New York City
On Tuesday the New York subway turned 122. It opened on Oct. 27, 1904, when Mayor George McClellan took the controls of the first train himself, and by evening the public was riding for a nickel. The fare bought an unwritten promise: that strangers could share a small, dark, fast place and arrive alive.
The birthday trended on X. So, the same week, did the opposite.
On Oct. 17, Darrel Rodriguez, 26, a security guard heading home to the Bronx after his shift, was shot once in the chest on the E platform at Seventh Avenue and 53rd Street after an argument, police say, with a stranger. A 17-year-old surrendered with his lawyer on Oct. 22 and was charged as an adult with murder and weapons possession. He is accused, not convicted.
On Wednesday, News 12 reported a string of Brooklyn subway robberies aimed at teenagers: a 15-year-old allegedly robbed at gunpoint at Church Avenue, a 16-year-old allegedly held with a box cutter at Union Street ten days later.
Then came a video. X’s trending summary describes a widely shared clip of a commuter who, crowded by an aggressive passenger, stays calm and then drops him with one elbow, to general applause. I cannot vouch for the clip; I have only the summary. But the applause is the story.
When a public cheers a private enforcer, it is not praising violence. It is sending a bill to those who were supposed to keep the peace.
Edmund Burke, in 1790, withheld his applause for a revolution in love with liberty until he saw how it was combined with “peace and order, with civil and social manners.” Without these, he wrote, “liberty is not a benefit whilst it lasts, and is not likely to continue long.”
That is ordered liberty in a sentence. The freedom to ride a train is the fruit of rules: the officer who is seen, the court that acts, the neighbor who says “not here.” Burke also knew where it starts: “to love the little platoon we belong to in society, is the first principle (the germ, as it were) of public affections.” A crowded car is, for four minutes, such a platoon.
So the lesser quarrel on X, over backpacks swinging into strangers, is not so silly. Manners are the lowest rung of law. A city that cannot ask a man to take off his bag will struggle to ask another to put down his gun.
Neither panic nor shrug. Prosecute what must be prosecuted, patrol where riders ride, and let a jury, not a comment section, decide guilt. Between statute and street, mind the small things: give up the seat, shed the bag, meet a stranger’s eye.
The 1904 nickel bought more than a ticket. It bought a bargain, and bargains are kept by people.
References
Photo by Annie Hatuanh on Unsplash
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