Blog

Breaking out of New York City into the bucolic Hudson Valley on Amtrak’s Empire Service train is a tradition my daughter and I have enjoyed since she was three. Riding the train beats driving hands down. A car requires more juggling and less freedom. Families might be the only travelers on the train that are happy we’re there. To the rest of the passengers, children bring the chaos of the city right along with them on their weekend escape.  

An established obstacle on Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor Line is The Quiet Car, AKA a mom’s worst nightmare. It essentially translates to–no noise, no cell phones and no children. Boarding this car is a sin secondary only to taking your child into the first class quarters.

On one such pilgrimage, I was alone with Stella. It was a banner day as a mom. I had managed not only to shower, but also, an added accomplishment of an iced coffee was sloshing in my hand. 

Sunday evenings returning to the city were always crowded, but this particular day was a total sardine situation. The conductor opened the doors with a terrifying announcement, “Not many seats left! Head toward the front!” I trudged onto the train with my roller bag, my now foolishly optimistic trophy coffee, and little three year old Stella holding my hand.  After awkwardly walking through several jam-packed cars, a growing panic of nowhere to sit kept my mind humming in tune with the train’s engine. We approached another conductor and she mentioned, “I think there are a few seats open in The Quiet Car.”  

The Quiet Car was stacked with its usual elevated crowd. The contents of this silent enclosure might include a sprinkle of pundits you recognize from the news, a dash of personalities you’ve recently seen featured in the New York Times, and at least one USDA Prime Grass-Fed butthead. Stella and I stuck out like sore thumbs. I was about to have to become one of those Make Excuses Mamas because Stella was joyfully singing Baa Baa Black Sheep from beginning to end, “Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three Bags Full!” My cheeks were flushing pink with discomfort.

I asked the conductor if there were any other seats, like anything, anywhere? He said, “These are the last seats on the entire train.” Right then, I strongly debated getting off the train. Spending the night on the platform with my kid felt less threatening somehow, than to be stranded in a quiet sea of bourgeois contempt. 

Stella and I walked down the aisle and sat down right in the middle of the car in the last empty row on the train. I got out her drawing materials and explained to her in a whisper that we needed to be really quiet because this is The Quiet Car. I pointed to the dangling finger-to-lips emoji signs that helped me make my point. Stella could sense my discomfort and began asking questions: “Why do you have to be quiet? Why are you whispering? Are people sleeping? Can I sing QUIETLY?” This was not going to be easy. As soon as we finished the conversation, I assessed our closest neighbors. There was a dad-like person sitting to our left engrossed in his work. He gave me a knowing smile that said don’t worry.  Behind us were 30-something professionals with headphones and laptops. No one else seemed to notice our arrival. 

Things were looking good. I was about to relax, when I saw the person that was going to have a problem. Three rows down on the left sat a 70 year old woman turning her neck to look back at us and deliver a sneer. She clearly didn’t like Mother Goose rhymes. Her behavior and facial expression were a bit of a disturbing contrast to her appearance. She looked like someone’s adorable grandmother with beautiful silver hair on her head and perfectly placed wrinkles on her face. I would soon discover that she was no one’s sweet grandmother, she was Mean Grandma. Only Mean Grandma’s black dress and architecturally severe glasses were a hint of something more menacing.

Baa Baa Black Sheep started up again in Stella’s version of a whisper. She had heard when I said that we needed to be quiet and this was her way of complying. Unfortunately, the gap between a silent car and a toddler’s version of quiet is unacceptable. “One for the Master and One for the Dame” Stella sang in her hushed tone. Her lyrics ricocheted through the air, beyond my control, setting off another series of neck snaps. Mean Grandma was dramatically snapping both her neck and the pages of the book she was reading. I worried for her vertebral health. Feeling the heat, I attempted to gently remind Stella that there was no singing AT ALL on The Quiet Car, however quiet.  “Why is there no singing?” “Are these people being punished?”  Stella would not be silenced or subdued. She started to hum. She had bested me on a technicality. Mean Grandma was whispering to her neighbor with a crinkled face of disgust in a last effort to shame us. “Humming isn’t allowed either” I told Stella. “What is allowed Mommy? Can you whistle? Oh my God.. I responded with all the saintly patience I had left. “No sweetie, you can’t whistle.” 

Mean Grandma’s forceful and audible contact with the pages of her book made me desperately want to see the title of what she was reading. I ignored her attempts to catch my eye. Mean Grandma’s efforts to get my attention escalated and she began moving around in her seat, and clearing her throat. I continued to sip my delicious ice coffee and look out the window. 

I lost a few seconds in thought: I wanted to protect Stella’s right to exist as a normal toddler in this hostile place. I wanted to keep that Mean Grandma away from my little girl and her uncompromising joy. Stella asked her question again, “Mom, can you whistle?” Before I could answer, Stella started some attempts at whistling. Three-year-olds don’t really have whistling down, so it sounds like blowing with a whistle or two leaking out from time to time. This precious little air symphony in a train carriage full of utter silence felt like loud farting. About this time, I heard Mean Grandma release an exasperated sigh filled with annoyance and irritation. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw her stand up from her seat. I continued sipping my coffee and decided that I would look out the window and hope she was on her way to the ladies room. Eventually, Mean Grandma was standing right next to me. I didn’t look at her. I kept my glare out the window and continued sipping my victory ice coffee that I knew I deserved to have. Mean Grandma was going to have to make the first move. 

In the moments before she spoke, I thought about all the times people have disrespected me in public spaces as a mother in New York City and every other situation where kids are not welcome but we have no choice to be in. I should have been practicing some kind of Zen breathing, because I was about to totally overreact.

Mean Grandma placed her arm on the back of my chair and shot two questions at me without pause, “Do you know this is The QUIET Car? Can you get HER to be quiet?” She moved her thumb back and forth gesturing to my baby. Her disdain set me on fire. I stood up a full 8 inches over her, a petty but pleasant victory. “Yeeesssss, I KNOW this is The Quiet Car. The conductor informed me that the only seats available were in THIS car. Do YOU think I WANT to be in the Quiet Car with a 3 year old?  I do not. We are doing the best we can and if you don’t think so, please take it up with the conductor.” I sat down. I was not nice. No pleasantries. No Southern Belle apologies. I returned to my coffee without looking at her. There was a pause and then Mean Grandma muttered softly with defeat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know there weren’t any other seats available.” She backed up and I offered, “No worries.” I am just guessing, but her life probably sucked. If a 3-year-old humming enrages you, probably quite a few things have gone wrong in your world. 

Mean Grandma returned to her seat. The dad-like character to my left was still engrossed in his work and the 30-somethings with headphones and laptops remained oblivious. I am sure there were other people who agreed with Mean Grandma and just kept quiet out of fear of the Mama Bear. I did get one thumbs up from a distinguished man that I had seen on the news program Morning Joe the week before, a fellow parent soldier no doubt. The rest of the ride continued without incident and we made it home safely, where we could sing Baa Baa Black Sheep till our hearts were content.

Later that fall, I was at the Hudson Farmers Market with Stella and a friend of mine. The distinguished man from The Quiet Car was there and he waved to Stella and I as he passed and we waved back. He didn’t stop or anything, just a wave.  My friend didn’t skip a beat and asked, “How in the world do you know Richard Stengel?” “Stella and I made an impression on him on the train.” I made a mental note to google who he was when I got home.

Nine years later, I still won’t ride in The Quiet Car, and I know all about the work of Richard Stengel.