I went through the regular weekday morning motions: leaving my apartment a few minutes later than planned, moving my Wisconsin feet at a New York pace, trying to catch the walk light at the big intersection, descending into my subway stop through a grimy staircase where the faint scent of urine lingers permanently. I swipe my card and move through the turnstile in a single, fluid motion, practiced daily these past six years. I head toward my preferred seat on one of the few wooden benches along the platform, the seat that lies at the perfect spot so that when the train arrives I can walk straight forward without moving so much as an inch to either side and stand directly to the left of the train's open door. From this spot, I can enter the train right away and, hopefully, get a seat for my commute. Today, though, my seat is taken by a man whose fetor announced his presence many yards away. He lies sleeping across the bench, curled up into as little space as a tall man could possibly occupy. His tattered clothing as well as his hair hangs from him in a disheveled mess; he seems a man thick with dirt but thin with wear. Like the rest of the commuters on the platform, I do my best to ignore him, as if by not bringing attention to him I am giving him some modicum of privacy. It's gracious, really. I stand nearby, waiting for my train, and others walk by with eyes downcast or straight ahead in measured stride. Unaffected. But one little girl stops. A father walks with his young daughter, probably about five or six years old. He, in a crisp pair of slacks, a well-fitting buttoned shirt, and a jacket perfectly suited to the early spring weather, moves with those same measured steps and unaffected gaze as the rest of us. But his daughter stops cold in front of the sleeping man and looks up at her dad with eyes wide, pleading, beseeching. She gently gestures toward the man as if to say "How can you walk past? How can you ignore this?!" "Come on, sweetie," says the father. "Let's keep going." Like the rest of us, he has probably learned that it is unkind to stare, but his daughter will have none of that nonsense. They move just beyond the bench to discuss the matter, and I hear the father ask "What do you want to do?" Her eyes still large with shock and disbelief, she searches her pockets for something to offer. She pulls out a protein bar and I hear her say with sadness "But this one has chocolate. . ." I can't help but smile; something so precious as chocolate can't just be given to anyone willy-nilly. The father reaches into his own pocket, pulls out his own protein bar, and hands it to the girl. She takes it from his hand and immediately walks to the sleeping man, stands in front of him with her arm outstretched, perhaps hoping he will somehow open his eyes and be able to accept her gift. The father gingerly takes the bar and moves it the short distance from her tiny hand to a tiny space under the man's shoulder. As they walk away I hear him say "That was really good. I'm really proud of you." In New York City, as in many major cities nation- and worldwide, homelessness is not an invisible problem. Its presence on our sidewalks, our subways, our storefronts, our street corners often makes it feel impossible to overcome, and many of us become as immune to the cardboard signs and pleas for a few cents as we do to the handbag sellers and costumed characters in Times Square. In smaller towns like where I grew up, the problem is almost more insidious because it's largely unnoticed, so people like me grow up thinking it doesn't exist. Either way, the problem is real.
If you would like to do something about it, please consider donating to the National Alliance to End Homelessness, a "nonpartisan, nonprofit organization whose sole purpose is to end homelessness in the United States." They "use research and data to find solutions to homelessness; ... work with federal and local partners to create a solid base of policy and resources that support those solutions; and...help communities implement them." Don't be unaffected. Find your inner six-year-old and be moved to act.
3 Comments
Asher_Pat
3/31/2019 05:49:48 pm
Tears forming. Thank you.
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Amy
4/8/2019 11:48:07 am
What a great story! I'm using it in a class at church where we've been talking about "What can we do?". Thank you and keep up the brilliant work.
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2/13/2020 03:55:44 am
This is wonderful blog. I have a wonderful information regarding moving. Have you filled the online form of the address change.
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AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
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