NEW YORK—You don’t see many elevated subways being built in this city nowadays.

Maybe it’s the fact that the “el” is an enormous, permanent eyesore that also doubles as a noisemaker. Or perhaps it’s because the el is, by definition, not a “subway” at all, blocking sunlight and casting a shadow over everything near it. Maybe it resonates with people’s impressions of gritty urban life, à la the famous chase scene in The French Connection. Possibly, people don’t like the idea of tons of steel taking tight curves on an ancient track a couple of stories above their heads.

I live four blocks from the J and Z elevated lines in Queens. When people come to visit me from the suburbs or areas without mass-transit systems, I wonder what they think of the el rattling by my family’s home. But I’m not at all embarrassed by the proximity of my home to the these behemoths. After all, an externality is negative only for bystanders whose well-being is impacted negatively. After having spent last summer at Harvard, the past several weeks back home have helped me to rediscover just how much I love the elevated trains, and that I would not have chosen to live farther away from them had I been given the choice.

The “white noise” filling the background of my youth will always be the bells of St. Matthew’s Church ringing, house sparrows chirping and the J train roaring in the near distance as it decelerates its approach toward the Woodhaven Boulevard stop. They were the audio background to the baseball games I played with my friends outside my house. Like clockwork, the train would rumble by at the same time as the bells’ 5 p.m. tolls—the two sets of noises teaming up to create a bizarre cacophony that I have never heard anywhere except back home.

When I was still too young to know which letters or numbers had been designated to represent the different subway lines or where the tracks went, the el was a riddle. At the time, I never needed to take the train; my mother would drive me the five minutes to elementary school, and I wouldn’t have to meet up with friends in the city until high school, years later. So the thick, tan-painted pillars along Jamaica Avenue held up not only train tracks, but also a mysterious world—one literally parallel to my own, but full of details and experiences unlike any I would know down here.

When I began high school and had to commute to Manhattan every day, it was necessary for me to acquaint myself with this world. It did not disappoint.

After drowsily leaving my house at 6:15 a.m. and walking to the el, I’d climb the steps and swipe myself through the turnstile with my student MetroCard. As I reached the top of the staircase and stepped out onto the far end of the concrete platform, fresh air would hit me in the face. I could look up and see the sky. It was usually empty—I think a flock of geese may have flown overhead once—but there was something so satisfying about being able to see the sky directly above Jamaica Avenue, unobstructed by that hulking strip of steel; it’s a small thing, though something I hadn’t been able to do at all during my childhood. I’d approach the edge of the platform and look down through the wooden ties of the tracks to see the trucks and cars passing below in shadow. The sun would shine on the various, usually groggy people waiting along the length of the platform for the train.

This summer, I feel the same relief in the morning as I did during high school each time the train winds around the corner in the distance and approaches the station. The sun glints off the shiny, steel hull of the train racing within yards of apartment windows, and turns it into a beacon warning people to ready themselves to board.

I stand in the same exact spot on the platform every day. Without fail, the train screeches to a halt with a pair of doors right in front of me. They slide open and I step into the car as I glance down through the gap between the train and platform to the street below.

Even if there are vacant seats beckoning me to take them and catch up on sleep, I remain standing so I can look out the window easily. The tops of buildings fly by. It always impresses me how many people have made the effort to get onto the roofs to send messages to the train passengers. Graffiti—often large, colorful and elaborate—enliven the tar-covered surfaces of the building tops. “Put the Christ back in Christmas,” reads one framed poster placed atop a roof. It has faced the tracks for as long as I’ve been riding the el.

Before the J train reaches its terminal a handful of stations away, it descends underground. The scenery changes, becoming dark, stuffy and unnatural.

I’ll be headed to work again shortly. I will be a bit tired, and the day will be a bit long. But I’m looking forward to riding the J and entering a different world for a little while—the type that doesn’t get built much in New York anymore, and the type I am grateful to have gotten to know.

Alexander J. Blenkinsopp ’05, a social studies concentrator in Eliot House, is a Crimson editor. He’ll spend more than 15 hours on the subway this week.