On the 1: Enter Saint's Name Here

By Brooke Wacha,

I want to interview people who read bibles on the subway.

I almost have casually, in passing, but I'm scared. "Excuse me, do you read from beginning to end?" Curiosity can easily mask itself as an attack -- in this case on them, or worse, their religion -- but I still want to know. Do they read page-to-page, for weeks or months at a time, from subway stop to subway stop, remembering all the prophets and saints along the way? Or, do they flip it open randomly, reading whatever their fingers fall upon, finding the beauty in its tone, its message? Do they not understand the words, but read anyway, feeling satisfaction in the love they have for their god; in the love they feel he must have for them as their eyes follow each line, as they turn each page?

I wonder if I peer over their pages if I will understand; if it's in a language I speak, will I understand the prose? As a child I could never follow the stories, and as an adult sitting in the front pew of a local church to the left of a dead body encased in wood laying under an American flag, I realized: I don't have the focus.

I always assume the words are in a language I will never understand. I cannot remember one white head bent over any book of "[enter Saint's name here]," though I have seen them reading the Torah; mostly men, sometimes women. Maybe it's because men are easier to see; maybe it's because my landlord won't shake my hand because I'm a woman?

Why the subway? Is it a continuation of your at home practices? The only time to connect with your religion? Or is it because you need your faith on the subway, because you have no control? Because you are putting yourself in someone else’s hands, that you need your faith to protect you, to guide your fate. Because underground, you're so far from heaven.

Or because you remember seven years ago?

Are they praying for something better, or paying a penance they think, or know, they should fulfill?

I've never been one for religion, but with all the flaws and misguided teachings, the dogma constructed in contradiction to the few true laws that the god I was taught about has given us, I am fascinated by it. Fascinated by people's connections to it; the subtle pull of round Buddhist prayer beads pressed between fingers of those whose lips move silently; characters that flow in curves of black ink in an alphabet I will never understand.

I want to know about all of these things, but I'll never ask you.

My most recent subway read: Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal. If you see me between passages, between stops, between Saints, please don't judge me, or tell me I'm going to hell. Tell me about your god, about his mercy, why he'd accept me if I'd just stop reading the wrong thing, or that he loves me anyway.

Or tell me that yes, god has a sense of humor, and maybe one day I will find my answers.

Brooke Wacha, a radio chick who started writing somewhere along the way, recently moved into New York City after completing a summer fellowship with the International Radio and Television Society. She lives with her best friend, an Alaskan, and a kitten who tries to eat her turtle, "Baby."

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