On a chilly winter afternoon, I boarded the subway with my son, Jack, and his close friend, Mia. Jack had recently celebrated his seventh birthday, and as part of the festivities, I was treating them to a performance of Mary Poppins on Broadway. It was a milestone; I no longer needed to hover or hold their hands. They stood confidently, clutching the pole and gazing out at the bustling city like true New Yorkers—until Mia, distracted, playfully kissed the pole. I quickly snapped a photo for her parents, capturing the moment for posterity, and then urged them to take their seats.
Settling into the molded plastic seats across from me, they engaged in a lively discussion about the latest trends among their peers (this was before the advent of Rainbow Loom but after Wow Wow Wubbzy). Watching them, I felt a swell of pride; they seemed so grown-up, so assured, navigating life in the big city with ease.
As we traveled, the subway car came to life when the door at the far end swung open with a loud clang. A man entered, his presence commanding attention as he scanned the rows of passengers. He was dressed in camouflage from head to toe, a cardboard sign dangling from his neck, and a canister in hand. My immediate assessment led me to believe he was a homeless veteran.
As expected, he began his narrative, weaving through the car, struggling to maintain his balance with the train’s movement. His voice was a low murmur, repeating his plight as he approached us. In stark contrast to the indifferent passengers around us, my heart raced with concern. How do I explain this to the children? What have Mia’s parents told her about homelessness and mental health? Would they be upset? Would they express a desire to help?
Jack and Mia were no strangers to the sight of homelessness in New York City; we had discussed it previously, especially after passing the man who often slept at our corner. But this situation felt different—more intimate as he stood right in front of them, an arm’s length away.
I chose to observe silently, allowing the moment to unfold. Up close, the man appeared to be in his fifties, and his sign, filled with shaky block letters and hastily drawn American flags, was difficult to read. His clothes were clean, yet ill-fitting, and his eyes exuded a profound sadness, seemingly lost in thought.
“I am a homeless veteran,” he began, his message clear. “I served my country, and now I’m abandoned by the government.” The sign was a mere outline of his story.
I glanced at Jack and Mia, who were now captivated by the man’s presence. Their chatter ceased, and they watched with wide eyes, the expression on their faces revealing an understanding of the gravity of the situation. They sat with their hands on their laps, embodying the empathy and compassion that any caring individual should possess.
The man rattled his canister, the sound of loose change reverberating in the air. I noted that the container was designed to resemble an oversized roll of Lifesavers, a nostalgic treat many remember from childhood.
After he finished his speech, the subway car remained still. The children’s expressions mirrored a mix of sadness and helplessness; they wished to assist, yet felt limited in their ability to act. This was an opportunity for a meaningful dialogue, I thought, and at least it would serve as a foundation for our discussion later on.
In my focus on the children, I neglected to offer the man any money. Strikingly, no one else in the car contributed either. He glanced around, bewildered, and then moved on to the next car.
As soon as he had taken a few steps away, Jack turned to Mia, his face brimming with emotion. I leaned closer, eager to hear his thoughts. This was a pivotal moment for them.
“Hey, Mia!” Jack exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the man. “That guy’s so lucky—he has a whole canister of Lifesavers!”
With that, the train jolted to a stop, and the doors opened, allowing the man to exit into the next car and continue his journey.
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