I don't ever expect to sit down, even with my cello, but when I got on the bus today, a man in one of the prime seats offered it to me and was already up on his feet, ushering me in. He was a small man, perhaps Hispanic, with a dumdum lollipop in his mouth and the remembrance of dark green tattoos, on his hands which gently, nervously twitched. He carried a large piece of card board, the back of which had some sparse notes, including a phone number in red pencil. I later saw the other side to discover that it was a backgammon and checker board.
Shortly after he gave me his seat, he dropped his rider card, which slipped to my feet. I tried to grab it again and again, and finally pealed it off the bus floor and handed it back to him, uninspected. It wasn't until I saw his hand on the pole in front of me, with the card held there firmly that I saw, "-isabled" peaking above the index finger. I expected him to get off at the next stop, but he didn't. His continued presence spoke to the giving he had in him. A seat offered, a card returned. In Japan there is such apology for the giving one receives. It is a different lesson to assume it from and for others.
This is the kindness of New York. It bears a very different face than that of the midwest. It is assumed but not expected, something which flows outwardly, never to be received again from the person to whom it is given. There must be an explanation for this, a small amount of altruism that seems to defy genetic barriers. Maybe this is part of what makes this city so wonderful. It is a family of people through actions and not through blood. Sometimes they don't show their best face, and yet more often than not, I feel very fortunate to be in their presence, learning from their exchanges.
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