This is how I commute on the train in the morning. I take the Metro North from Westchester into Grand Central Station. It’s a pleasant way to travel - you usually get a full row of seats to yourself, nobody talks on their cell phones (it’s a big no-no, unlike the LIRR), you can sip your coffee and with a 28 minute commute into NYC, it’s just enough time to flip through The New York Post and to absorb the gossip and local news so I’m prepared for the day to participate in water cooler talk. Like today - #15 and #16 in Mista Tiger’s harem have come forward to dish about their threesome. Juicy. Here I am this morning with my feet up against the seats as I’m devouring Page Six. And while for the most part my commutes are uneventful, there are times when there has been drama involved and reminds me of the following story.
A few months ago, during the week between Christmas and New Years, I was commuting home from the office. It was a bitter cold night and the city was still filled with tourists coming in to see the tree at Rockefeller Center and the windows at Saks, Bergdorfs, Lord and Taylors and more. I sat down, pulled my knitting out and started to click away, knitting, purling, double ribbing, seed stitching and so on and so forth. I was concentrating on an intricate pattern, minding my own business, when all of the sudden, I heard a whole lot of commotion and noise that is really uncharacteristic for the civilized people of Westchester county. I looked up and saw two girls screaming and crying and staring frantically through the train doors onto the platform. I glanced towards their gaze and saw an equally frightened grown woman, with hands trying to pry the doors open. That’s right. I was witnessing one of my biggest nightmares – getting separated from your children in a crowded public space. Evidently, the woman and kids were getting off the train at 125th Street station and the kids dilly dallied and the doors closed after the mamagirl had got off the train.
Immediately, all the good Samaritans on the train lunged for the emergency pull. Nobody was really panicked yet (except for the kids, with good reason) because the train hadn’t pulled out of the station. We knew that the doors would open soon and the kids would be reunited with their mamagirl. Next, the conductor appeared from the next car to see what all the fuss was about. He saw what happened, and radioed ahead to the driver what happened. And then…the most imaginable thing happened…the train started to pull out of the station without opening the doors! The entire carful of passengers started screaming and pulling on the emergency breaks again. The girls became more terrified and continued to cry even harder. Then, the train stopped. The conductor admonished all of the passengers and asked that they all stop pulling on the breaks. When the train stopped, we all let out a sigh of relief. We knew that everything would be OK. The mamagirl on the platform looked happy that she was going to get her kids back as soon as the doors opened. And then….the train started to pull away again. This time, gaining speed and at this point, we all knew that that train was not going to stop and reverse back into the station. The chaos in the car elevated –passengers lunged at the conductor, screaming, demanding an answer, wanting to know who his supervisor was, what was his badge number, what was going on? How could this be happening? Everyone was so concerned about attacking the authorities and everyone seemed to forget the two, tiny little girls who were scared and sobbing. Now, I don’t normally get involved with things, I prefer to fly under the radar, but in this instance, I couldn’t assume that someone else was going to help them. Besides, my fierce mamagirl protective instinct came flying out of my inner self. I threw the knitting aside and leapt out of my seat and went straight to the girls. Between their sobs, I told them my name, I told them I was going to help them and stay with them until we could get them back to their mamagirl. I told them that I had two sons who were very close in age to them and I was going to help them. The crying diminished somewhat…I had gained a little of their trust and I felt like those girls were going to jump into my skin for a hug, clinging to a mamagirl – any mamagirl. I asked if they knew their mamagirl’s phone number. After a few moments, the older sister was able to control her quivering voice and give me the 10 digits. I dialed. It rang and rang and rang. I dialed again. Busy. I asked the girls “Do you know daddy’s number?” After getting that, I got his voicemail and left a message that everything was fine, the girls were safe, I told him the sequence of events so far and gave him my phone number to call. After we hung up, we tried their mamagirl again. This time, a distraught and sobbing voice answered. I identified myself and gave the phone to her girls so that they could hear each other’s voice. I often wonder how difficult that phone conversation must have been for them all. Pure relief to hear their voices, but still so, so scared. Soon, the girls handed the phone back to me and I talked to the mamagirl. She passed the phone to the Transit Authority Police who gave me instructions to get off at the next stop with the girls. The plan would be for a police officer to meet me and escort us back, by patrol car, back to 125th Street to reunite the girls with their mamagirl. We all – the girls, their mamagirl, the passengers on the train, me and even the conductor – were all relieved that there was a plan. As the train sped to the next train stop, I tried to entertain the girls so that they weren’t thinking about being so afraid. I showed them pictures of my dog. I told them that she chewed everything. I showed them pictures of my kids and asked them if they were reading the same books in school as my boys. I did my very best to distract them from the several minutes that it took to arrive at the next station. And then, the dumbass driver of train decided to have a conversation with the conductor – over the loudspeaker – that “The Mamagirl is not allowed to take the girls off the train”. WTF? The girls immediately started to cry again after hearing this public conversation. The passengers started to rage again and the pounced on the conductor “What do you mean you won’t let the Mamagirl take care of the girls? She has gained their trust, they feel comfortable with her and someone – preferably a mamagirl with nurturing, gentle and protective instincts – should stay with the girls. She has offered to do so, what do you mean the train authorities won’t let her help them?” The conductor replied “For all we know, that Mamagirl could be a child offender and abduct the girls, we can’t let her take them.”. I understood everyone’s points here and said that there was no hurry. I’m sure everyone on the train wouldn’t mind being delayed until the police arrived. I was willing to wait for as long as it took for the doors to open for a police officer to escort me off with the girls. I understood that the train authorities couldn’t let me leave with them and needed to visually see that a police officer was escorting ALL of us off.
As soon as we arrived at the station, we waited a few minutes until we saw two police officers approach our car. The train finally released the doors and opened them. We stepped off the platform and were greeted by two officers who briskly told me “We’ll take it from here, Lady. Go home”. Well, there was NO WAY I was walking away now. At this point, I had talked to both parents. They had my phone number. I was their only line into talking to their kids until we got them back to their parents safely. There was no way I was going to go home until I personally saw the mission completed. My mamabear instincts were alive and even though these girls were not my flesh and blood, they were my responsibility and I was going to protect them until I personally saw that they were safe. A fellow train rider decided that he was going to accompany me on this mission and also disembarked the train. As we started to walk away from the train, I asked the officers where their car was and asked for confirmation that we would all be driving back together. That’s when the following conversation took place;
Officer #1 “Ma’am, are you their mother?”
The Mamagirl: “No”
Office #2 “Well then, you don’t need to know the plan. You can just go home.”
The Mamagirl: “Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere except to accompany the girls back to their mamagirl. Where are we going?”
Officer #1: “We are going back to the precinct with the girls. YOU are going home.”
The Mamagirl: “But that’s not the plan. That’s not what their mamagirl thinks is happening. She thinks we are all driving back with the girls to meet her. And by the way, I’m NOT going home.”
At this point, the girls were shivering and I escorted them into the online platform shelter and started to button up their coats, put their mittens on, zip up their hoods. You know, the things that a mamagirl does to keep kinders warm. I was met with the following:
Officer #1: “Excuse me, who do you think you are? You are not in charge here. Do you understand that? We are in charge. Not you. You can not obstruct the investigation and change the course and bring the girls anywhere.”
Train Good Samaritan: “Are you kidding me? She is trying to keep the girls warm, it’s 10 degrees out tonight. Let her zip up their jackets”.
Officer #2: “ Listen Mamagirl, I wanna see some ID from you right now.”
The Mamagirl: “Are you kidding me? Fine, here’s my ID (forked it over). But it’s freezing out and I’m not trying to obstruct anything, I’m trying to keep the girls warm.”
The exchanges continued and the officers continued to believe that The Mamagirl and the Train Good Samaritan were posing a threat because we questioned and disagreed with their abuse of authority. It escalated until The Good Samaritan asked for their badge numbers to which THEY REFUSED. One of the Officers went as far as saying that if we didn’t go away we would be “thrown in the clinker for obstructing justice”. This was a bad nightmare as we watched the girls go into patrol and we were not allowed to go with them. They told us they were taking them to the precinct across the street, and that we could walk there if we wanted, although their preference was that we would “just go away”.
We walked over to the precinct and a few minutes later, saw the scared girls and the two mean Officers enter into the facility. I started to join the girls, but the Officers said ‘YOU stay outside Lady”. I told the girls “You’re going to be fine, I’ll call your mamagirl and tell her the new plan and she will be here soon. I am on the other side of this door and you scream if you need me. I promise I won’t leave until your mamagirl gets here.”
Meanwhile, The Good Samaritan is demanding an apology from the Lieutenant of the precinct for the way in which we had been treated. We were trying to help and were being rudely treated and threatened. My phone rang and I answered. It was the girls’ dad. I knocked on the door and Officer #1 answered. I indicated that I had the dad on the phone and could I pass the phone on to the girls? He reluctantly allowed me in the room and I gave the phone to the girls. As I looked around, they were being kept in a well lit conference room and the officers had put some cartoons on for them. But then, all of the sudden, my eyes zeroed in on something that was extremely alarming.
The Mamagirl: “Are those NUT cookies that you’re giving the girls?” (tray of Christmas pecan ball cookies in plain view)
Officer #1” “what?”
The Mamagirl: “Did you EVEN ASK the girls if they had a nut allergy? Girls, did he ask you if you were allergic to anything before offering you these cookies”
Officer #1: “Lady, you better get out of here”.
The Mamagirl: “I’m not going anywhere. Do you know, if they have a nut allergy and ate those cookies that they could go into anaphylactic shock?”
Officer #1: “Look Lady, we know how to take care of kids here. Mind your own business. There you go again, thinking that you are in charge of this investigation”.
The Mamagirl: “OK, so if you have it under control, show me your EpiPens”.
Officer #1 “ Lady, get out of here”.
The Mamagirl: “Take those cookies away from them please”
Officer #1: “Lady, this is MY house, not YOUR house. YOU don’t tell me what to do”.
The Mamagirl: “Fine, I’ll take them away myself” (starts to walk over to tray of cookies but gets FLICKED away by Officer #1)
Officer #1 makes a barrier between me and the cookie tray with his inflated chest. Fine, I can play that game too. I took a deep breath in and inflated my chest right back. Except my chest had some boobs attached to it. But it was too late for that distraction. He already hated me anyway and I wasn’t going to score any points with a distracting rack. He rallied 3 or 4 more of his officer buddies whose chests were also inflated and pumped and they backed me out of that room. I really hated them now. But I was sticking to my guns. I wasn’t going anywhere and waited on the other side of that door.
About 15 minutes later, the girls’ mamagirl came bursting through the door. I immediately knew who she must have been. Her face was tear-stained and she looked like she had gone to hell and back. She glanced around the waiting room and instantaneously walked towards me. We locked eyes and even though there were no words exchanged, she knew that I was the one. We hugged. We cried. Neither one of us could talk. It was such a powerful, yet silent, exchange of mamagirl love in that moment. My job was done and I knew I could then go home.
The minute I got home, I hugged my kids so tight. And even though JV is old enough to know my cellphone number, I spent the next two days drilling my cellphone number into the memory of Gus’ 5 year old brain. He now calls me several times a day – with not much to say at all and often when I’m in the middle of an important meeting. But I always take the calls. Because you never know when an emergency will happen. I struggle with this story because I teach my kids not to talk to strangers and if there is an emergency, to go to a uniformed authority. In this particular case, it was the good Samaritans who were wanting to help and the authorities who were following protocols which didn’t make too much sense and were scary to children. If you take one thing away from this story…please, go home and teach your child your cellphone number. And tell them also, that it is not always terrible trusting to a stranger.
House of Harlow, "Pearl", brown and gold snakeskin peep toed platform pump
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