The doors slid open, and a flood of people squeezed into the subway car. What was cold, crisp-smelling subway air had now mixed and merged with the hundreds of people joining me on the subway.
The subway jolted forward, and we all swayed together, a mess of strangers sharing the same square of space. What was my own personal space one stop earlier became the same space of the others around me. There is no room to move, no space to claim as my own. Yet in that moment, surrounded by strangers all headed somewhere, I felt like I had stumbled into the truest version of America.
I was headed to visit my sister, who was at a two-week-long camp at Boston College. I wanted to stop and get coffee before we met with her, so I convinced my mom and dad that we could ride separately since I wanted to make a detour at Blank Street Coffee Shop, the best coffee place in my opinion.
It had been two weeks since I had seen my sister, but it felt much shorter. I remember I had gone on a beach trip with my friend the first week she was gone, and I had gone up to New York the week after. In New York, I mostly ate and shopped, and then I took an Amtrak all the way to Boston, meeting up with my parents to see my sister.
This coffee trip was a minor event in my life, but around me, people travelled to bigger destinations: work shifts and job interviews, doctors’ appointments and lectures, maybe even flights to catch as I noticed a few suitcases. The subway is filled with stories like these, each passenger chasing something – an opportunity, a dream, or simply a home.
In the silence between stops, I heard fragments of at least five different languages. A little boy was talking to himself, holding his mother’s hand. Across from me, a nurse in scrubs leaned against the door; she had a large duffel bag that was probably hurting her back. Next to her, a man in a suit scrolled through his phone with a coffee in hand while a college student in sweatpants dozed off.
None of us know each other, but for these few stops we shared the same space, the same breath, and the same forward motion. The constant motion, restless energy, and mix of faces and stories come to mind when I think of America.
Rush hour is not glamorous – especially in the morning. The air is sticky, the seats are scarce, and the stops are unpredictable. A sudden lurch threw us all forward, which forced me to cling to the silver pole as my feet slid. Someone sighed in frustration. Someone else laughed. Through all of this, however, all I cared about was going to Blank Street, meeting my sister, and continuing to shop on Newbury Street after we had picked her up.
All I could observe was the hustle as people endured the crowded, noisy, inconvenient ride because they believed in what lies ahead in their lives.
What struck me the most during this time was the diversity. Everyone in the car had completely different lives, lives that ran parallel to mine but would never collide. Just by watching them, I could see many different cultures and lifestyles, which made me realize the beauty of this country. I heard many different languages and saw many different occupations, which made me realize how vast the world is.
Although I used to dread riding the subway during rush hour, I realized that I actually admire it. The subway is a mini America: messy, crowded, imperfect, and yet full of possibility. Every passenger carries a story, a destination, a dream, and for a few stops, those dreams travel together.
At 13, this mattered even more. Sitting there, away from my parents, I felt a new sense of independence. I remember being proud of convincing them to let me go on my own detour, even if it was only for coffee. For me, that subway ride represented not just the diversity of America but also the freedom to make my own small choices, to step out of my comfort zone, and to start discovering the world for myself.
It was a moment where I realized that being American also meant learning to walk or, in this case, ride forward on my own.
When the subway called for Copley Square, the doors finally opened, and I stepped out into the warm subway air. I felt like I had made a connection with the people around me, even though we never exchanged words. I remember 13-year-old me thinking I was so independent, heading out on my own adventure aside from my parents. The car behind me was still packed, noisy, and moving forward.
That is how I see America: not always comfortable, nor easy, but always surging with energy, filled with millions of people chasing and dreaming of opportunity and believing that – if they keep moving – they will arrive where they need to be. For me, that means knowing that my own journey, whether small like a coffee stop or big like the futures those on the subway were chasing, is part of the larger motion of this country. The subway reminded me that America is not just a place where people dream; it is a place where those dreams move forward together, even if only for a few shared stops.