Between the lines, p.1
Between the Lines, page 1
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For my family, all of you.
Introduction
To write about the entirety of New York City is an impossible thing to do. The city is too grand yet too personal, too elusive yet too concrete. When we talk about the city, we can’t just describe a place and its people, a dream and its destination. When we talk about New York, we have to talk about the world, which gathers here to find itself. The place that singularly illuminated for me what connects us on this journey, is the underground.
I arrived in New York City in 2013 and felt like I was late to the party. Many of my friends were lifelong New Yorkers who had already lived through the best and the worst of times. Others I knew attempted to move here and left after a few years, defeated. What sparked my curiosity was the promise of extraordinary stories. I couldn’t wait to meet the people who called themselves New Yorkers and whose sheer existence in such an unpredictable and relentless place seemed to hold some kind of secret. After I landed in a Brooklyn sublet with no air-conditioning during a particularly hot summer, I had a hunch that my boundless enthusiasm would not last forever. I needed to observe the city with fresh eyes while I had the chance. I signed up for workshops and classes, went to parties and events, joined and formed artist groups, and spent every free moment walking through all corners of the city, ferociously inhaling its newness. However, my approach quickly proved to be too broad and therefore quite futile. People didn’t have time! Neighborhoods were changing overnight! As soon as I felt familiar with someone or someplace, they had already moved on. But between destinations, something caught my eye. The subway. It connected the dots.
Unlike the streets aboveground, the subway slowly, if ever, changes. It’s the city’s beating heart that never stops. It’s also one of the few places where the ever-rushing inhabitants of New York City have to stand still—if you can get on a train to begin with. Countless times I swiped my MetroCard at the Clinton–Washington Avenues station only to find out that it was empty yet again, which often caused me to miss my train. At the vending machine, I faced the innocent but profoundly existential question of whether I wanted to add value or time to my card—a choice that could really stop me in my tracks if I let it. During rush hour, I squeezed into a funny shape to avoid being thrust face-forward into a stranger’s armpit. Feet stepped on other feet. Eyes avoided other eyes. Hands felt for a spot on the handrail that wasn’t warm or wet. At every station, more people packed their bodies into nonexistent spaces, creating a tight, involuntary group hug. As a small-town girl from Germany who had spent a decade on the West Coast living at a more leisurely pace, I was immensely frustrated and equally fascinated by the subway. When I discussed the G train’s erratic behavior in one of my artist groups, it hit me. Since I believed in the “finding-clarity-in-chaos” theory, was the subway a portal to a side of the city where I would find something extraordinary? I decided to follow my instinct and started to ride the subway whenever I could, at all hours of the day, with no destination in mind.
On a cold winter morning, I rode the B train over the Manhattan Bridge. I stood by a window because I loved seeing the East River and the Statue of Liberty, with her torch gleaming in the sunlight. The train was fairly empty. It was one of those days where it was so quiet, you’d think you were the only person in the city if you closed your eyes. As usual, I looked up and around, unlike others, who were sleeping or busy with their phones. Unexpectedly, my gaze met that of a young woman at the other end of the train. Our eye contact lasted much longer than subway etiquette allowed. It was uncomfortable and it also felt like an invitation. I decided to go over to her and, since she held a book in her hands, ask what she was reading. Hana told me she was a sci-fi fan, which explained Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, and that she was on her way to a rehearsal at the dance company Alvin Ailey. Spontaneously, I jotted down our conversation and asked if I could take Hana’s picture to commemorate the moment. She agreed. We only rode one stop together, but I felt electrified. I had caught a glimpse into another world.
After talking to Hana, the subway became my unofficial office and my second living room. I surrendered to its oceanic flow, and with every ride I understood the city, its layout, and its boroughs a little bit better. I felt how the collective mood of the city would shift based on current events, and I started to see who I shared space with. The subway carried people from all seven continents, of all ages and backgrounds. Enemy nations gently touched knees on rows of plastic seats. This diversity wasn’t restricted to the commuters—it also extended to the literature they held in their hands. I saw people with bestselling novels, experimental poetry collections, self-help books brimming with sticky notes, provocative memoirs, and well-loved classics. When I asked about their choice of book, each reader had their own story, too—stories I began to document. The conversations lasted longer and grew deeper. I put more care into my photography and asked more questions. I started to understand the importance of storytelling by the people for the people, and that local stories, much like local food, create a different connection to your home. Slowly but steadily, my experiment evolved into a place for community.
Over the last seven years, Subway Book Review has become many things to many people. Some say it’s a movement. Some say it’s a social media project. To me, it’s a documentation of who we are and where we are going.
The more I talk to readers in the underground—unquestionably some of the most imaginative and empathetic people—the more I realize that books are a reflection of our identities and souls. Books reflect everything we are and everything we wish we could be. At Broadway–Lafayette station I met Verena, who read No One Tells You This, and talked about living a meaningful life as a child-free woman. At Columbus Circle, Saima told me that They Say, I Say helped her to address hurtful confrontations about her hijab. Larry shared his experience as a foster kid in Queens with me during a conversation about Becoming. Emmanuel read De perfil and described what it felt like to be a Mexican immigrant in today’s America.
I also started to connect the dots aboveground. M Train by Patti Smith and a chicken coop sighting in the middle of Brooklyn brought a grieving photographer named Ellie peace after her mother’s passing. Her story made me want to find the person behind the chicken coop. It took a few months, but eventually I sat down with Gregory Anderson, the man who had built not one but several chicken coops all over the city in response to 9/11. Some conversations I had a chance to revisit, like the one with Kamau Ware, who became one of my closest friends over our shared love for public spaces. Others were fleeting. I’ll never forget the day in 2018 when I randomly saw Ta-Nehisi Coates on the 6 train, reading Ill Fares the Land by Tony Judt. We only rode one stop together, but his generosity filled me up as if we had sat down for one hour. Other people, like Jacques Aboaf and Ashley Levine, I ran into multiple times in different parts of town. Each conversation opened up a chapter about dreams, fears, hopes, and secrets. Each encounter seemed less like happenstance and more like an intentional opportunity to broaden my horizons.
Like the city itself, I’ve had to evolve and adapt over the years. The arrival of the internet service on subways in 2017 meant fewer commuters with printed books in tow. Sometimes I saw a promising-looking tote bag and was delighted when someone revealed their current read. In addition to talking to strangers, I also started to ask interesting people to meet me at their favorite subway station. In 2020, when the pandemic and white supremacists turned our lives upside down, I interviewed people over the phone, like Waris Ahluwalia and Jamel Shabazz, or met them outside at a distance, like Wendy Goodman. But even as we experienced the unfathomable, we shared our journeys and we felt close.
Between the Lines is a collection of some my favorite encounters. Each one has shown me that our connections are endless. I’ve talked to people in all five boroughs. I’ve ridden every train line end to end. I’ve laughed, cried, and hugged more strangers than I can count, but of course not all conversations have been easy. Some hit my blind spots, and some hurt my soul. I’ve heard personal accounts of loss, discrimination, hate, and other threats that many people face daily and desperately wish to escape from. Each book built a bridge, not just for the readers but also for me, leading into other lives and possibilities. Each story gave me the chance to learn and unlearn what I thought about my place in the world. After talking to over a thousand people, I’ve come to realize that these conversations aren’t about one person’s knowledge or lack thereof. The point is to share each other’s reality and truth for a moment.
This book is my attempt to capture some of these moments. I can’t depict the experiences of eight million New Yorkers, and I don’t pretend to have done that here. Inevitably, by the time you read this, some people portrayed in Between the Lines will have changed jobs, moved away, or seen their stars fall or rise higher. Such is the life of a New Yorker. No matter where you find yourself holding this book, I hope their stories and ideas inspire you to live boldly. We are in dire need of people who are committed to moving us forward. For this to happen, it is necessary to see th at the world belongs to you only as much as you are willing to belong to the world.
In The Peregrine, a book I picked up because it came highly recommended by one of my favorite documentarians, Werner Herzog, a line reads: “The hardest thing of all to see is what is really there.” How lucky we are to find a moment where we can see each other clearly. Where we can meet people we don’t know, and go places we’ve never been to through their stories. Our world is changing at lightning speed. This is the time to remember that we are meant to be a wonder for each other.
I often think about what astrophysicist Moiya McTier said about this to me at 81st Street station in front of a mural of our solar system. She summed up perfectly what the underground had been whispering into my ear for years. On the cosmic scale of the universe, an individual life matters very little. It can be missed in the blink of an eye. But on Earth, every thought and every action matters. Right here, right now, you make all the difference.
Julie Helquist
Just Kids by Patti Smith
Just Kids is about Patti Smith’s arrival in New York City, where she meets her soul mate Robert Mapplethorpe. They are lovers at first, but as their relationship grows, they become friends and kindred spirits instead. After they share an important part of their lives with each other, Robert sets out on a path where Patti can’t follow him. Her writing is so captivating, and with the glasses of youth everything is new to her. She’s inexperienced but you can feel the raw power that will inform the woman she will become. I think it’s so cool that Patti can still tune into that side of herself later in life. I hope there’s always a part of me that’s open to grow.
Do you have words you live by?
There’s a quote I really like that’s often falsely attributed to Ursula K. Le Guin. It says, “The creative adult is the child who survived.” I think it’s true that our curiosity and our appetite for life have to be preserved at all costs.
Metropolitan Avenue/Lorimer Street station
Brooklyn, 2014
Jazmine Hughes
We Live for the We: The Political Power of Black Motherhood by Dani McClain
I moved to New York during Hurricane Sandy, and it was an intense moment to arrive. Everybody was rightfully stressed out and I was like, “Let’s take my mattress off the truck, Dad.” My first job was at New York magazine and I was so overeager, I kept asking for things to do during the storm. Now that I think about it, I arrived in the middle of one of the city’s biggest stories and my first inclination was to report it, which is representative of what my life has turned out to be. I’ve lived here for eight years, and for the first four years, I almost single-handedly kept up the dollar-slice pizza economy. Now I do $4 and $5 slices.
Who do you think is an iconic New Yorker?
Brian Lehrer, the kids who hustle on the train, and Joey Chestnut, the thirteen-year champion of Nathan’s hot-dog-eating contest, are definitely emblematic of New York—and so is every woman who has ever carried a stroller down the subway stairs. Give them Olympic medals!
What does this book say about Black motherhood?
Any motherhood is one of protection, but Black mothers have to triple down because their child is under siege from the moment they’re born. Imagine looking at your baby every day, knowing that they can go out into the world and never come back to you. I think Black motherhood involves more world building.
Are you doing any kind of world building for yourself?
My entire life has been in pursuit of power, and now I’m finally widening my definition of what that means. When I first moved to New York, power meant wearing a suit, getting paid lots of money, and being your own boss. Now I know that it comes in many different forms. Magazines and newspapers are incredible vessels of power, and when I realized that I could tell stories and speak to people, I was like, “This is all I want to do.” I think New York has given me the strength to build exactly the world I want to live in.
Nostrand Avenue station
Brooklyn, 2019
Poph Kanchanavasutha
The Greatest Salesman in the World by Og Mandino
This is my first time on the subway ever. I’m in New York to study and have only been here for two weeks. I heard that subway rides take a while, so I brought a book. [Laughs.] The Greatest Salesman in the World is about rich guys, their habits, their stories, and how you can become like them. I’m reading the book to improve my language skills. Each page is written in English and in Thai. The instructions say to reread every chapter for thirty days before moving on to the next one. That means it will take me 300 days to read this book. I hope I finish it before I go back to Thailand.
Court Square station
Queens, 2015
Douglas Ross
The Rise and Fall of a Theater Geek by Seth Rudetsky
So far this book seems to be about a young theater geek and his first trip to New York City. I just picked it up and have to confess that I know the author. He’s the husband of my ex-boyfriend and we’ve been friends for at least ten years. I’m here to visit them, and they told me about a new bookstore in their neighborhood, but they said nothing about his book being sold there. Of course I bought it to support him.
Is this your first trip to New York City?
Oh, definitely not. [Laughs.] The first time I came to New York was in the late ’60s and I’ve loved it since then. I actually calculated it recently and I think I’ve been here well over 200 times. I remember my first trip vividly. I came here with my mom and my sister and we went to see the Statue of Liberty and Radio City Music Hall. Everybody should come to New York at least once in their lifetime.
C Train
Manhattan, 2017
Diana Schlossberg
Orlando: A Biography by Virginia Woolf
My name is Jacob Diana Schlossberg, but for casual acquaintances and people I work with I’m Diana Schlossberg. Once I moved from Chicago to New York City, I saw reflections of myself everywhere. There are some experiences of seeing yourself in New York that feel very joyful and there are some moments when seeing yourself is scary. Part of me feels like I left Chicago to come out as nonbinary, but after my move I realized that I’m still in this body, regardless of the city I’m in. It’s like when you look for an apartment and you see pictures of a beautiful, bright place thanks to a good staging company. Then you move in and you’re like, “Wait, it’s really dark, what’s going on here?” I thought I was going to come to New York and immediately turn into a beautiful apartment. [Laughs.] Instead, I still have to work on myself, just like I would on any other piece of art that exists in this city.
How did you arrive at Diana?
My mother has a deep love for Diana, Princess of Wales. Whenever Lady Diana cut her hair, my mom would get the same haircut. It’s an affinity I’ve inherited. Diana’s star sign is Cancer. She was the most nurturing person and articulated herself beautifully in this world. I try to act in her image. My twenty-first birthday was Princess Diana themed. I asked everybody to dress up as a different Lady Di, and nobody was allowed to wear her wedding dress but me. I bought a vintage gown and wore a ten-foot train in a tiny East Village apartment. It was a very special night. That was the first time I allowed myself to put on a gown—not a dress, but a real gown—and I felt all these feelings awaken, like the Little Mermaid. [Laughs.] I would say that birthday and reading Orlando by Virginia Woolf have fueled my transition more than anything.
Tell me everything about Orlando!
Orlando is a lord in England and he lives for 500 years—I watched the Sally Potter film with Tilda Swinton in high school before I discovered this book. What I value about the story is that it shows Orlando’s radical change of sex. One day, Orlando wakes up and is a woman. For a long time, what stopped me from pursuing my transition was that I genuinely thought, “Okay, maybe one day I will wake up and be exactly who I want to be.” Any kind of transition is in fact not sudden. It’s an extremely hard and long process. I think we get to have multiple arrivals in New York, because the city brings us closer to ourselves in a cyclical way. The two things I’ve fallen in love with most so far are my reflection in the window of a building and my shadow on the sidewalk.
