I was riding the subway home from work yesterday. It was rush hour on Friday, which may be the most unagreeable time to be a straphanger in New York City. I could compare it to other moments in history when people were made to ride trains in deplorable conditions. This would be overly dramatic, and to many, rather tasteless, so I will not head down that slippery slope. What I will say is that, without fail, riding a Friday evening rush hour 1 train will undoubtedly make you fall out of love with this city. The good news was that I captured a highly coveted end seat at the Chambers Station, allowing me the solace that comes with never having to deal with someone on one side of you. Everyone longs for the end seat, and I was the envy of an entire row. My self satisfaction was erased a few stations later when an elderly woman with a cane boarded the packed train and I was forced into gentlemanly action. Though the end seat is the subway's version of the Iron Throne, it is also the most precarious, for situations arise outside of our control, forcing one to relinquish control over the Realm. Suddenly I found myself in the unenviable position of standing, with a messenger bag and a grocery sack, for the duration of the ride. I swear I heard the elderly woman snicker, followed by a distinct "sucker" uttered from the cavernous expanse of her dark soul.
As has happened many times before, I found myself standing next to two construction workers who I surmised were from Chiapas, Mexico. There is no rational explanation for why I decided on this story of ancestry, but it is what I envisioned. I am not afraid to admit that I spend an inordinate amount of time creating imaginary back stories for random people I cross paths with. They were short, landing somewhere around five feet tall with the help of the large heels on their work boots. Why is this important? I'll explain. I am rather tall and lanky, a condition that is both a blessing and a curse depending upon the situation. My arms are longer than their legs, which would matter little if not for the fact that I have to reach for a bar to hang on to. Now envision me reaching up for a handle, with two small construction workers situated perfectly underneath my armpit. Now attempt to ride motionless for the next twenty minutes. Awkward does not even begin to explain what this is like. They say nothing, I say nothing. They stare at each other, mere centimeters from me. We accept our imperfect union and precede with our days. I imagine that they are glad that I wear very good deodorant.
I peer over and see the 'two-seater', this scourge of humanity who feels entitled to take up two seats on a crowded subway. Though this species of rider comes in all shapes and sizes, this time he is a young buck, Beats headphones on, daring anyone to challenge his stronghold. I am quite sure this young gentleman has never been punched in the face. People who have been punched in the face tend to have a remarkably different worldview, wherein their negative behavior is seen to carry very real consequence. My mind drifts to the imaginary confrontation I could have with this young man, laying out for him the errors of his ways. Mostly I am just mad at his youthful indiscretion, or is it just his youth? And then I see it--a scene that seems to play itself out everywhere these days. Mother and child together, locked in the familiar interplay of a new American pastime: snacking.
The child, perhaps four years of age, is handed a large bag of M&M's. The mother tears into her own bag of peanut M&M's. They sit in silence and eat. The child doesn't even look excited about the prospect of mainlining sugar. I watch as the woman turns her package around and actually reads the nutritional information on the back of the bag. I'm not sure why she does this. I watch the tiny boy polish off his entire bag. I don't think I've ever been able to finish an entire bag of M&M's in one sitting. This was not a 'fun size' bag or a 'kid's size' bag, but the regular size, which seems to grow bigger and bigger with the passage of time. He does so in a casual, 'I've been here before' sort of way. I believe it is safe to say that this is not his first time at the rodeo. What happened to "you will spoil your dinner"? I swear I remember my mother saying this to me quite often throughout my childhood. For the sake of full disclosure, I will tell you that I had a real sweet tooth as a child. Indeed, I thoroughly enjoyed the insulin spike of a tasty treat. But never, and I mean never, would my mother have given me a whole bag of M&M's to stuff my face with. This boy couldn't have been more than four years old, and I watched him pound 300 calories of sugar in about five minutes. I was so amazed that I even forget about the two construction workers from Chiapas who were peacefully residing under the shadow of my armpit. As soon as the bag of M&M's had been extinguished, the mother handed the child a smartphone, upon which he began to play a game. I am going to take a shot in the dark and say that the featured entertainment was not educational in any way.
My amazement turned to sadness as I began to envision this little boy's future, one in which he perhaps becomes an underpaid model for some anti-diabetes advertising campaign (who lets their child pose for these anyway?). Or perhaps he ends up on some evening news story that shows overweight children either from behind or with their faces removed from the shot. I like those news stories for their presentation of common sense principles. A heavily botoxed anchor stares into the camera proclaiming "A new study shows that if you eat too much food you will become fat!!" or "Scientists show that soda is lacking in the nutritional value that children need for proper development." Thank you for the update, you have provided some clarity on these issues that were really perplexing me. And please do not misunderstand what I am upset about. I don't think candy is inherently bad. I enjoy some candy from time to time. But anyone who thinks a four-year old should eat an entire bag of M&M's is out of their mind. What happened to some fruit? What happened to tap water? And for God's sake, what happened to children playing? This sight on the subway led to another thought that I frequently have, which seems to be the other side of the health coin for America's youth. Do children play anymore?
Was this child headed to burn off all those calories in a nearby park? Doubtful. Yes, I live in a city where outdoor recreational spaces are limited. Want to play tennis? That will be $15,000 a year plus your first born child. That beautiful swatch of grass that is the only green thing in a one mile radius? That is for looking purposes only, how dare you think that you could play on that. But this lack of outdoor activity is not limited to cities. In the last couple of years, I have been in the suburbs of New Jersey, Connecticut, New York, and Colorado. Across the board, I am amazed by how few children I see playing. Where are they? What are they doing? Are they inside watching 3-2-1 Contact, The Electric Company, and Mr. Rogers? Sorry, wrong era, that was me. Are they inside playing video games, while drinking a soda, and munching on some sort of gummy treat that is fortified with minerals and vitamins, tricking people into believing that they aren't really candy? What happened to Little League and orange slices? Gatorade used to only come out for a soccer game. The other day I saw a fat 10 year old leaving the bodega with a giant blue Gatorade, undoubtedly to rehydrate himself after an excruciating hour playing Gears of War. We are getting soft people!!!
Here is what my childhood looked like. When it snowed, we played in the snow. No one complained about it being cold out. We had a blast throwing snowballs, sledding, building forts, and eventually earning money shoveling driveways. When it was hot out, we played Wiffle Ball, rode bikes, shot baskets, and played catch. No one complained about how hot it was. We were excited to play all day, and all night, until the long summer evenings ended and we were forced to come inside. We were 'forced' to come inside. In the fall the boys played football. We played street hockey, we climbed fences, hide and seek, swam, ran around, girls and boys alike. When the ponds froze over we played hockey. When we ate candy, it was small amounts, and then we ran around for six hours straight. I don't know what happened, but things have changed. I think technology is magnificent, but it seems that children are suffering from the glut of products that are nothing more than overblown time consumers. What happened to imagination, exploration, and physical activity. I rarely see children outside anymore. The newspapers claim everyone needs more Vitamin D! Maybe it's because no one goes outside.
These thoughts raced through my head, until I suddenly realized I was at my stop. I bid the Chiapan construction workers farewell with a kind nod, and stepped off the subway into my station. I looked up and saw an advertisement for a new diet pill that would ensure that you would be sexy and slim. I think a cast member of Jersey Shore was a spokesman. The next add was a PSA decrying the evil effects of sugar in soft drinks. The last add I saw was for McDonalds. If you wonder about the allure and grip that fast food has on our nation, let me tell you this. There is a fast food restaurant (that may or may not begin with the letter M) four blocks from my apartment. I recently walked by and saw that the posted grade (required of every New York City eatery, and given by the Dept. of Health) in the window was a "C." A "C" Health Grade is akin to back alley debauchery ala Upton Sinclair era travesties. It is the first time I've seen a "C" Grade in New York. A "C" is as bad as you can get while still staying open. Getting a "C" is like failing middle school, you really have to put your mind to it, and it is still difficult to do. Walking into this restaurant is the equivalent of throwing your arms up in the air and saying "okay, I don't mind additional feces on my food that has already been treated with chemicals because of fecal contamination." There was a line out the door. You heard me correctly, a line out the door. It wasn't like anyone couldn't see the giant orange "C" grade in the window. What is going on? Where did we go wrong? And why did that boy look so sad eating an entire bag of candy? Maybe he can see the future.
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