On Saturday, as I was taking the long subway ride from Prospect Heights to the East Village, my tranquil walk of shame was disrupted by a large family wearing neon yellow shirts. Not only were they large in number, they were each the size of a small Navy submarine, causing the subway car to be filled with fleshy lovehandles only guarded by the thin lemon colored material of their T’s. Each of the women in this group had a child – the kind that is probably two months old but the size of a hefty toddler – draped over her shoulder.
Since they didn’t try to sell anything once the car started to run and since they all looked pretty angry, I knew they were special. The patriarch of the clan immediately screamed which stop they would all be unloading and reminded everyone to keep their belongings close because “this the big city now.”
They each wore their yellow shirts proudly and without irony, despite the t’s looking like they would double as toddler sleeping bags. Their hic language resounded in the tin car as they complained about the chinese people to one another and I struggled to get a look at what was on the front of their shirts. Finally, one of them turned and I snapped this photo:
Yes, it says “White Family” on his shirt, which seemed repetitive at this point. More specifically, it says “White Family Outing” with some chicken scratch of four stick figures and some suns and clouds.
The conversation among the many members of the White family (who turned out to be from rural Pennsylvania and on their way to see a show called “Banana Schpeel”) about the attrocities of Chinese People quickly turned to the atrocities of Black People. Almost as soon as I hoped for a black man to enter the subway, one did, and this amazing photo happened:
The White woman in front of me said to her White brother next to her, “Well you can put this in your sermon tomorrow!” And with that I exited the train and tried a little harder to melt into the pot that day.