On a chilly winter day, I found myself aboard the F train alongside my son, Oliver, and his close friend, Mia. Oliver had just celebrated his seventh birthday, and as a treat, I was taking them to see a Broadway production of Mary Poppins.
They had grown up so much—I no longer felt the need to hover or hold their hands. Instead, they stood independently, gripping the pole and gazing into the distance, embodying the spirit of New Yorkers. That was until Mia, in a moment of distraction, pressed her lips against the pole. After snapping a quick picture to share with her parents about her latest adventure, I instructed them to take a seat.
Settling into the molded plastic seats across the aisle, they engaged in animated chatter about the whims of childhood (this was before the Rainbow Loom craze but after the era of Wow Wow Wubbzy). I watched them with pride; they seemed so grown-up and confident, two young souls navigating the complexities of city life.
Moments later, as we still had several stops to go, the door at the far end of the car swung open with a loud clank. A man entered, pausing to scan the rows of passengers. I quickly assessed him: clad in full camouflage, with a cardboard sign around his neck and a cylindrical container in hand, he appeared to be a homeless veteran.
As he shuffled down the aisle, weaving through the commuters, he began to share his story, his voice barely rising above the noise of the train. I observed with growing concern, wondering how to explain the situation to the kids. I was uncertain of what Mia’s parents had discussed with her regarding homelessness, mental illness, or the challenges faced by veterans. What questions would they have? Would they feel sadness? Would they want to help him?
These children lived in New York City; they had certainly encountered homeless individuals before. Oliver and I had spoken about it a few times after passing by a man who used to sleep near our corner. But this encounter felt more personal and urgent, as the man stood directly between me and the kids.
I decided to let the moment unfold. Up close, I could see the man was in his fifties, and the sign he bore was cluttered with shaky letters and drawings of American flags, making it barely legible. His clothes, although clean, were ill-fitting, and his eyes reflected a profound sadness and detachment. He began his speech again, stating, “I am a homeless veteran. I served this country, and now I find myself abandoned by the government.”
I glanced back at Oliver and Mia. They were mesmerized, their conversations hushed, their expressions shifting between confusion and empathy. They sat with their hands on their laps, visibly affected by the encounter. I felt a swell of pride at their compassion.
The man rattled his canister, filled with loose change, which clinked loudly in the stillness of the subway car. I noted that it resembled a giant Lifesavers roll—something nostalgic that could bring a smile to a child’s face.
As he finished speaking, the carriage remained motionless. The kids’ eyes widened; I could tell they wished to help but felt powerless as children often do. At least this would provide a valuable opportunity for a discussion later, I thought.
I was so engrossed in observing them that I completely forgot to offer the man any money. Not a single person in the car did. He looked around, his expression blank, before moving on to the next section of the train.
Once he was a few steps away, Oliver turned to Mia, his face lighting up with excitement. “Mia!” he exclaimed, pointing in the man’s direction. “That guy’s so lucky—he has a whole thing of Lifesavers!”
With that, the train jolted to a stop, the doors opened, and the man stepped off, ready to start his story anew in the next car.
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In summary, the NYC subway can serve as a backdrop for teachable moments about empathy and society’s challenges, revealing the innate curiosity and compassion in children. It illustrates how real-life encounters can provide valuable lessons in understanding human experiences.