In recent years, the landscape of income distribution in the United States has become increasingly stark, revealing deepening divides among communities. This article explores how these shifts affect our perception of and connection to one another, particularly through the lens of urban experiences.
Conor here: A paper from the Minneapolis Fed last year highlighted a troubling trend: income segregation in the US has escalated over the past four decades:
Over the last 40 years, US cities have undergone a significant transformation in their socio-economic fabric: poor and rich families have become increasingly spatially divided over time. As noted by Massey et al. (2009), this new phenomenon in US cities contrasts with historical segregation that was predominantly based on race. During the latter part of the twentieth century, the United States has shifted toward a new model of residential segregation characterized by diminishing racial-ethnic segregation and increasing income segregation. This change has coincided with a steady rise in income inequality.
Additionally, the Stanford Center on Poverty and Inequality provides a somewhat dated chart—though its trends have only intensified—demonstrating how an increasing number of Americans now live in neighborhoods defined by extreme wealth or poverty:
By Sarena Neyman, who writes a syndicated column for PeaceVoice and is a Massachusetts grant writer. Originally published at Common Dreams.
It was 1974. The Bronx was ablaze, with abandoned vehicles strewn across the streets, and New York City teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. To this day, I’m surprised that my overprotective Holocaust-survivor parents allowed their preteen daughter to ride the subway to school daily, but somehow they did.
For five years—through eighth grade and high school—I took the No. 5 Dyre Avenue train from our apartment in the Pelham Parkway area of the Bronx to my Jewish day school on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. My daily commute lasted nearly an hour each way and consistently coincided with rush hour.
The mornings were relatively manageable; being near the start of the line often allowed me to grab a seat. However, returning home, the 86th Street platform could be packed, with commuters five to eight people deep.
When it was finally my turn to board, I would lean heavily against the person in front of me, just as the person behind me did the same. We all surged forward together, squeezing into an already overcrowded car, with more people attempting to push in behind us.
Once the doors sealed shut, we stood crammed together in a dense cluster of bodies. When the train jolted, the entire crowd swayed in unison. To avoid the unwelcome odor of sweat and stale breath, I usually resorted to breathing through my mouth. I tried to shift away from a hand on my behind, which may have been accidental but likely was not. I often thought to myself that I was too young for this experience.
During those years, I disliked taking the subway. Yet, more than five decades later, I find myself grateful for that commute—for the visceral reminder of our shared humanity it instilled in me.
Now, like about three-quarters of Americans, I rely exclusively on my car for travel. Though it’s quicker and more convenient, it isolates me from fellow travelers, allowing only a fleeting glimpse of their vehicles speeding by. While I do not miss the discomfort of the subway, I feel increasingly detached from the lives of others.
When you don’t see people, you come to know them less. This invisibility allows entire groups to become mere abstractions—easier to overlook, dismiss, or even vilify. It’s much harder to dehumanize someone when you stand shoulder to shoulder with them, both grasping the pole as the train tosses you from side to side.
In those days before smartphones or portable music players, there were few distractions from simply observing and listening to those around me. For two hours daily, I absorbed conversations in Spanish. I caught onto its rhythms long before I understood its meanings. Years later, when I learned the language, I picked it up swiftly.
The subway revealed a depth of poverty that was otherwise hidden in my working-class Jewish neighborhood. I saw individuals asleep on the seats, curled around garbage bags containing all their possessions. I recall a young man with no legs, navigating the cars on a wheeled platform, collecting money, and skillfully crossing the perilous gaps between the swaying cars.
The subway also granted me a glimpse into people’s homes. Unlike highways, engineered to bypass neighborhoods, the elevated train trestle cuts directly through them.
At that time, the No. 5 ran through the South Bronx, where more than 80% of buildings had either burned or been abandoned. On dim winter evenings, we would glide past blocks of dilapidated shells, glimpsing the occasional occupied apartment. From the train, I could peek into people’s living rooms, aglow from the television.
As a teenager, my grasp of concepts like redlining, disinvestment, or the policies contributing to these circumstances was superficial. All I knew was that children my age lived there, and I often wondered what it was like to grow up in such a chaotic environment.
Other avenues also foster encounters with diversity. My husband, a nurse in one of Massachusetts’ poorest areas, engages with individuals from a multitude of backgrounds, but that interaction is distinct. People meet him when they are unwell, in turmoil, or facing crises. In contrast, commuting entails sharing space with others simply existing in the same moment.
Not all forms of transportation create this sense of communal space. Recently, on an Amtrak ride back from Philadelphia, I watched miles of dilapidated brick rowhouses pass by outside. Some were boarded up, yet inside the train, the conversations I overheard revolved around vacationing in Cancun and the trendiest spin classes in Manhattan. The lives of the passengers seemed worlds apart from the neighborhoods we were traversing.
Having lived in a city long ago, my current rural existence is quieter and more regulated. I travel from one location to another, cocooned inside a car. While it’s convenient and comfortable, it has also narrowed my social interactions, enabling a lifestyle in which I rarely encounter anyone beyond my immediate circle.
How can this not impact one’s ability to empathize? When neighbors, coworkers, and peers mostly mirror your own life experience, it becomes increasingly easy to live in a bubble. Greater freedom in choosing modes of transportation or attending private schools or upscale gyms makes it simpler to inhabit spaces with those like ourselves. This distance fosters a detachment that can easily dehumanize others.
That said, my commutes on the No. 5 Dyre Avenue did not inherently make me a more compassionate person. I still have my judgments; I could strive to be kinder and more patient. Nonetheless, those daily rides provided a vivid tapestry of lives that I might otherwise have reduced to stereotypes. Time after time, they reminded me that everyone, just like me, was simply trying to find their way home.
