City of Thugs

“If, on the other hand, we as a society make excuses for thugs and use pretextual claims of racism to emasculate law enforcement, we will promote the continuation of our rapid race to the bottom.”

During my commute on the New York City subway one recent morning, I was again reminded of how thoroughly powerless ordinary citizens are today against the thugs and bums that have besieged this city, as so many other cities across America.

A certain bedraggled old bum who has haunted the subway station at Canal Street and Broadway in the heart of Chinatown for many years has recently taken up residence at the nearby Grand Street station that I occasionally use for my morning commute. Today, as on many other days, he was occupying the bench, rendering it essentially uninhabitable for others, but what is worse, he was smoking a cigarette, the noxious smoke choking out what little fresh air there was in that polluted underground enclosure. Just at that moment, a transit worker happened to pass by. She saw and smelled him smoking, of course, but said nothing, going about her business. As she passed by again, I asked if there is anything that can be done. “No,” she said flatly. “You have to call the police,” she added, indicating the emergency intercom further along the platform. She would not be doing it herself, naturally. And then she went right along, passing through the shameless bum’s thickening fume-cloud on the way back to her destination.

So here I was, finding myself in this no-win situation: Press the “emergency” button and call the cops on an old homeless black man smoking in the subway, undoubtedly getting branded a racist “Karen” (or “Terry,” her lesser-known male counterpart) for speaking up, or else sit in a cloud of fumes, fuming on the inside. As countless subway riders do on countless occasions, I waited out my few minutes, got on the train, sat down, opened my book, and went on my way.