Grade 12 Creative Writing Portfolio

       Nothing about the man’s appearance suggested what he would do next. He wore a charcoal, pinstriped suit and glossy, burgundy loafers to match his maroon tie. This man looked like the real deal; his aura screaming “I’m a businessman, and my attire costs more than your income last month. Look at me!” As he gazed dreamily at the iPhone in his hand, I began to wonder why he was even on the train at all; when suddenly my consideration lost every ounce of importance. The man raised up his hand, and without so much as a glance around to check if anyone was paying attention to him, plunged his finger, metacarpal and all, into his nose. Then, before the whole shock of the event could settle in, he removed his finger from his nose and- with the advertising panels as my witness- redirected it right into his mouth. Okay then!

       Most riders enter the subway with a predetermined disliking of every other passenger. They tend to despise anyone that fails to follow the “golden rule of train-riding,” which states that in order to make it off alive, you must sit tight and act normal. The kid in the corner with the green hair is suddenly the most annoying person to ever exist, despite the fact that he hasn’t said a word. Beaming faces transform into sour pusses, suggesting that every occupant is now having the worst day of his or her life; and it’s all because of a teenager simply rocking out to his music. However, regardless of all of the negative connotations and “incommodities” associated with the subway, I am able to find sanity amongst this chaos. After all the days spent riding aimlessly back and forth upon the rails, I’ve come to appreciate public transit as much more than a miserably claustrophobic 20 minute ride to my destination. Train travel is a romantic journey, one in which I find myself celebrating the wide variation right before my eyes. Who doesn’t love to admire some funky (or even not-so-funky) humans? I know I do!

       At the same time, however, others too will be observing me, judging me, and making misconceptions based on my appearance. Yet, nobody truly knows who I am, and no one knows my purpose, a comforting feeling to say the least. No two riders are anywhere near “similar;” meaning that in a train car (or on the street, or in a classroom), there’s no real standard necessary to live up to. As much as I may marvel at someone’s hair-do, or look down upon a homeless man in his rags, there is no justifiable scale upon which to judge one human in comparison to the rest. I can be that person listening to my music too loudly, or that weirdo smiling at every set of eyes to glance in my direction (wait- humans can smile?) In that train car, I am able to exist freely, and be whoever I want to be, with no restrictions. No one holds the same values as me, or ate the same dinner as me last Tuesday- and, with little probability, will ever stumble into the same train car as me again. Therefore, the thoughts, clearly displayed on the faces of these strangers, do not restrict me from admiring my own differences. So, if while struggling to maintain my balance, I want to dance to my favorite song, then I will; or if I want to pick my nose, in plain sight of everyone else, then I will (but probably not). A certain charm lay behind the diversity in a train car, and if it weren’t for the few who willingly express it, this world would be, quite frankly, pretty lame.