One chilly afternoon, I found myself on the F train with my son, Jake, and his good friend, Lily. Jake had just celebrated his 7th birthday, and as a treat, I was taking them to see Mary Poppins on Broadway. They were growing up fast—I no longer felt the need to hover over them. They stood confidently, gripping the pole and gazing out the window like true New Yorkers… until Lily, in a moment of distraction, pressed her lips to the pole. I quickly snapped a picture for her parents, just to document the source of any potential germs, and then I made them sit down.
The kids settled into the molded plastic seats across from me, chatting about whatever 7-year-olds chat about these days (it was post-Paw Patrol but pre-Fidget Spinner). I watched them, feeling a swell of pride. They seemed so grown-up, so poised and self-assured—two wise kids navigating the bustling metropolis.
Just a few minutes later, with several stops still to go, the door at the far end of the car swung open with a bang. A man stepped inside, scanning the rows of passengers. He was dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, with a cardboard sign hanging from his neck and a cylindrical container in hand. My first thought was that he might be a homeless veteran.
As he made his way through the car, swaying with the train’s motions, he began to share his story. He wove in and out of the crowded aisle, repeating his message, and shaking his can. The other passengers barely glanced up—after all, it takes something extraordinary to grab the attention of seasoned subway riders.
But I felt my heart race. How was I going to explain this to the kids? I had no idea what Lily’s parents had shared with her about homelessness, mental health issues, or the struggles faced by veterans. What would they ask? Would they be sad? Would they want to help him out with lunch?
These kids were no strangers to seeing homeless individuals; Jake and I had discussed it before, especially after passing by the man who used to sleep near our corner. But this felt different—more personal. The man had stopped directly in front of Jake and Lily, right between them and me. It was as if the world had narrowed down to this moment.
As I observed, I noticed the man looked to be in his fifties. His sign was packed with shaky block letters and a couple of hand-drawn American flags, but it was hard to read. His clothes were clean yet ill-fitting, and his eyes seemed dull and sad. He looked into the distance and began again.
“I’m a homeless veteran,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I served this country and now I’ve been abandoned by the government. I’m left to fend for myself.” It seemed his sign was his way of summarizing his plight.
Jake and Lily were transfixed. Their chatter ceased, and they sat with their mouths tightly shut, eyes darting between his sign and his face, looking like they understood they were witnessing something significant. They placed their hands on their laps, and I felt a swell of pride at their evident empathy.
The man shook his canister, and the sound of loose change rattled inside. I noticed it was a metal container designed to resemble a giant roll of Lifesavers, the kind you might get for Christmas as a kid.
Once he finished his speech, the train was silent. No one moved. Jake and Lily’s eyes widened, clearly wishing they could do something, yet feeling powerless as kids often do. I thought, at least this would be a good starting point for a conversation about compassion.
I was so focused on the kids that I forgot to give the man any money, and not a single other passenger dropped a dime in his can. He turned and shuffled to the other end of the car.
As soon as he was a few steps away, Jake turned to Lily, his face lit with emotion. I leaned in, eager not to miss a word. This was real life—this is why we live in New York, to witness these moments up close.
“Lily!” Jake said excitedly, nodding towards the man. “That guy’s so lucky—he has a whole thing of Lifesavers!”
Just then, the train lurched into a station, the doors whooshing open as the man stepped off, heading to the next car to start his story anew.
For more on navigating sensitive topics like this with kids, you can check out some insights on our blog post about home insemination kits.
In summary, the NYC subway can be an unexpected classroom for children. Through encounters with real-life situations like homelessness, kids can learn empathy and compassion, and parents have the chance to guide these discussions. Watching my son and his friend process the reality of poverty was a poignant reminder of the importance of nurturing kindness and understanding in children. As parents, we want to equip our kids to navigate life’s complexities, and resources like this one can be invaluable for understanding various life experiences.