Today, it carries fewer than 1 million, lower than the number of people who traveled on the opening weekend of the system in 1904.
But even as officials crack down on New York’s ability to gather, removing hoops from basketball courts and sending police to break up large crowds, in poorer corners of the city subway stations are still bustling, as if almost nothing had changed.
In the Bronx, two stations that have had relatively low drops in ridership serve neighborhoods with some of the highest poverty rates in the city, a New York Times analysis found.
The 170th Street station in the University Heights neighborhood and the Burnside station in the Mount Eden area are surrounded by large Latin American and African immigrant communities where the median household income is about $22,000 — one-third the median household income in New York state, according to census data.
It is a striking change on a system that has long been the great equalizer among New Yorkers, a space where hourly workers jostled alongside financial executives. Now the subway is closer to being a symbol of the city’s inequality, amplifying the divide between those with the means to safely shelter at home and those who must continue braving public transit to preserve their meager livelihoods.
Many residents say they have no choice but to pile onto trains with strangers, potentially exposing themselves to the virus. Even worse, a reduction in service in response to plunging ridership has led, at times, to crowded conditions, making it impossible to maintain the social distancing that public health experts recommend.
“This virus is very dangerous. I don’t want to get sick, I don’t want my family to get sick, but I still need to get to my job,” said Yolanda Encanción, a home health aide who works in lower Manhattan.
As she waited for a train at the 170th Street station, Encanción stretched a medical mask across her face and slipped her hands into latex gloves. The possibility of being exposed to the coronavirus on the subway is just part of the simmering anxiety that hangs like a backdrop to her everyday life now.
Her two teenage children are desperate to see their friends outside, but she only allows them to leave the family’s two-bedroom apartment for a walk with their aunt once a day.
Encanción’s husband worked as a janitor at a private school until he was laid off because the school shut down, slashing her family’s income in half. They have enough savings to cover the rent this month, she said, but nothing more.
“Next month how will we pay? I can’t even think about it; if I do I will go crazy,” she said.
Encanción was one of the few passengers on her line on a recent weekday after ridership across the subway plunged nearly 90% compared with the same day last year, according to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which runs the subway and buses.
But a Times analysis of MTA data shows that ridership declines in each of the four boroughs served by the subway varies significantly and largely along socioeconomic lines.
Over the past two weeks, the steepest ridership declines have occurred in Manhattan, where the median household income is $80,000 — the highest of any of the city’s five boroughs.
Subway ridership in Manhattan fell around 75%, while ridership in the Bronx, which has the highest poverty rate of any of the boroughs and the lowest median income at $38,000, dropped by around 55%, according to an analysis of data from Friday morning commutes through March 20.
(BEGIN OPTIONAL TRIM.)
The Burnside Avenue and 170th Street stations serve some of the people most vulnerable to the economic and public health threats sweeping New York.
In areas bordering the stations, roughly half the children live in poverty, 40% of the population was born outside the United States, and 1 in 4 people does not have a high school diploma.
At the 170th Street station, thousands of riders still come in waves every morning: Men are mostly the first to arrive, swiping into the station before dawn. They wear paint-splattered jeans and carry battered hard hats as they board trains to construction sites across the city.
Two hours later, many women trickle onto the platform. Most are nurses and home health aides, deemed essential workers in the current crisis.
Others are home cooks and nannies for the well-to-do, hoping to keep their jobs for as long as possible as the local economy unravels.
One recent morning Sulay Liriano, 40, sat on the wooden bench at the 170th Street station, starting her commute to Queens. A personal care aide, she had received an email from her employer the day before instructing her and her colleagues in bold, red letters that they were considered “ESSENTIAL” and must show up for work.
On the one hand, Liriano is grateful to still have an income: Her husband, who had worked at a restaurant helping with deliveries and odd jobs in the kitchen before the crisis, had been let go.
But Liriano is also anxious about the 2 1/2 hours she spends every day huddling with strangers in an enclosed subway car. For years, she made the commute to her patient’s apartment without giving it much thought.
Now as she walks onto a subway car, she scans every pole, every seat, every person, as if looking for signs of an invisible enemy. She is hyper-aware of where she keeps her hands, resisting the urge to fix a fallen strand of hair or wipe a stray lash from her eyelids.
Touching an infected surface and then touching her eye could be dangerous, she knows.
“I am worried, really,” said Liriano, who has not been able to find a face mask since panicked shoppers emptied them from store shelves. “There are still many people here, people I don’t know, I don’t know what precautions they are taking, if they are sick.
“It’s the riskiest part of my day, taking the train,’’ she added.
(END OPTIONAL TRIM.)
The MTA has tried to protect the people who are still using public transit: It has deployed crews of cleaners to disinfect all train cars and buses every three days with the same disinfectants used in hospitals and nursing homes.
But last week — hobbled by a growing number of workers who are falling sick and the free fall in ridership, which slashed its revenue from fares — the agency decided to cut service on subways by 25%.
As of Thursday, two MTA workers had died from the coronavirus while another 152 workers had tested positive, and 1,181 were quarantined, officials said. The chairman of the MTA, Patrick J. Foye, tested positive for the virus Saturday.
Outside the 170th Street station, the streets are nearly empty. Most stores have shuttered, their metal security gates pulled closed. The only places open were two pharmacies, where business was brisk, with lines of customers curling out the front doors.
A short ride on the No. 4 train away is Burnside Avenue station. Every morning riders still stream onto its outdoor platforms, which rumble with each arriving train.
(BEGIN OPTIONAL TRIM.)
Cindy Garcia, a caseworker at a homeless shelter in Manhattan, kept her hands tucked deep inside her pockets as she waited for the train. Her disinfecting regiment at work is meticulous: Every pen a client touches, every doorknob she grabs, every chair she sits on she wipes down with Lysol.
When she meets with a client, they sit on opposite ends of the room.
But on the train, Garcia has no illusion about having that kind of control. She can keep her hands covered, she can wear a mask, but it is impossible to stay the recommended 6 feet away from other riders.
“Just look at these subway cars, they’re still crowded,” she said.
(END OPTIONAL TRIM.)
The No. 4 train was among the lines where service was reduced, a policy that health officials warn could lead to packed trains and increase health risks for the essential workers, including health care employees, that need to ride them.
Still, for other riders on the platform, the possibility of contracting the coronavirus was the least of their concerns.
Daouda Ba, a 43-year-old immigrant from Senegal, sat hands tucked between his knees as he waited for the train at the Burnside Avenue station.
Ba lives in a nearby shelter, where he says more than 50 men share three bathrooms. The idea of disinfecting doorknobs or even having hand sanitizer is laughable. Just getting time at the sink to wash his hands is hard enough, he says.
“I’m already stuck in a crowded box in the shelter; I can’t do anything for my health,” he said, looking at the other people standing nearby. “The only thing I’m worried about is the economic stuff.”
Ba was laid off from his job working for a sightseeing bus tour company at the end of December. His boss said they would hire him back by the end of March, but with the pandemic raging, his job prospects are as uncertain as ever.
On a recent morning, a friend had called with a small, paying job: Someone was moving out of their apartment and needed a hand. He sat waiting for the train to take him to Brooklyn, the rin-tin-tin of light rain hitting the metal awning.
“ If I die, I die,” he said.
This article originally appeared in The New York Times .