Wednesday, 23 June 2004 | Group shriek

I heard the high-pitched and cacophonous roar several seconds before I saw its source: a gabbing and shrieking mob of children on the subway platform, charging our car. We collectively looked toward the noise as it came into focus, and, I imagine, a few people drew a slightly deeper breath in preparation for the onslaught.

Normally the train is quiet, except for the barely audible treble sneaking out of nearby headphones, the conductor (or the recorded counterpart) announcing the next stop, the singing of the brakes and the steady pulse of the tracks, or a rare conversation between people who accidentally bumped into each other.

People in the morning car ignore all sorts of things, or perhaps just endure it. The train may lurch and toss its passengers like a salad, but only quiet sorry's and excuse me's follow the upheaval. The first time they played the new terrorism warning over the train's intercom, no one batted an eyelash. A performer can sing and dance and beg for change without any recognition, and a homeless person can sleep across the bench in a crowded car and people will sit carefully on either side.

Children are a different breed. They talk over each other, their volume escalating like an approaching ambulance. If the train takes a corner too quickly, they yell in surprise, stumble over each other, and then start giggling. Rather than silently assess what stop is theirs, they call the question out into the air for anyone to answer. They don't seem to notice the advertisements that capture the gaze of the adults. Instead of slyly checking out the other passengers, they are aware only of themselves and the words that they're trying to belt out. They have a type of freedom that the adults have lost.

I find myself looking at the kids, wondering about them: what they'll each be like when they're older, what it's like to grow up in New York, who's bossy and who's shy. Sometimes I want to hit fast forward to see who they become (although in doing so, my interest would inherently wane, as I don't have the same sort of curiosity about the adults). Sometimes I'm envious that they're growing up in such a hardcore place, although more and more I'm learning to appreciate the alternative—the move from small to large. I think that mostly I just want to have a sample of their experience, just so I can know it first-hand.

The kids got off at Union Square, spilling out of the car like a gelatinous mass, taking with them their thick cloud of competing bird-like noise. The car returned to its slumber for the rest of my ride.