There are things about being pregnant in New York City that are pretty unique to, well, being pregnant in New York City. One of those things is the subway.
For those of you who don’t live in NYC, it’s considered common courtesy to give up your seat on the subway for anyone who is elderly, disabled, or—you guessed it—pregnant. They even play a public service announcement on the trains about it. At the end, the man says, “You’ll be standing up for what’s right!" —
I don’t know what the average pregnant woman’s experience is like, but I’m 27 weeks, I ride a crowded subway line to and from work every day, and I’ve been offered a seat on a full train three times. Three.
Maybe it’s because I’m often wearing a coat that obscures the bump–although taking my coat off before boarding the train hasn’t made any difference. More likely it’s because seated riders are reading, sleeping or watching Gossip Girl on their iPhones and they don’t notice the people standing around them. I’m sure I used to be one of those riders. And let’s face it, it’s not like having to stand up on the 30-minute ride to work is having some kind of detrimental effect on the baby. Really it only fuels an unattractive, self-entitled irritation in me. An unattractive, self-entitled irritation that I was soundly shaken out of one night last week while riding a downtown train home from work.
This train was crowded. Like so crowded that my stomach was smooshed up against those metal bars at the end of a row of seats. I had been riding like that for maybe five stops when a woman at the other end of the train car, also standing up, began to speak. Loudly.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen who are sitting down, but there is a pregnant woman on this train.”
Oh no, I thought. Please, please, no.
“I know you’re all tired from a long day of work, but she is pregnant and probably more tired than you and she needs a seat.”
The speech continued from there (it was long). Then she said,
“If you would like to offer her your seat, she’s standing over there by the door.” And she pointed at me.
I was mortified. I brushed off the flurry of seat offers from the passengers around me, telling them I was getting off at the next stop, which I hadn’t planned to do at all. Then, because I had said it, I got off two stops early and walked the rest of the way home (but not before mouthing an awkward Thanks! to the well-meaning orator because, after all, it was a weird but nice thing to do).
I can’t say I know what this experience taught me exactly. I only know that now, each time I get on the subway, I look around more frantically than ever for an open seat—not because my feet hurt, or my balance isn’t quite what it was seven months ago, or I’d rather not have my stomach smooshed up against a set of metal bars, but because I really don’t want any more speeches, however noble, made on my behalf.
