The Birdhouse Chime
While walking to the medical center on Friday morning, a middle-aged man approached me. "Do you speak English?" he asked, which is a fair question given the large Spanish-speaking population in Washington Heights. Although I knew every minute was accounted for, and I detest being late, I stopped. I'll come back to this point. I pulled out an earbud and responded, "How can I help?" It was his sigh, the relaxation of his shoulders and the unfurrowing of his brow that stopped me from checking the time.
As a born and bred New Yorker, I've learned to manage sound. In some parts of this busy city, at certain hours, a honking horn or plea for help goes unnoticed. Not every panhandler on the subway is honest, and unfortunately one bad one does it for the bunch, at least for a while.
This man wanted directions to 42nd street-Times Square. Do I know it? he asked. Of course. Well, he couldn't take the subway because he had no metrocard, so how long to walk? I reminded him that he was on 168th. And then he said something that had my dismissal stop in my throat, that had me turning my body so we were face on: he didn't know what that meant.
There's a hand carved bamboo birdhouse in the corner of the ceiling of my living room, of which I always have a direct view. Mom bought it nearly 20 years ago from a local in a village near the Haitian-Dominican border. Although she's brought back items from her many trips overseas over the years, the birdhouse stands out the most to me. When I try to collect my thoughts, as I do now, my head subconsciously turns towards the birdhouse. The rare times its wind chimes sound, I'm reminded that small causes can have large effects. I'm also reminded that I'm too short to dust it, even standing on a chair, but that does't mean I shouldn't try.
I don't have the skill in prose to describe the shift in the encounter, or perhaps I haven't reflected enough over the past 2 days. It reminded me of my birdhouse, of the unnamed sensations I experienced the first time I heard the chime in over a decade; I couldn't recognize it immediately, but when I did...
It didn't matter whether or not he and his family were visiting the Big Apple from North Carolina when his sister went into labor, that they unknowingly stood by her side as his car was towed and is now sitting in a police lot on 44th, that neither the police nor the subway attendant were willing to or capable of offering transportation. He needed me to believe him. Not the testimony per se. I could have questioned how he and his family endured the night if their wallets and cell phones were locked in the towed car. I could have advised he take a cab and tell the driver to wait while he retrieve his personals to cover the bill. I could have mentioned I don't carry around cash and politely declare I'm running late. But I stopped because his eyes expressed a different kind of plea, and the echos of the chimes lingered still. The truth came second to his need for help and acknowledgment of the courage to ask for it. With a sigh I gave him my metrocard, which I used only 2 or 3 times. I know I'll think back to this act in frustration when I buy a new one to travel for a job interview or address my lack of savings and looming student loan deadlines.
As he turned towards the subway station, I called back, "What's you're name?" That Friday morning, I, too, needed something in the encounter to be honest.
As a born and bred New Yorker, I've learned to manage sound. In some parts of this busy city, at certain hours, a honking horn or plea for help goes unnoticed. Not every panhandler on the subway is honest, and unfortunately one bad one does it for the bunch, at least for a while.
This man wanted directions to 42nd street-Times Square. Do I know it? he asked. Of course. Well, he couldn't take the subway because he had no metrocard, so how long to walk? I reminded him that he was on 168th. And then he said something that had my dismissal stop in my throat, that had me turning my body so we were face on: he didn't know what that meant.
There's a hand carved bamboo birdhouse in the corner of the ceiling of my living room, of which I always have a direct view. Mom bought it nearly 20 years ago from a local in a village near the Haitian-Dominican border. Although she's brought back items from her many trips overseas over the years, the birdhouse stands out the most to me. When I try to collect my thoughts, as I do now, my head subconsciously turns towards the birdhouse. The rare times its wind chimes sound, I'm reminded that small causes can have large effects. I'm also reminded that I'm too short to dust it, even standing on a chair, but that does't mean I shouldn't try. I don't have the skill in prose to describe the shift in the encounter, or perhaps I haven't reflected enough over the past 2 days. It reminded me of my birdhouse, of the unnamed sensations I experienced the first time I heard the chime in over a decade; I couldn't recognize it immediately, but when I did...
It didn't matter whether or not he and his family were visiting the Big Apple from North Carolina when his sister went into labor, that they unknowingly stood by her side as his car was towed and is now sitting in a police lot on 44th, that neither the police nor the subway attendant were willing to or capable of offering transportation. He needed me to believe him. Not the testimony per se. I could have questioned how he and his family endured the night if their wallets and cell phones were locked in the towed car. I could have advised he take a cab and tell the driver to wait while he retrieve his personals to cover the bill. I could have mentioned I don't carry around cash and politely declare I'm running late. But I stopped because his eyes expressed a different kind of plea, and the echos of the chimes lingered still. The truth came second to his need for help and acknowledgment of the courage to ask for it. With a sigh I gave him my metrocard, which I used only 2 or 3 times. I know I'll think back to this act in frustration when I buy a new one to travel for a job interview or address my lack of savings and looming student loan deadlines.
As he turned towards the subway station, I called back, "What's you're name?" That Friday morning, I, too, needed something in the encounter to be honest.
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