Work Wednesday
The deadly crash on Washington's Metro Red Line last week is a true tragedy for the nine people who were killed and for their families and friends. I didn't know any of them personally but that hardly matters.
Since the June 22 train wreck, I've found myself drawn to the articles and stories about the crash victims and survivors. (Although it seems like everyone else switched focus in a flash to Michael Jackson's strange death. And even stranger life.) As with the sketches of the September 11 victims, I've felt somehow compelled to read -- and learn something about-- each of the nine people who died, from the young woman who was about to open her own beauty salon to the older couple riding home together from volunteer orientation at the Walter Reed Medical Center. I've grieved for each death.
There's been something else, too, underneath these emotions: anxiety, unease, perhaps agitation. Even while on vacation this week -- in what seems like a million miles from the District -- in the high desert of central Oregon.
Stripped down, I think what's bothering me is simple: it could have been me who died. Or my husband and children. Or -- more likely -- all of us.
You see, we're Red Line regulars. We take the train, together, downtown and back, to our jobs and child care center. (At least we were until the past two years when we shifted our primary commute from train to car because of the location of my daughter's preschool. Come the fall, when she begins at the local kindergarten, we'll -- three, not four -- be back on a daily basis.) During that time, I've always felt (the ever-constant possibility of a terrorist attack aside) that Metro is safe. It was supposed to be virtually crash-proof.
It's not an overstatement to say that Metro and my family have been intertwined. We traveled by train every workday with our infant daughter when we lived in our D.C. condo, and when we searched for a house in the close-in suburbs, a key criteria was "walkability" to the Metro. We shopped for a stroller that would commute easily (the Maclaren Triumph -- 11 lbs. and collapsible) and found a diaper bag that would stand up to the ride.
There have even been Metro milestones. I remember holding my then 14-month old daughter in my arms on the escalator, the first time she spoke in a full sentence (and waved and smiled) to the people rushing down the steps in the morning. (I managed the kid. My husband, the gear.) And, a few years later, moving from single to double stroller, one to two packages of essential Metro provisions (sippy cups and Cheerios bags) when my son joined our lives and our commute. We'd periodically meet up with other Metro-stroller families, and realize how much our own children were growing and changing when we'd see theirs.
At its best, our Metro commute has been a wonderful way to start and end our workdays. On a good day, we'd whisk up and down the Metro escalators and elevators, find seats that could accommodate us and our strollers, read lots of books, eat Cheerios, play peekaboo, and laugh. At its worst, it's been hot, crowded, and slow (with sometimes a train going dark or out-of service), usually on a day when one (or both) kid was ravingly tired and cranky.
A few times (thankfully few), it's been a commuter's nightmare, not just for us but for everyone in our Metro car. Like the day my daughter -- for no apparent reason -- screamed so violently on the train that she threw up all over me. My husband wasn't with me that day and I'm still grateful to the two commuting mommies who got us off the train and calmed us both down.
Of course, even our worst Metro experience doesn't approach the awfulness of the accident. As the gruesome images were broadcast on TV last Monday night, we received phone calls and emails from friends as far away as London checking to make sure that we were OK. We were. We are. But for now, I'll hold my breath just a little (after all, fatal car accidents are much, much more frequent) when we -- my children -- ride the Red Line. And realize, once again, how our ride through parenthood affects the way we react to the world.
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