The Purple Line is rapid transit done right, but little more than that.

On paper, it’s one of the Chicago Transit Authority’s most efficient routes, moving commuters quickly between the northern suburbs of Wilmette and Evanston into downtown Chicago during rush hours.

While it is clean, direct and practical, riding the line doesn’t feel like traveling through neighborhoods; it feels more like skimming past them. When I rode the Brown Line, I saw how it served as a physical and social backbone for its communities. Weaving through its neighborhoods, the Brown Line beckons its riders to explore beyond the tracks and exposes them to new areas of Chicago.

That sense of community is just not there with the Purple Line.

Instead, the Purple Line feels awkwardly disconnected from the areas it serves, which is no surprise given its tumultuous history.

When the Northwestern Elevated Railroad planned to extend service into Wilmette in February 1912, they weren’t greeted with open arms.

Local officials and residents fought the extension because they felt that a rapid transit link to the city would bring unwanted development to the area. But officials didn’t listen. In April of that same year, the NER secretly bypassed village permission to build a spur track and platform overnight, meaning North Shore residents woke up the next morning to early phases of a transit service that they did not ask for.

Beyond the line’s dubious beginnings, its identity as a distinct commuter railway, rather than a neighborhood anchor, wasn’t codified until decades later.

In 1949, the CTA “divorced” the suburban portion of their rail service from the rest of the north side lines, and the Purple Line was reimagined as a specialized shuttle or a rush-hour express, a design that persists today.

Importantly, this “divorce” meant the line never had to integrate into the daily rhythm of the streets it passes. Rather, it became a pipeline moving people from quiet North Shore suburbs to the Loop with as little interference as possible.

The contrast between the suburban stops and the line’s major urban stops are jarring. I got off at Fullerton, Belmont and Wilson and was struck by how interesting, full of charm and pulsing with life they are compared to the North Shore stops.

At Fullerton, I could feel the energy of DePaul University spilling into the streets, blending with the bustling affluent neighborhood of Lincoln Park. At Wilson, the vibrant history of Uptown is unmistakable. Harry S Truman College stands near what was once the line’s northern terminal, surrounded by apartment buildings, music venues and long-standing local businesses. These all felt like real neighborhoods: dense, layered, sometimes messy, but undeniably alive.

But standing on those platforms, the Purple Line felt like a mere visitor.

Since the CTA’s postwar service restructuring in 1949, the Red and Brown Lines have shaped the culture of stations like Fullerton, Wilson and Belmont. Those lines stop constantly, weaving through blocks, feeding local businesses and embedding themselves in the rhythm of daily life.

The Purple Line Express, by contrast, behaves like a fast pass. Even though it shares the tracks and platforms with the Red and Brown Lines, its presence feels more superficial than structural.

Between Howard and Wilson, it skips ten stops, reducing entire neighborhoods to blurs outside the window.

When the Purple Line pulls into Belmont or Fullerton during rush hour, it acts less as a community fixture and more as a relief valve, siphoning pressure off overcrowded Red and Brown Line trains.

So, while the Purple Line successfully provides commuters with fast-paced transit into Chicago, it fails to cultivate the culture of the areas it surrounds.

Even in Evanston, a city with walkable streets and vibrant commerce, the Line often feels like an afterthought. The stations sit near neighborhoods rather than within them, often elevated on solid-fill embankments with heavy concrete walls that act as a physical reminder of how separate the train is from the neighborhoods it services.

This isn’t to say the Purple Line lacks value. For thousands, it is essential. It provides reliable access between Chicago and its North Shore suburbs for professional commuters and students alike.

It does exactly what it was built to do. Yet that narrow success is precisely its limitation.

Where other lines help create density and street life, the Purple Line encourages departure, meaning that its stations don’t act as gathering points; they act as exits.

Riding it feels transactional. You board with a purpose: to get where you’re going. And then the line recedes, having left little imprint on the neighborhoods it passes through.

In a city where transit has the power to shape culture and community, the Purple Line stands apart: efficient and reliable but notably detached from the urban fabric of Chicagoland.

And in Chicagoland, that difference matters. A good transit line doesn’t just connect points on a map, it connects people to neighborhoods and neighborhoods to themselves.

While the Purple Line has mastered movement, it has yet to master belonging. Stepping beyond the blue tint is impossible when the train bars commuters from communities, all in the name of efficiency.

George Koutrouvelis is a Medill freshman and author of “Through the Blue Tint.” He can be contacted at [email protected]. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.