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On Thursdays We Wear Our Hearts on Our Sleeves

"We were given Heaven and somehow ended up with Hell."

By Corliss PPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 10 min read
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Credit-Behind the Scenes of The Humans of New York

The worst part of working in New York is the taboo of acknowledging people that, to our bustling society, are the powerless. In the heart of the financial district where the world comes to see the unfortunate events of human history, (9/11 and Jewish Holocaust Museums are blocks away ) displayed to them beautifully, in techno-color are the very same people that play blind, deaf, and indifferent to the unfortunate events of our unraveling reality.

I don’t actually blame anyone. I’m part of everyone, born in the shit-show like the rest. But no one admits to the oddity of our freedom, what it costs, and the reality that our predecessors and leaders create for our society.

You ask any grade school kid what they would do if they could change the world, they don’t choose to have superpowers or the right for dessert for breakfast. They usually want two things: to work with their parents, to have more time with them, and to never leave them for boring school “just to put a roof over their head.” But the most common, at least when I ask my young peers is, “I want to change every bad thing,” worded perfectly by my, now nine-year-old, nephew.

When I asked any of children the specifics, it boiled down to the same answer: “I will make it so that there are no homeless people.” When I think of the minds of the young people, it makes me contemplate my own answer, and I guess you could say that the kid in me never died. It is what’s swarmed my brain as I looked down from my office and looked to the masses of New York’s Financial District.

Like clockwork, suit-clouted men and women pour into tourists, which had been happily grazing the streets. Because it is clockwork: it’s lunch-time. I watched them, chins raised high, accompanied with a brisk walk, artfully navigating lunch traffic.

“They walk head-high to avoid looking down at the homeless,” I concluded my first year here.

It’s not that the humanity left them, exchanged for the stock market; they’ve been conditioned to ignore them.

Mental illness is laughable in our nation—complete comedy skits dedicated to the matter—and it’s no longer a few isolated cases but the majority of our Orwellian society. Working people are paying bills, stressed and trying to escape the mental cages, constructed from years of isolation from our families at young ages, caught in a loop formed by generations prior; helping to educate the masses.

In adulthood, we’re barricaded with medications and fabricated realities manufactured from media, propaganda, and fear; the blanket of our safety being swiped away. Environmentalists and human-rights activist are seen as extremist or conspiracy theorist if they name names and agencies responsible for the lack of compassion, knowledge, and overall wellbeing of citizens.

But that’s going too deep. I was told that I don’t know how to handle small talk. Just the thought of it, being small, like us existing at the same time, the same planet, and the same neighborhood, is not the most miraculous thing I could think of. The law of nature and the laws created by man differ with fearful ignorance at the forefront of the human experience, making the world beautiful and cruel, all in one breath. We were given Heaven and somehow ended up with Hell.

To me, it seems a shame that we don’t openly discuss changes, not to correct the past, but to steer to a brighter future. As a part of mankind, I’m achingly tired of jumping around the subject, making eye-contact with other human beings and talking about the weather is a different kind of soul crushing. And somehow, I’ve become the taboo one.

After a few minutes of daydreaming I sighed, collecting my things in need of fresh air and unwilling to wait out the foot-traffic. As I collect my tan, Burberry trench and switch from platform heels into this season’s flat from a sample sale, I concede within myself: I, too, am part of the problem.

I’m not holier than thou and, quite frankly, my indulgent lifestyle is in stark contrast of my value systems. I work a six-figure job in one of the most renowned cities in the world, a vegan and a millennial that heavily enjoys her avocado toast.

Sure, I may have a fifty-dollar allowance per week to give to any homeless person who asks, a giant volunteer and donation decree as part of my company, vote for legislation to stop oil pipelines and clear cutting—hell, I have a water meter in my apartment to tell me when I am not conserving enough—but I’m not shaking the world by storm. I think I’m just doing my part, minimally.

“Ms. Harris,” my assistant comes in, hearing me as I get myself together to face the world. “I just need you to sign off on the exhibition deals before four o’clock. I know you said you wanted to tweak the contract ever so slightly, before you agreed”.

I smiled brightly, Joshua’s a ray of hope. Dressed in different shades of blue from head to toe, he is stylish and serious about his job—the definition of an asset. Smart, sarcastically funny, and good at what he does, we speak the same language, and he understands my business motto from the core: people and creativity in sacred union.

“It must have slipped my mind to email the final draft your way,” I mutter, trying to cover amusement for bemusement in my voice.

“Don’t play cute,” he jokingly taunts me, knowing my play-off. “It’s Thursday: the only day you don’t bring lunch and when you decide to take three hours, feasting amongst the little people. I better get it before you leave, otherwise the renovations and studios won’t be set for the rest of the year”.

“It’s not three hours… routinely. It’s just crowded sometimes, and I don’t like to be rushed.”

“Ms. Harris, you are a terrible liar.” He said, flatly as possible. “Harry saw you, dared to even tail you for a bit. You know what he saw?”

I played coy, a bewildered shrug and a look of pure innocence is somehow mustered through our amusing banter.

“You just walked around, head in the clouds. You got 2 deli sandwiches and ate with a homeless guy.”

Sounded about right. I dramatically nod my head, fake deep frown to accompany fake musing as I busily send Joshua the file, remembering to lock my phone away.

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” is my last statement. I breezily sashayed dramatically, matching Burberry tote and bucket hat snatched with practiced zeal from the hook and I grande jete’d out before I could give more away. Joking with Josh always kept my spirits high, and I’m thankful he isn’t a gossip.

Foot on the pavement, I walk unhurriedly, no true destination. This is my favorite part about Thursday afternoons: I assume another identity. No longer a hard-working Co-CEO and human enthusiast, just a thirty-year-old with a passion for life. No obligation of the ancestors before me, no tomorrow to dim my light of today, no pressure from social media, friends, and family; I’m just me with no responsibility.

I walk, aimlessly from the Fulton area and deeper into the financial center, subconsciously on my way to Battery Park. This route is familiar, and there’s a Halal stand hosting the best falafel in New York, the scenic view worth the smell and footwork. I happily people-watch as I stroll, grabbing a chiro on the way, munching as I see businesspeople stumble over each other. Then, I saw one of my favorite things: a young man helping an old lady cross the street. I stopped and leaned against the flower poll, happy to watch this interaction between humans. I smiled, proud and happy, watching him hunch over because of the two-feet height difference, as he takes her CVS bag and helped her cross the large street, raising a hand to stop oncoming traffic, the woman too slow for the tweeny-two second allowance of time.

Things like this happens all the time, random acts of beautiful and sweet kindness, free of charge, heart-warming, and necessary for existence. This Thursday was no exception: a woman who gave up her taxi to the ridiculously pregnant woman, a young couple giving up their seats to their elders, a man that gave me a flower from his bouquet. He saw wisps of enchantment flow uncontrollably from me, my delight, contagious. I smiled shyly and thanked him, a pep in my unhurried steps.

A man stopped me just a block away from my last encounter, and he asked me if I could help him. I inquired what he needed, and he told me food. After taking his order, I informed him I’d be right back. I returned, lunch in hand, and to my surprise he was no longer there.

“Miss!” the man called to me from the distance. He was holding a camera, taking a picture for a family of tourist, that I assumed walked past.

He waved me over, standing in front of the infamous “Raging Bull.” It’s so cliché; it leaked banality: I, the businesswoman, waiting for this homeless man, who is taking a picture for a vacationing family without a care in the world, a family that could afford a vacation. Here we were, in time, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, and he didn’t even ask for a tip. He waved them off as they thanked him.

I asked if he had about ten minutes to spare, that there was a great sitting area pass the government buildings, and we could just chat. I watched his reaction because it’s always the same: first, shock, which was usual, followed by mild confusion—either they were planning to share with a loved one, alone or elated to have an eating buddy.

He told me he was happy to talk, and his name’s John. Thirty-nine years old, from Oklahoma, an only child, his parents doesn’t know he’s homeless, and his wife died three years ago, which is the center of why he’s homeless. He couldn’t work, he thought that he would die, the emotional pain was so deep, bills piled up and he no longer had self-awareness to do mundane things.

No drug abuse, no gambling, and he had no vices. He was just alone, shamed and terribly broken-hearted. Therefore, when I mused heavily on mental illness earlier, the reason is, it’s a tragedy. This is why children believe that being homeless is a crime, an injustice: because it is.

John and I conversed, laughed, and enjoyed the quiet as we ate our soup and sipped still warm tea, both opting to have our sandwiches later.

This realness is what I crave in all people: honesty, elation, conversation. We never mentioned the weather, but we felt it. I never asked when he was getting back into the working game because it’s just not my business. He didn’t ask where I went to school because why would that stuff matter anyway? We were fully emerged in that moment until my pocket-timer went off, letting me know I only had an hour to make it to the office.

He apologized frantically, frightened he’d taken up too much time. I laughed, informed him today was the greatest day I’ve had all week, because it was. It was my pleasure.

We gave parting hugs, I gave him a fifty and left my sandwich, he tried to insist otherwise, and I told him I was fine. Parted, I walked back, happy to not make it to my usual spot. In exchange I met a new person and shared the simplistic beauty of life.

I took out my notebook and wrote: John, then the date. There were other names and dates there, people I’ve met and don’t want to forget.

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