Passing Trains
My whole life, I’ve lived near a trainyard. The tracks pass through my neighborhood, and the blaring horn in the distance or the crashing of the cars as the train passing slowed have been a staple of my life, from sleepless winter nights to midday walks in the blazing heat of summer. I walk the same route through my neighborhood any time I need to clear my head. Down my block and to the lake, through the woods and then along the alleyway that runs parallel to the train tracks, separated by a rusting fence. I like to take a moment to take in the artwork and tags scrawled onto trains that pass by. I once saw a freight train with cars which were stark white, perfectly tidy and overwhelmingly large. I couldn’t help but think of it as a blank canvas. It felt empty. It felt inhuman.
There’s something inherently beautiful about graffiti to me. Whether the passing train has expressive bubble letters bent into words I can’t quite decipher, or some form of lewd linework or political commentary, the heart of it is the same. There’s something so human about the wear and rust. Something so human about covering it in messages that prove that you were there. Whether carved into the walls of an ancient city, scribbled on a school desk, or spray painted onto the side of a freight train; humanity loves to leave a legacy.
The human need to create artwork, to leave a mark on the world around you in some capacity to prove that you were here, connects all of us. Time period and location have no meaning as you stare at a passing train, watching the spray painted words and logos pass you by. Somebody from my community could have left their mark just the day before, passing easily through any of the holes and cuts in the worn-down fencing. Somebody thousands of miles away, months and months ago, could have left their own mark just next to it. Two humans, years and miles apart, cross paths on the metal surface of this passing train.
No matter where the tracks lead, what cargo is held, and where it’s meant to be delivered, their artworks showcase something to me that goes so much deeper than mindless vandalism. The rattle of the wheels on the track and the rush of wind as each car passes by speak of eons of ordinary people, begging to be remembered. The glimpse of a name speeding past tells a story of connectedness, of mundanity and of humanity. Each color of paint screams “I WAS HERE.”
My whole life, I’ve lived near a trainyard. I won’t for too much longer, if my plans work out the way I’d like, but the marks of my neighborhood and all of the people I’ve known will remain etched into me no matter where I may pass through next. I’ll never forget the crashing of the cars shuddering to a stop down past the end of my block. I’ll never forget the sparks of humanity, of life, that can be found in even the most mundane or juvenile places. I’ll never forget the ways in which I’m tied to every person that surrounds me. In creativity and in the pursuit of legacy. In spray paint on a passing train. I hope they don’t forget me, either.
