Get Out of the Way

When I first moved to Washington, DC, my friend Joe had been there for six whole weeks. He was near the end of a summer internship at a Capitol Hill news shop. Joe and I went to the same college at a small town in Ohio. Seventy percent of the population in town belonged to a fraternity or sorority. Joe and I didn’t belong to any. We became friends because we had a hard time associating with others.
So as my friend, Joe felt obligated to help me navigate DC. He started with the metro. When we were standing on an escalator at the Dupont Circle station, he told me: “You don’t want to stand on the left. The left half is for people who want to walk or run.” He leaned closer and whispered to me: “People will yell at you if you stand on the left AND they think you are a tourist.” He then leaned back, nodding and looking at me from a corner of his eye with an eyebrow lifted, as if saying: “I know you think it’s ridiculous, but don’t say I didn’t tell you.” I did think it was ridiculous, so I said: “How long does it take for us to stand and ride up? Thirty seconds? How many seconds can you save by racing to the top? Ten seconds? Big deal!” I was also annoyed by his patronizing manner. He had been in DC for less than two months and he thought he knew so much better than me.
Several days later, Joe went back to Ohio to finish college. I stayed. He called me and said he missed DC. He missed the Capitol, the Krispy Kreme shop at Dupont Circle, and cab drivers who listen to C-SPAN radio and talk politics with all sorts of accents. Most of all, he missed the metro. He said he always felt lifted up in the morning riding to Union Station, when a train conductor announced: “This is the red train to Glenmont,” and dragged out the “en” so it became “GLEEEN-mont.” He wanted to leave Ohio as soon as possible.
I was sympathetic. I didn’t just leave that small town in Ohio. I fled it. It’s pretty and cozy. People were nice. But I resented been told: “You don’t look like you grew up in China. You are quite fashionable.” I also got tired of answering questions like “How did you manage to escape from China?”
In DC, nobody make any effort to welcome me to America. Almost everyone is from somewhere else. I can hear at least three languages at any random Starbucks anytime. No one seems to think they need to speak English slower to me. No one bothers to teach me how to dress American.
I’ve been in this city for more than three years now. When I ride the metro, I mostly stand on the escalators and wait for them to hoist me to the top. I’m too lazy to harvest the ten seconds I can save by walking up, even if I’m late for work. I stand strictly on the right, and I have developed an inconsolable anger at people who stand on the left, even though they are not in my way. It was just timid frustration when I was still relatively new in town, as I wasn’t sure whether I should identify with the locals or the newbies who are still learning their way around. I was also not sure whether it’s legitimate to fuss over such a trivial thing. The feeling grew steadier and stronger as I began to see myself as one of the town folks. I also understood the anger wasn’t about not being able to run and save time at all. It’s about preserving an etiquette, an etiquette agreed upon and diligently observed by all Washingtonians. It’s about protecting a norm, a norm to acknowledge that people have diverse needs and that all options should be kept open to accommodate the needs. In a city with such a fluid population, etiquette and norms can only be maintained if they are told to newcomers and visitors. The act is a little condescending but not hostile. It’s just one way to help newbies blend in.
Small town and big city America have different ways to say “Welcome to our town.” The former says: “You poor thing from a developing country, please enjoy America’s freedom and prosperity.” The latter says: “I am not in your business if you are not in my way,” as is exemplified in the metro escalator admonition. I appreciate both, but I’m more comfortable with big city’s tough love. In a small town, I am always a poor thing from a communist country. In a city like Washington DC, I have a shot at becoming a local.
Yet despite my strong feelings about enforcing law and order, I never spoke up and told the left-standers to move. I get nervous when I have to raise my voice, and my accent thickens when I’m nervous, so what should have sounded righteous and dignified would come out an unintelligible and embarrassing blur. I always feel redeemed, when someone else finally shouts: “ Could you please not stand on the left!” and watch those blocking the pathway scurry and scramble. I feel justice is upheld.
I kept my silence until most recently. One morning I emerged from the Capitol South station. The crowd split into two lines at the bottom of the escalator. People who wanted to wait to be heaved up moved the the right. Those who needed to rush charged along the left lane. I inched toward the right, getting ready to enjoy the twenty-seconds of doing-nothingness while the escalator hauled me to the top. The hustling rhythm on the left halted abruptly, when a young man in front of me stepped on to the escalator and stopped. He was in a T-shirt and blue jeans and carried a back-pack. He hang his head over a city map and was apparently unaware of his surroundings. With a surge of anger and a sense of justice, I cleared my throat, and said loudly and deliberately: “Excuse me!” Everyone around jerked their heads towards me, including the young man. I then jabbed my thumb toward the right and said: “Would you mind?” He appeared startled, and scrambled to move out of my way. I strode up wearing some remnant indignation on my face. But inside, I felt ecstatic. I felt I just completed a rite of passage. I defended the law of MY city. In a city where everyone is from somewhere else, I’m finally one of the locals.