A Real New Yorker
My mother always told me not to be too nice to strangers. I never strictly followed it. It didn’t make sense to be cold in a world that’s going through global warming anyways.
I was on the train, just on my phone since it seemed the unspoken law in New York City was to mind your own business. So, I did just that. Mind my own business. Then, this man got on at the stop for 23rd Street. I think. He started yelling down the train for everyone to have a nice Thursday and that if anyone was kind enough, to give him some spare change since he was homeless.
A lady laughed. I don’t know if the man heard or saw but a lady laughed. She had her earphones in and I thought maybe she was laughing at something she was watching on her phone. Another woman just clutched tightly onto her juul. I looked around. I had earbuds in and so, followed the majority. I turned my music off just in case though, since I wanted to hear what the man said. I watched as he walked down the aisle, holding a plastic bag and asking for spare change. Nobody looked up when he came near and neither did I.
I got off the train and I wondered if anyone gave him money. I felt bad that I didn’t but my father also told me that people on the train were weird. They might scam you. They might beat your ass for talking to them or even if they hear you breathing too loudly. I heard real New Yorkers don’t give a shit what they see on the subway. They’re used to it. The violence. The hate crimes. The sexual harassment.
I wonder what I’d do if I was in such a situation. Would music still be pulsing through my earphones? Would I not want to be involved because I am afraid of getting hurt or afraid of being seen as a busybody tourist? I am not from New York. But I sure act like I am.
I often think about going to Times Square and asking for a dollar donation from everyone. An average of 300,000 people walk through Times Square on a daily basis. That means if I got a dollar from every person, I could pay off my tuition and buy a car or something.
I told my friends and they laughed real hard and said I’d get kidnapped. I didn’t think it was funny. I don’t think a dollar meant much to most people. But it meant I could get two tacos for fifty cents back in California.
So maybe if five people gave that man a dollar, he could’ve gotten Halal food from those food trucks that appeared on every street. I wondered when that unspoken law of minding your own business came into existence. Was it when the first subway in New York opened back in 1904? Is that when everyone just silently decided to not interact? Everyone hates the MTA apparently. It’s voted as one of the worst transit systems in the world. But maybe it’s just because of the rats.
I’ve concluded that there are three types of people on the subway. Maybe four. People who go on their phones or read, people who listen to music, people who like to just sit there and glare at you, and the very few people who try to talk to others. Okay, so four.
For people who go on their phones, there’s two more subcategories. People who actually have important matters to attend to and people who don’t have anything else to do. It’s easy to tell them apart. People who are bored like to text with long paragraphs. I know because I’m one of those people. My friend could text and ask me how New York City is and I might launch into a story about a party the night before. It’s because I don’t want to seem like I’m not occupied. I think it’s the fear of putting down your phone for a second and someone might be glaring at you as if to scold you for not keeping yourself busy. So, I just text a long shitty story to my friend—who’s not even responding by the way—to make it seem like I’m busy. And when I don’t have stories to text, I just pop in my earbuds and make it seem like I’m not emotionally available for interaction. I can’t even hear my music over the damn train.
My mother always told me not to be too nice to people. Funny, though. She always gave money to the homeless who just sat at the exit of freeways. They always had a sign too. It would say something about how they were hungry or got kicked out of school and had nowhere to go. One time, some guy had a sign saying he was hungry and needed money for food. So, she gave some money to him. She told me about how she doesn’t know but doesn’t care if the money was actually going towards food. “It could go towards alcohol or cigarettes,” for all she cares. She said she did her part as a moral human, and God will watch where the money goes.
I’m at home now and I still feel uncomfortable for not acknowledging or giving money to that man. I’m actually uncomfortable since I haven’t really given any money to homeless people in New York. I was scared of the real New Yorkers hiding in the crowd. They might judge me. They might think Damn, what a dumbass. She’s definitely not from New York. I was a little paranoid that someone was watching me the whole time. If I took out my wallet, someone might see and jump me. I was so paranoid. Shit, if I offered the food in my bag, the rats might gang up on me.
I think I did my part as a “real” New Yorker. I don’t think I did my part as a moral human at all. But, dear God, I hope you’re watching to see where all my money goes one day because just like a “real” New Yorker, I won’t give a shit about what others think.
Cover Photo by Katrina Kwok. Edited by Katrina Kwok.