'Jumping the Tracks'

The lights flickered and faded before turning completely off. A darkness took over the inside of the train for just a moment before the security lights came on.

I was facing forward when it happened. I saw the train car rise up just before it tossed us to the left, then violently to the right again.

We sat motionless in the dimly lit cabin as the train creaked and moaned, leaning ever so slightly to the left. A woman behind me made a sound, something between a whimper and a laugh of disbelief. I didn’t dare look back, fearful of disrupting the balance of the train. In front of me, I could see my brother’s face in the faded light. Oddly enough, he was smiling.

We had just survived a derailment.

At 2:14 pm CT on Tuesday, June 6, the South Shore Lines No. 18 train derailed as it entered Millennium station in Chicago. The derailed train came to a halt no more than 1000 feet from the station’s platform. The northbound train never reached its destination.

There was no dust. No screaming and there wasn’t any blood. After all, we were only going roughly 10 mph as we neared the station. What was in the air, however, was tension. I didn’t know if this was the end or just the beginning.

A low, electrical hum resonated throughout the train. My father, who was sitting next to me, motioned for me to come closer. He leaned in and whispered, reassuring and quizzical in the same breath, “what if this was a botched terrorist attack?”

Most of my life has taken place in the shadow of a World Trade Center that no longer stands. Terrorism, unfortunately, has become a part of our day-to-day lives. Shockingly, I hadn’t thought of the possibility.

But in the end, it wasn’t. We sat patiently for 25 minutes as conductors in white shirts and navy blue hats briskly walked by. Out beyond our window, we watched men and women in bright, reflective vests inspect something that we couldn’t see. Whatever threw us from the tracks was right under us.

Surviving a moment like that is strange. It was a train derailment, but I wondered if we were ever in danger. Like I said, we were only going 10 mph.

A day later, in my backyard 122 miles from where the train came to a rest, I spoke with my father.

“It was like falling off a bike,” he said. “If we were going faster, it would have been much worse. But we weren’t.” He laughed and took a drink, something of a gesture that said he was happy to be alive and that it wasn’t a big deal.

He was right. Out of all of the passengers aboard the No. 18 train, only two received minor injuries. I sat there and flexed my hand into a light fist. Unconsciously, I felt my legs. He was right. I was alive. I wouldn’t remember June 6 as the day that a faulty rail line took my ability to walk, or my ability to think, smile or feel. Instead, it was the day that my brother, father and I survived what would later be called a “low speed derailment.” Instead of a moment of tragedy, I’ll remember it as the day we jumped the tracks and lived to tell about it.