The other day I was at a bus stop along with three other people, one of whom was an old man that looked virtually derelict. He has a baseball cap on that said, "Improve your status, be seen with me."
He was scratching away at lottery tickets while he was standing there, a makeshift desk of old plywood against his knees as he methodically scratched one after the other, head down in concentration. He was utterly oblivious to the rest of us.
Once on the bus there was a little child who couldn't get enough of this man and stared at him intently, utterly rapt. I laughingly commented on this and the man raised his head and said in perfect King's English that his grandchildren seemed to find him equally captivating, and then he bent his head and resumed his task.
When I was working in New York there was an occasion where a rape had been committed in Central Park and they had not captured the perpetrator. I rose early the next morning and ran into the park for my jog, but exercise was the furthest thing from my mind. We all knew there was a homeless woman who lived there, her name was Mary and she could be seen, night and day, pushing a shopping cart full of "odds and sods", an inexplicable array of items from clothes to machine parts to blankets. I wanted to make sure she was okay.
I came across her about 10 minutes into the run and we sat down together on a park bench. I had never spoken to her before. I told her about the rapist and asked if she was going to be okay in the park, and she told me yes, this was where she belonged and no one would frighten her away. Like the man above, her vocabulary was impeccable, a touch of Boston Brahman about her, and so I asked where she originated from and she confirmed my intuitions.
"Do you have family", and she said "Oh yes, my dear, my son has his own computer firm in Boston, and he is very successful."
"Does he know you're here?"
"Yes, and he respects my wishes to stay here." She was quite firm about that.
Although this narrative could continue endlessly, there is one more story to tell about New York. I was on a subway headed towards the Brooklyn Bridge and a couple of Australian tourists, women, were peering at a city map on the wall just above their heads trying to decipher the best way to get to their destination in lower Manhattan. I was confessing that I couldn't help them without ensuring that they would get completely lost when a very large African American rapper guy with a ball cap on sideways, tattoos over every visible inch of his body and low slung, very low slung, blue jeans on, looked over at us.
Under normal circumstances in a small, dark alley, this is a man that would cause you to scream loudly and run very fast in the opposite direction.
This gentle giant stood up, gave us a big toothy grin and said with a thick Brooklyn accent, "Come on ladies, don't worry about a thing, I'll get you there safely, we're off at the next stop, and then I'll point you in the right direction."
My final story took place today at the Farmer's Market on the waterfront. A man with a shaggy beard and hair who looked as though he hadn't eaten for a long, long time, came over to the stairs where a few of us were sitting. He had a battered violin case slung over his shoulder. He removed his baseball cap carefully and opened up his case, taking out the violin with loving care. Before he played however, he did a few warm-ups: he touched his toes a few times, did some push-ups and at one point he sat on the concrete floor, utterly oblivious to the tourists who streamed around him, and adopted a lotus position. He was very centered and calm, his arms were outstretched, his palms faced upward, and his eyes closed.
And then he stood up and started to play. All of us were stunned, this man could have been in any Philharmonic anywhere. He moved with effortless grace from Bach to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and he was completely absorbed in his music. We were irrelevant.
I was equally interested in those around him that took note of his artistry. A very large man with a Carnival Cruise Line ID on smiled and gave him $5.00. A couple who looked quite refined swept passed him as though he did not exist. Three girls with fuchsia/ orange/purple hair and a lot of body piecing reached into their jeans and gave him whatever was in there.
The only one who broke his attention, however, was a little child that was in his father's arms and who walked over and stood before him. The child was enraptured by both the man and his music so much so that without missing a beat, the musician moved quickly from a scherzo to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", and then bowed deeply to the child as they moved away.
He was scratching away at lottery tickets while he was standing there, a makeshift desk of old plywood against his knees as he methodically scratched one after the other, head down in concentration. He was utterly oblivious to the rest of us.
Once on the bus there was a little child who couldn't get enough of this man and stared at him intently, utterly rapt. I laughingly commented on this and the man raised his head and said in perfect King's English that his grandchildren seemed to find him equally captivating, and then he bent his head and resumed his task.
When I was working in New York there was an occasion where a rape had been committed in Central Park and they had not captured the perpetrator. I rose early the next morning and ran into the park for my jog, but exercise was the furthest thing from my mind. We all knew there was a homeless woman who lived there, her name was Mary and she could be seen, night and day, pushing a shopping cart full of "odds and sods", an inexplicable array of items from clothes to machine parts to blankets. I wanted to make sure she was okay.
I came across her about 10 minutes into the run and we sat down together on a park bench. I had never spoken to her before. I told her about the rapist and asked if she was going to be okay in the park, and she told me yes, this was where she belonged and no one would frighten her away. Like the man above, her vocabulary was impeccable, a touch of Boston Brahman about her, and so I asked where she originated from and she confirmed my intuitions.
"Do you have family", and she said "Oh yes, my dear, my son has his own computer firm in Boston, and he is very successful."
"Does he know you're here?"
"Yes, and he respects my wishes to stay here." She was quite firm about that.
Although this narrative could continue endlessly, there is one more story to tell about New York. I was on a subway headed towards the Brooklyn Bridge and a couple of Australian tourists, women, were peering at a city map on the wall just above their heads trying to decipher the best way to get to their destination in lower Manhattan. I was confessing that I couldn't help them without ensuring that they would get completely lost when a very large African American rapper guy with a ball cap on sideways, tattoos over every visible inch of his body and low slung, very low slung, blue jeans on, looked over at us.
Under normal circumstances in a small, dark alley, this is a man that would cause you to scream loudly and run very fast in the opposite direction.
This gentle giant stood up, gave us a big toothy grin and said with a thick Brooklyn accent, "Come on ladies, don't worry about a thing, I'll get you there safely, we're off at the next stop, and then I'll point you in the right direction."
My final story took place today at the Farmer's Market on the waterfront. A man with a shaggy beard and hair who looked as though he hadn't eaten for a long, long time, came over to the stairs where a few of us were sitting. He had a battered violin case slung over his shoulder. He removed his baseball cap carefully and opened up his case, taking out the violin with loving care. Before he played however, he did a few warm-ups: he touched his toes a few times, did some push-ups and at one point he sat on the concrete floor, utterly oblivious to the tourists who streamed around him, and adopted a lotus position. He was very centered and calm, his arms were outstretched, his palms faced upward, and his eyes closed.
And then he stood up and started to play. All of us were stunned, this man could have been in any Philharmonic anywhere. He moved with effortless grace from Bach to Vivaldi's Four Seasons, and he was completely absorbed in his music. We were irrelevant.
I was equally interested in those around him that took note of his artistry. A very large man with a Carnival Cruise Line ID on smiled and gave him $5.00. A couple who looked quite refined swept passed him as though he did not exist. Three girls with fuchsia/ orange/purple hair and a lot of body piecing reached into their jeans and gave him whatever was in there.
The only one who broke his attention, however, was a little child that was in his father's arms and who walked over and stood before him. The child was enraptured by both the man and his music so much so that without missing a beat, the musician moved quickly from a scherzo to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", and then bowed deeply to the child as they moved away.