Right to shelter
On the subway car, I stood near the doors, studying my phone’s subway map of the 4/5/6, when a box of chocolates suddenly entered my field of vision. “Chocolate?” the voice asked in Spanish. We usually press it into two syllables, “Chock-let,” in English instead of the four “Cho-kolatte.” It was his shy, quiet voice, still uncorroded by the city or by aging, that startled me out of my focus.
Unlike East Asia’s near-frictionless public transport, New York City’s subways are a place of sensory chaos and collisions. Expect an event: a track fire, a rat sighting, train delays, the stench of urine, the threat of a fight or yet another mass shooting. After the murders of Michelle Go and Christina Yuna Lee, I try to plant myself at the center of the platform or car, far from the open tracks, and scan for any men behaving erratically. When I see the homeless or panhandlers, I feel a rising sense of fear and guilt: What’s the right thing to do here? To give or not to give? What’s the right amount to give? And am I safe?
But he was only a boy of about 12, shorter than me, with cheeks still rounded with baby fat. I glanced up to see his eyes gazing at the far end of the subway car. He had on a navy blue school backpack and held out the box of chocolates. I quickly shook my head, and he accepted my no without pushing the box at me again and walked past. In the space of those seconds, I felt overwhelmed. Snap decisions. He was so young. I should have bought a chocolate, I thought with regret, but the crowd at the end of the subway car had already swallowed him. I wondered if he was one of the 170,000 Central and South American migrants bussed to the north since Texas Governor Greg Abbott decided that it’d be a great joke on NYC and other Democrat stronghold cities across the U.S. to see how we would keep our American dream promise. How would the kid survive this city?
New York City’s nature is to change, and when I spent Lunar New Year there this winter, it became clear that Manhattan had experienced a “vibe shift,” as the kids say, since my 20s growing up there in the 2010s.
On the Long Island Rail Road, the posters warned: “six out of every 10 pills contain traces of fentanyl.” I hadn’t known about this synthetic opioid and its pervasiveness. Other ads goaded commuters to download the New York lottery app, which seemed another way to prey on hard-up people and give them a faster, easier and addictive way to lose money. The new train terminals at Grand Central (Madison) and Penn Station were beautiful monuments of seagreen subway tile, travertine marble walls, glass, light and steel. Police planted themselves at the corners and military pairs stalked the sparkling floors of Penn Station with guns slung across their chests. To me, their bulk screamed: This is our city. Cop city. The former NYPD captain Mayor Eric Adams’ New York.
Beneath the soaring arches of Penn Station’s new Moynihan Train Hall, floors intentionally lacked public seating areas in order to discourage the homeless, but this also meant people, feet tired, just sat on the floor. Inside the drug stores, basics like shampoo and soap were now kept behind lock and key. New clear plastic cases covered every shelf to stop shoplifting. You had to ask the bored, grumpy employee to unlock each case shelf by shelf. Thankfully, a few buskers inside the station still played their wind instruments or sang bachata to counteract the mood of mistrust and paranoia.
Elsewhere, the subway stops were missing buskers. No performers breakdancing, no puppet showmasters, less street vendors. Police waited by the turnstiles instead. Aboveground, a new cannabis shop with bright LED signs sold bongs, CBD and vapes. Legalized in March 2021, the cannabis business was booming. The dank smell of weed clung to the cold air outside, and it was impossible to walk a single block without passing through a haze.
Then around midtown, I saw the shocking posters. Kim Jong-un and Vladimir Putin side by side, styled and stylish: Kim wore a buttery brown trench and Putin a black moto leather jacket. Ostensibly part of PETA’s anti-leather campaign, these just looked very pro-dictator. Since they were such flattering images, I questioned if Putin/Kim money went to the hired advertising firm. What a huge misstep by PETA. But some good New Yorker soul had taken the time to scratch out their faces.
The sobering truth is that New York is different. Still recovering from the pandemic, New York was always expensive, but now the cost of living — rent and food — is absurd. After the pandemic, prices have surged with a vengeance. The median rent in Manhattan surpassed $4,000 back in January 2023. Less than 1 percent of monthly rentals is under $1,000. The price of groceries and eating out seemed about 1.5 times pre-pandemic prices. A bowl of ramen could fetch $35. A latte $8.
Part of the collective “vibe shift” toward a grimmer city is geopolitical — rocked and divided by two wars (Ukraine and Gaza), barely recovered from the pandemic and governed by a Democrat mayor who points the finger at the wave of migrants from Africa, Central and South America — asylum seekers in my mind — as criminals, the light-hearted city we knew is gone.
I haven’t forgotten how this place is filled with people seized with the energy and convictions to start from the bottom, to help and to heal others, to charge towards the fire or to take to the streets. We’ll still scratch out the faces of dictators. To the boy with the chocolates … This Land is Your Land, too.