Over the summer, I spent a few weeks in Japan. I couldn't get over how seamlessly the subway systems work there. As someone whose primary context for subways is the perilous platforms and filthy rides of New York City, it was a revelation to see throngs of people moving in harmonious union from stop to stop in Tokyo.
On one early morning commute, my partner and I watched incredulously as the tiniest schoolchildren navigated the dozens of steps, turns, and boarding choices with complete ease. No one around them seemed concerned, as I was that the throngs might trample them. No one seemed concerned that these kindergarten-ish age youth would fall onto the tracks. When asked about this, our tour guide explained that if a child were in distress, any older youth or adult would happily help them. But we never witnessed any child moving less than confidently and with purpose towards their train. Apparently, in Tokyo (the world's most populated city), it is possible for even the tiniest among us to find their way through a crowd with relative ease.
On one early morning commute, my partner and I watched incredulously as the tiniest schoolchildren navigated the dozens of steps, turns, and boarding choices with complete ease. No one around them seemed concerned, as I was that the throngs might trample them. No one seemed concerned that these kindergarten-ish age youth would fall onto the tracks. When asked about this, our tour guide explained that if a child were in distress, any older youth or adult would happily help them. But we never witnessed any child moving less than confidently and with purpose towards their train. Apparently, in Tokyo (the world's most populated city), it is possible for even the tiniest among us to find their way through a crowd with relative ease.
What does it say about what a community values when its children are completely safe among strangers and fast-moving machines? What does it say about what a community values when they are not?
Meanwhile, at home in Central Florida, the drop and pick-up lines at a suburban public school are a perilous daily anxiety for my family. It's been this way for my nearly-grown sons' entire school experience. Every day, we navigate the inefficiencies and dangers of a community bent on extreme individualism as parents jostle for positions in the school drop-off and pick-up lines. In elementary and middle school, this line took as much as 90 minutes out of our day each day. The big trucks, SUVs, and mini-vans wall off each parent or guardian from the needs of the others like a five or six-figure shield for selfishness.
In a suburban school pickup line, every person is trying to get to their own child and out of the funnel as fast as possible. That means some line up an hour or more early. Some ignore traffic rules altogether. Most forget that actual children are walking around in the throng of cars. And, a few forgo the pretense of a system altogether and encourage their offspring to run into traffic to reach their vehicles on the other side of the road while playing chicken with the Escalade-driving Soccer Mom, distracting herself with TikTok while she's waiting.
In my little corner of suburban Florida, most parents seem to be teaching their offspring that their own needs are the only thing worth paying attention to. Often, this is explicitly said. Sometimes, it's only implied with grumbles. Look, there's a wait. A tiny human dropped his Transformers lunchbox next to the curb and almost found himself the victim of a harried parent's minivan before a crossing guard intervened. There's no implied safety in an American suburb's transportation options.
The school drop off and pick up lines have always nagged at me as woefully inefficient, dangerous examples of the lack of infrastructure planning in the place where I live. But since returning from Japan, I can't help seeing an even more human foible -- how toxic individualism plays itself out in a community that doesn't value togetherness.