Page 96 - A Woman Is No Man

In the darkness of the platform, Deya bit her fingertips and stared
anxiously around her, the racket of passing trains making her jump. A man
caught her attention as he walked to the end of the platform. He unzipped

his pants and a stream of water began to pour onto the tracks in front of
him. It took her a few moments to realize he was urinating. Her breath came
in short bursts and she turned away, focusing her attention on a rat
scurrying across the tracks. Soon she heard another rattle, then a faint
whistling sound. Looking up, she could see a light shining from a tunnel
beyond the end of the platform. It was the R train. She took a deep breath as
it zoomed past her and shuddered to a halt.

Inside the train was loud, crammed with the onslaught of daily life.
Around her people stared absently ahead or into their phones, transfixed.
They were Italian, Chinese, Korean, Mexican, Jamaican—every ethnicity
Deya could possibly imagine—yet something about them seemed so
American. What was it? Deya thought it was the way they spoke—their
voices loud, or at least louder than hers. It was the way they stood

confidently on the train, not apologizing for taking up the space.
Watching them, she understood yet again what it meant to be an
outsider. She kept picturing them looking down at her like a panel of
judges. What are you? she imagined them thinking. Why are you dressed
this way? She could see the judgment brewing in their eyes. She could feel
them observing how scared she was standing there, how unassuredly she
moved, the garb she wore, and deciding instantly that they knew everything

about her. Surely she was the victim of an oppressive culture, or the
enforcer of a barbaric tradition. She was likely uneducated, uncivilized, a
nobody. Perhaps she was even an extremist, a terrorist. An entire race of
culture and experiences diluted into a single story.
The trouble was, regardless of what they saw, or how little they thought
of her, in her own eyes Deya didn’t see herself much better. She was a soul

torn down the middle, broken in two. Straddled and limited. Here or there,
it didn’t matter. She didn’t belong.
It took her nearly five minutes of squeezing through the train to find an
empty seat. A woman had moved her leather suitcase so she could sit. Deya
studied her. Bright skin. Honey-colored hair. Perfectly round tortoiseshell
glasses. She looked so confident, sitting there in a tiny black dress. Her legs
were long and lean, and Deya caught a whiff of her perfume. Flowers. Deya

thought she must be someone important. If only she, Deya, could be