I grew up on a farm that is roughly
one square mile. There were five people living on that patch of
ground. New York City's last census claims 27,532 persons per square
mile, for 305 square miles. In those conditions it's easy to think
yourself invisible. I imagine feeling unseen is the norm and it is
awkward, terrifying even, to be seen.
I’m on a plane flying home. Home,
after having spent a whirlwind week in New York City with 3 other
gals. We walked iconic streets, toured iconic buildings, cried at
iconic sights. And for that I am grateful. Hundreds of pictures were
taken whose captured milliseconds will be jogging this fantastic
memory-made trip for decades to come. But sitting here, next to the
sleeping fashion photographer from Tokyo, replaying the week’s
highlight reel in my head I am genuinely shocked at what it contains.
Glimpses of sparkling brilliance that rival the windows that wowed
us in the diamond district.
Of course Greg and Anne, our gracious
hosts, whose willingness to give of their time is a kindness that
cannot be overstated. Coupled with Greg’s infectious love of the
city and unique ability to show us how to love and appreciate it has
tainted my ability to ever think less of his city.
There was the beautiful Canadian girl I
was privileged to share a 24 square inch of floor space on the
express subway (with no air conditioning), to Battery Park. Her skin
was flawless, as was her smile. Her kindness prompted her to point
out the sign keeping passengers informed and offered direction on our
trip to visit Lady Liberty.
There was, on that same train. A young,
'fashion forward’ man, whose wide smile was a mix of pity and
amusement. I can easily imagine him, were we in a different setting,
saying something like, ”Oh, girl! You need to punch up that
color! Let’s weave some warm chocolate with, oh I don’t know,
maybe some honey tones…” But what his kindness actually prompted
him to say, through that beautiful wide smile was, “Happy
Holidays!”
Another beautiful, un-digitized memory,
also on that subterranean ride to the tip of Manhattan, was another
pair of brown eyes. He spoke very quietly making him difficult to
hear, but he surrendered his hand-hold on the pole so I could have a
more secure stand. He was young, with eyes that were a mix of
kindness and sadness. He overheard our remarking on the irony of the
folks at home facing sub-zero temperatures while we were melting
into puddles.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“South Dakota.”
“And how cold is it?”
“This morning it's minus 3 degrees.”
To which he responded with, “God
bless you.”
I don't know how often people get to
hear a kind voice say, “God bless you”, on overheated, over
crowded subways. But his kind blessing calmed my anxious heart.
And then there was Chuck, the usher at
the Saint James Theater. After striking up a conversation I was
pretty sure he hailed from New Jersey. Sure enough, he did. And
when I asked him where specifically in New Jersey was he from his
initial response was mixture of surprise, disbelief, and delight.
“From Jersey? You want to know where
I am from Jersey?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody ever asks where at in
Jersey people are from! No body cares.”
“I do.”
His reaction to my question made me
sad, like he had become too familiar with being overlooked and under
appreciated. Invisible. I was so glad I had asked.
His kindness was shown by way of gifts.
Beautiful, tangible reminders to thumb through and listen to, anytime
the memory of this once-in-a-lifetime adventure threatens to fade we will have his gifts.
Kindness never goes out of style even in fashion conscious
Manhattan, and it comes in the most wonderful flavors.
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