Give the Green Line its Due

Not having seen the original “The Taking of Pelham 1, 2, 3,” my daughter Daphne was not particularly enthusiastic about going to see the remake of a film about a New York City subway train and its passengers taken hostage – replete with violence. But last June she indulged me in my need to experience public transportation with a sense of drama.

It’s been years since I’ve traveled as anything other than a tourist on the subway system of my youth. My tourist images include proud parents with kids in caps and gowns after Columbia’s commencement day, Hasidic Jews alongside Rastafarians, and travelers with eyes glued to books, serving that dual purpose of killing time and avoiding eye contact.

Earlier this month, I had a discussion with colleagues about what images would best depict Boston on a web site with local and national appeal. Not surprisingly they mentioned Fenway Park, the Old North Church, and the Zakim Bridge, which still feels like a worthy reward for enduring the travails of the infamous Big Dig.

But I was delighted to hear mention of what we Bostonians call the “T” – referring to a subway system run by the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority. Despite or because of our love-hate relationship with this aging public transit system, it’s an integral part of Boston’s identity. Having traveled on every line but the Silver Line, I have vivid images of each.

Aside from a recent accident involving the death of a T operator, a derailment or two, and garden-variety reports of pickpockets and gropers, the Green Line has always struck me as benign. A system of trolleys ferrying commuters from Brookline and Newton to work, students to classes at B.U., B.C., and Northeastern, and Red Sox fans to Fenway Park, the Green Line offers tracks level with the platforms.

So I’ve never had any concerns about being shoved down in the direction of the third rail by some crazy person whose family later claims he wasn’t getting the professional help he needed. Except for being packed in like a sardine, the Green Line bares the least resemblance to the New York subway. Evoking my own days as a college student, this is the line that makes me feel young.

These days, my trips on the Red Line are limited to those rare mornings when I leave my car at the boathouse after rowing, and take the T from Harvard Square to Park Street for work. Frequent breakdowns on the Red Line in the early ‘70’s, when I lived near Harvard Square and traveled to the Mass General for my first job, caused me to vote a first term governor out of office in the Democratic Primary. Knowing the quarter I’d put in the turnstile was lost forever each time I heard the term “shuttle buses” over the loudspeaker, I had to wonder what planet he was on when he espoused the glories of the “T.”

My sole experience with the Blue Line occurred when I was a college kid en route to Logan to catch a shuttle flight home to New York. The most accurate description of the would be suitor I encountered would be “unsteady on his feet with a strong odor of alcohol on his breath.” I politely declined his invitation to join him in watching the dogs race at Wonderland in Revere.

The Orange Line came into my life during a time of intense sadness. Having lost my first husband to cancer, I also lost the parking space in back of his medical office. No longer able to board the Green Line at St. Mary’s Street in Brookline, I found myself taking a bus to the Forest Hills Station. The train that travels through Roxbury and the Back Bay before emerging at Downtown Crossing was almost always fast and efficient. Boarding at the beginning of the line in the morning, I could count on a seat.

Life has come full circle, and last week I found myself on the Green Line nearly every evening. Dennis was working especially late on a brief, and I chose not to wait for him to drive me home. Though I grumbled about crowding and attributed the cold I now have to being exposed to “T” germs, I know I’m very lucky to live a very short walk from a T stop.