Gratitude

 

            Routine is a dangerous trap most people fall into, but did this count as routine? Sure, the A train smelled the same it always did, the people around me wholly encompassed the diverse yet comfortable New York City melting pot, and the journey from 175^th to 34^th was the same 25 minutes as it was yesterday, but was I lost in monotony?

            As these thoughts raced through my head while Wale bumped through my earphones, my train started up again for the longest continuous ride on my 25-minute journey – a 10-minute trip from 125^th to 59^th. I looked up from my corner of the train to see three black teens rise from their seats as the train departed from the 125^th Street station. They removed a boombox from a backpack, placed it gently by the door, and pressed play. Loud hip-hop music matching mine emitted from the stereo.

            In the familiar scene I had witnessed many times, they took turns breakdancing – swinging from the rails within the train while narrowly missing a mixed crowd of confused tourists and disinterested New Yorkers. I silently remained in the latter party, maintaining my position as a native New Jerseyan and an adopted New Yorker, accustomed to seeing such performances on the longest stop-to-stop ride on the A train.

            I glanced up from flipping through songs on my phone to notice an older white man so inquisitive that he struggled to reach for a camera in his bag before the dance ended. He began filming just as the second teen completed his dance. They did not look much older than me, but as any other train-rider following his routine, I proceeded to glance back at my phone and listen to my music.

            The dance finished and the three boys continued with their obviously ceremonious post-performance ritual, removing their hats to collect money from the myriad of New Yorkers. I grabbed a dollar from my pocket and placed it into the smallest teen’s hat. He smiled and nodded in gratitude and returned to his seat. Everyone on the train either looked unfazed by the 5-minute performance or pleased with the teens’ effort. In the next 5 minutes though, almost every face on the train transitioned into a look of disbelief or confusion as the young black teen began speaking to his friends: “Yeah, but I didn’t go to the hearing.”

            The smallest teen continued discussing his extensive history with the law with his two best friends and business partners. The same persistent, breakdancing teen had transformed before everyone’s eyes into another lost cause in the system or another thug for hardworking people to fear. The old white man who once held his camera curiously now became flustered and lost himself in his book. “I feel so old and I’m only 18,” the boy professed. With that last word my nonchalance became incredulity. How could we be the same age? I lost my routine in the confusion.

            After about another minute, the train came to a stop at 59^th and the three teens exited the train confidently. The doors closed and my life, as did the train, moved along like nothing had been done and nothing had been said. When I finally arrived to Penn Station at 34^th Street, I too exited the train and joined the millions of New Yorkers lost in the chaos of their routines. My nonchalance visibly returned to my face and I found my place in the crowd.

            You see, in what seemed like an extremely brief encounter, that small black teen unknowingly imparted on me an important piece of wisdom—to appreciate what I have. The teen and I were in the same place in life, literally; we were the same age on the same train in the same city at the same time. However, there were two differences: first, we had both been through different journeys in life to reach that point, and second, we were both headed to different places to continue our journeys. Thankfully, my journey was not leading me to a hearing, but then again, my journey was not leading me to being thankful either.

            I consider that train ride one of the most educational experiences I encountered in my last few weeks before heading off to college. Sure, I had been “grateful” to be going to college, but never had it so brutally hit me that there are teens just like me – whether in their passions or their attitudes – that will never have the opportunity to be grateful for the possibilities I overlook everyday. Unfortunately, I had lost sight of the difference between what I deserved and what I had been given.

            In my eyes, receiving comedy classes and a college education seems like a much better option than dancing on trains and fighting the law, but it was not that teen’s fault. And while I may never know if he was a victim of circumstance or a rebel against privilege, if he cherished the gifts he had or threw them away in nonchalance, I do know this—gratitude had hit me at the perfect moment. While I did not immediately understand the significance of this encounter, it has endowed me with a sense of gratefulness for the education I am currently receiving at Georgetown. Education is something to be cherished, something we do not necessarily deserve, but rather something we are granted. For me, the next four years at Georgetown are not a time for me to relax and do nothing or do the opposite and kill myself with a strenuous workload. For me, the next four years at Georgetown are a time for my experiences to mold me and for education to come through more facets that just the classroom. For me, all that starts with appreciating the fact that I have the opportunity to receive an education.