powerful individual just because she instills fear in the people she hates.
I guess I have a lot to work on.
