By Monica Rae Summers Gonzalez
Mind Your F****** Business
My mother is a fierce New Yorker. Whenever she tells us a story of her encounters with strangers on the street – usually some form of her fighting – it always culminates in her giving the offending party a tongue lashing and her now infamous line, “First of all, mind your fucking business, second of all….” and on it goes.
I always admire how easily words come to her. How quickly she is to defend herself and those around her. A champion in a verbal sparring match, her skills trained and honed by her years growing up in 1970s Brooklyn. No one fucks with New Yorkers who grew up during the 70s. They learned to wield their words like fists, and with a few quick jabs, can bring anyone with a slick comment to their knees, their ego laid out and bloodied.
I was under the impression these skills were inheritable, passed down through the blood like her long black curly hair and easy smile. Or like a superhero – my verbal prowess would be awoken when I would need it most. My clever words would render their opponents unconscious when the time was right.
“If I have a problem with someone, they’ll knowwwww,” I would peacock to my friends during adolescence.
After all, I’m a Puerto Rican woman born in Brooklyn to two other Puerto Ricans born in Brooklyn. It’s in the blood.
But time and again, I’ve found that words have failed me. Pale-faced and sallow, I shrink into myself. Then emotions swell, push up against the seams of my body, desperately seeking a way out. It’s like I’m an over-inflated balloon, but no needle can puncture my skin to make me pop.
My husband, Brian, and I had been waiting for the subway to arrive for the last 50 minutes. L trains delayed in both directions. The platform was crowded with grouchy Brooklynites trying to make their way into the city. The train finally arrived to our relief.
If you have ever been to New York, you know that being in a subway car is like being a sardine in a can. There is no sense of personal space – and the little that you do have is coveted. Hands brush, bodies touch. Your personal space at that point is mental. It’s what you sign up for when you tap your card and walk through the turnstile.
We were pushed against the doors, with a larger man to the left of us. His backpack brushed my thigh a few times and he apologized for breaching my space. Because that’s what you do. That’s subway etiquette.
But then I feel another touch, like seeking nudges. Curious touches. Must have been the bag. The sensation so brief. Then again. But this time closer to my womanhood. I look towards the man with the backpack. He is wearing large sunglasses, a worn grey hoodie, and dirty work pants. One arm lazily gripping the over head bar and the other hooked in the pocket of his pants by his thumb. The rest of the hand dangling free. From what I can tell, his eyes are closed. I shrink.
You see, in moments like this, it’s hard to discern what is reality. There is the factual reality: we are in an overly crowded subway car. Something is touching me. I don’t like it.
Then there is the ambiguity of intentional reality; is this purposeful or accidental?
It’s the intentional reality that glues my mouth shut, even as my head screams at me to say something. Anything.
“Um, excuse me, –” no, not forward enough.
“Hey man, mind putting your hands in your pocket? I think you’re accidentally touching me.” You’re letting him off the hook! He’s clearly doing it on purpose.
“First of all, mind you’re fucking –” he could also be doing it by accident. You wanna come out of the gate swinging like that?
I begin to swell as my mind continues to contend with itself.
I take a deep breath…and angle myself away from the touch.
The train arrives at the next stop. Passengers shuffle on and off as Brian and I reorient ourselves, facing each other. The man unmoved. A young woman rushes for the train, and squeezes in just as the doors close. She is young and beautiful with glowing brown skin and a fashionable, colorful outfit. She is now standing next to this man.
I lean my head onto Brian’s chest as the train begins to pull away from the station.
Angled away. I inflate. I have seen my mother put on those verbal sparring gloves against a stranger for less than that wondering touch. Last I spoke to her, she recounted a recent linguistic brawl with a man on a crowded bus because his elbow kept poking her in the ribs. She didn’t question the intentional reality. There was only her reality, and she had all the confidence that it was the right one.
The man’s hand continues to dangling limply from his pocket. Then, they slowly spread and begin searching. Fingers swimming behind him in lazy breast strokes towards the beautiful young woman. My eyes dart between her and the man. She keeps her face neutral, as I imagine she too, begins questioning factual and intentional reality, and I want to assure her – there is no questioning. This man’s hands are seeking and slithering as he pretends to sleep.
If not for myself, then for her – this is textbook stuff. “If you see something, say something” the MTA used to blast that messaging all the time.
I wait for that generational skill to make itself known. The unfiltered ferocity to unleash itself from deep within me. As my mother would have done. I wait for my figurative sparring gloves to appear.
I wait.
The train arrives at the next stop. The young woman gets off, as do most of the other passengers. We shuffle into a new orientation.
We get off a few stops later.
But I’m still waiting.
Monica Rae Summers Gonzalez is a Brooklyn-born actress, artist, and writer whose voice is shaped by her Puerto Rican roots and New York grit, often examining how we come to terms with inheritance and identity in ordinary moments. She lives in New York with her husband and two cats. @_monicarae_