What Is America to Me?

It was 2:30 on a Saturday afternoon. Three well-dressed middle-aged Chinese women were standing in the aisle of the Manhattan-bound R train as it meandered beneath Brooklyn. Two of them were carrying large shopping bags, and all three were talking quietly amongst themselves?so quietly, in fact, that, even hushed as the rest of the train was, I could barely hear them from where I was sitting, just a few feet away.

Then a fourth voice arose from across the aisle, behind them. A gruff old man's voice, speaking in a rapid-fire Italian that grew in intensity until he was almost screaming. The women paused briefly, glancing at each other, then down at this new voice, before continuing with their conversation.

After a few minutes, the Italian voice?it took me a second to recognize that this was happening?slid into perfectly understandable English.

"Shut...the fuck...up," the old man growled. Then, after a brief pause, he repeated himself, more forcefully. "Shut...the fuck...up." My ears perked up. I still hadn't seen this man?only heard him from the other side of these three women. "Yeah," he rasped, "I can speak English. You bet I can. I can speak five languages."

Only then did it become apparent that he wasn't just another subway ranter filled with unspecified hatreds?he was addressing these women directly.

"Speak English!" he yelled suddenly. "You come to this country, you learn to speak the language! I speak five languages?and when I'm here in America, I speak English! You know how to speak English? Then do it! You come here, you live in America, you take our American money, you learn to speak the language!" The more he spoke, the more his Irish brogue slipped solidly into place. He wasn't Italian at all.

The women tried to ignore him, but couldn't. They stopped talking and simply stared at one another, their eyes fearful, obviously not knowing what to expect, or what to do. The rest of the car had likewise gone completely silent now. The minute the train pulled into the next station and opened its doors, the three women were gone?whether that was their stop or they were making a panicked dash for the next car, I can't say. That's when I saw their aggressor for the first time. He was a short but burly man in his mid-50s, with thinning red hair and a ruddy face, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. He hardly looked like your typical subway ranter. He was just a man with strong opinions?a man who, perhaps, had been pushed too far once too often.

He leaned forward on the plastic bench, bobbing his head in quick rhythm, whispering to himself the names of all the upcoming stations.

A few stops later, just past Whitehall, two college-aged kids?both male, both white, both of whom had gotten on the train shortly after the Chinese women had gotten off?were standing near the old man, speaking to each other in Spanish.

That did it. After repeating the same "Italian rant/shut the fuck up" routine, he was on his feet, hunched like he was ready to pounce, jabbing his finger in the air towards them.

"You aren't impressing anybody!" he barked. "So just speak English. I live in America, and I love America. I was a prisoner of war in Vietnam! I fought in Korea, and I love America! I speak English." The two boys had stopped talking, but weren't looking at him, having suddenly become very interested in the tops of their shoes.

"I was born in Ireland, and I love Ireland, too," he continued. "Ya know Sinn Fein? Ya heard of that? Know what it means? It means 'Ourselves Alone.' I came to America, and I love America, though I hope to go back to Ireland before I die. 'Ourselves Alone,' ya know? So when you're here, you?speak?English. Speak the language! People come here, refuse to speak the language, and expect us to take care of them. Fuck 'em. Ya hear me? Fuck 'em! Speak...English."

One of the boys, very quietly, very meekly, said, "Okay."

With that, the old man took his seat again, as the black woman sitting next to him eyed him warily.

The train pulled into the Canal St. stop, and I was expecting more of the same as the primarily Asian crowd loaded themselves on board. But instead of giving them the business about the language they were speaking, the man very politely stood, and, with a flourish, offered his seat to a young woman. He then moved toward the back of the train, where he stood patiently and silently, until I got off a few stops later. It seemed he'd said his piece.