On a chilly winter afternoon, I found myself riding the subway with my son, Leo, and his close friend, Mia. Leo had just turned 7, and as a birthday treat, I was taking them both to see a Broadway show—The Lion King, to be exact.
They were getting older now, and I didn’t need to hover over them. They stood confidently by the pole, gazing out like true New Yorkers—until Mia, in a moment of distraction, pressed her lips to the pole. A quick snap for the ‘Gram for her parents documenting the source of her new germs, and I insisted the kids take their seats.
As they settled into the plastic seats across the aisle, their chatter was a mix of whatever 7-year-olds talk about in this age (this was pre-Fidget Spinner but post-Paw Patrol). I watched them with pride. They seemed so grown-up, so at ease in their city surroundings—two little souls navigating the urban jungle.
A few moments after they sat down, and still several stops from our destination, the door at the end of the car swung open with a loud clang. A man entered, taking a moment to scan the car. He was dressed in army camouflage from head to toe, a cardboard sign hanging around his neck, and a canister in his hand. My instinct told me he was a homeless veteran.
As he made his way through the aisles, telling his story, I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. How would I explain this to the kids? What had Mia’s parents told her about homelessness? Did they discuss mental health, inadequate social services, or the struggles faced by our veterans? Would they feel sad? Would they want to help him?
These were city kids, familiar with the sight of homeless individuals, but this felt different—more intense. The man stopped right in front of Leo and Mia, positioned directly between me and them. I held my breath, deciding to let the moment unfold.
Up close, I could see the man was in his fifties. His sign was cluttered with shaky letters and a couple of hand-drawn American flags. His clothes were clean but not quite right. His eyes, however, told a story of neglect and sadness. “I’m a homeless veteran,” he said, his voice shaky. “I served my country, but I’ve been abandoned by the government and left to fend for myself.”
I glanced back at Leo and Mia. They were completely absorbed, their chatter silenced. They seemed to understand they were witnessing something profound. Their hands rested on their laps, and I felt a swell of pride as I observed their budding empathy.
The man shook his canister, the sound of coins echoing in the silence. It was a metal can, designed to resemble a giant roll of Lifesavers—the kind one might find wrapped up as a Christmas gift.
After his speech, a heavy stillness filled the air. I could see the kids’ faces, wide-eyed and concerned. They wished they could do something but felt powerless. At least this could spark a meaningful conversation later.
I was so caught up in their reactions that I forgot to give the man any change. Not a single person in the car moved to help him either. After a moment, he moved on to the next car.
Just a few steps away, Leo turned to Mia, his expression filled with genuine feeling. I leaned in, eager to catch every word. This was real life, right here in the city.
“Hey, Mia!” Leo exclaimed, pointing at the man. “That guy’s so lucky—he has a whole thing of Lifesavers!”
With that, the train jolted to a stop, and the doors slid open. The man stepped off into the next car, ready to repeat his story.
It’s in moments like these that we truly understand the importance of empathy and how children can surprise us with their perspectives. If you want to learn more about supporting family journeys, check out this intriguing blog post on home insemination. You can also find valuable insights on pregnancy and home insemination here. For couples exploring their fertility journey, Make a Mom offers excellent resources.
In summary, the subway ride became a powerful lesson in compassion and understanding for my son and his friend, reminding us all of the humanity that exists in our busy lives.