Pulaski Orange Line - the clear plastic backpacks of high schoolers scrape these walls. Even as I avoid their jostling crowds, a latent grief caresses me. An ambiguous fear has robbed them of their privacy—when I was their age hadn’t I schlepped zines with dirty pictures and dirtier stories to school. Small rebellions formed the man I am.
But not for the kids who tromp up these steps. Sure they have their electronic tethers to sex, violence and the banality of their social lives. (Am I not pecking out these thoughts on such a tether?) But a material privacy seems to be lacking.
Perhaps, perhaps the lining of the seams -sometimes black, sometimes blue, sometimes pink- offers them a space to resist. But are we really only reduced to the illusion of choice as means of resistance?