The City; It Changes You

My first day at the new job was July 9th, 2012. I moved to the city two days before that. Today is February 19th. That means it's been roughly 227 days since I arrived in New York City.

Handy tip, straight from the Unix Stack Exchange site. If you want to know the difference between two dates, ask a snake for help.

$ python
>>> from datetime import date as D
>>> print (D.today() - D(2012, 7, 7)).days

Handy tip from the sysadmin rolodex of tricks.

These 227 days have been filled with emotional ups and downs. I deal with the constant feeling of being an inadequate father, as I'm not physically with my wife and son back home. Usually at least once a month either I'm back home visiting them or they come to the city, and each time my boy seems to have grown another inch, despite not looking so different on our periodic Skype sessions.

That wears on you after awhile. I had several reasons for coming here, and there is the promise that things will improve. The time between moving and things getting better, though, that's the rocky part. It's a tough road to travel. I don't recommend it unless you're really dedicated to taking that path, and you have a strong relationship with your significant other, because without a very strong support system something will definitely give in your relationship.

Sometimes I think the only things that have kept me going are my extremely strong support system back home and my enjoyment of the new job.

But there are times when I look at my life and I see that some things have changed. Not just in circumstances, but in my general outlook on life. I suppose it comes from the horizon having been stretched a little wider, due to the fact that I lived my entire life in a small town with as many bars as there are churches, and we have a lot of churches back home. Here...it's New York City.

There was a story of someone living in the Chicago area who went home to a more country area to visit his family. The strange thing was he never came back to the city. Just quit his job...his coworkers apparently didn't have much idea of what happened.

Upon hearing this, one of my own coworkers said, "The city will make you or break you." That stuck with me. It was said as a nonchalant observation. But it rang true. You are either a city person or a country person, and some people just can't take the transition between.

I still have some of the fragments of country life in me. I know it's true; I have a stab of repulsion at my reaction to homeless people. Not repulsion at the homeless; my reaction to them. I ignore them. Like just about every other New Yorker, I ignore them. At least, I ignore them to the extent that I don't pull out my wallet, I don't donate to them, and I pretend I don't hear them if they're speaking.

I still try to glance at the cardboard signs they hold in front of them as they sit on the sidewalk. Not long ago I saw one man with a hand on a sign and the other on his dog, who lay quietly at his master's side. "Lost everything but my dog," it read.

Another time I was walking to the toy store to find something for my son who was planning to visit in a few days, and a passed a woman sitting against a light pole at a crossing not far from an Apple Store. Next to her was a large bag and a tattered sign. She was sobbing. I was in a bustling crowd that split apart as they approached her, as if grief were something that you could catch if you got too close. I didn't know what she was sobbing about. I moved with the crowd.

Why?

In part because I can't save the world. There are far far too many homeless and desperate out there, and handing out money for a short term assist will do little in the long run other than deprive me of resources that I can, admittedly in a selfish fashion, use on myself and my family.

In part because I'm afraid; afraid to engage people. Many are mentally ill. It is not difficult to find stories of people who end up being mugged because they engage with a homeless person, and once the wallet comes out...you're a target. Or they may suddenly flip out on you.

Cynicism also plays a part. How many of the people asking for money are telling sob stories that are disingenuous? Do they really have a family that's starving? Or will the money be used to feed some addiction?

And then there are the scammers. As there are stories of people being mugged for trying to help, there are stories of people who actually pretend to be homeless, or play on your emotions to get more money. Want more donations? Try sitting outside with your children, or your dog. You're a really heartless bastard for letting someone's kids suffer when you have a spare buck in your pocket.

The way I see it, the city has made me more of a heartless bastard.

I take solace in hating myself for it. It means that there's still a part of me that questions that behavior...it's just that that part is smaller than the part of me that pretends I can't hear them through my headphones.

Then there's the people. So many people! Back home a heavy crowd means having to pass within five feet of someone in the mall. I remember when that was irritating.

Here...two words. "Times. Square."

Ugh. One more word. "Tourists."

With all the flashy animated signs, you'd think someone could add a billboard that slides the words "MOVE IT" in that sardine can of a tourist trap. I don't know how many times I was bumped into, shouldered, and run over with rolling suitcases as I navigated my way around that general area.

But it wasn't limited to just Times Square; that was just where the effect was most pronounced. I would get shouldered as I crossed the street as I commuted to and from the subway station and my apartment. On the weekend I would make a trek to the ATM and from there to the comic shop; I'd have to dance around the sidewalk to keep from getting plowed by New Yorkers yacking on phones or jogging or just glowering at me.

Eventually I realized that this was like some kind of test. I was moving because they expected me to move. When you're 300 pounds...that's just ridiculous. I was being bullied by complete strangers.

See, there is this thing that happens when you're in an environment that is just filled with people in close proximity to you. Manhattan has over two million people living and working on a relatively small island. The five boroughs have, during the workday, more people total than my entire home state of Pennsylvania. This is crazy full of people.

So many people in such a small space...you begin to see other people as if they were two dimensional. You're forced into a small space, but you have an instinct to respect some semblance of personal space, while physically forced to break the personal boundaries...subways will crowd you to the point where you wonder if you've impregnated someone between two stations because you didn't have enough room to turn around, yet the whole time you and the strangers you're rubbing up against have this insane mutual understanding that you all don't actually exist. All of you refuse to acknowledge the other people are there.

Unless, of course, one of them is insane. But that's another story.

You end up with this situation where people act as if no one else exists, and you don't generally acknowledge their existence. And that kind of dehumanizes you; the infamous "don't look other New Yorkers in the eye" seems to stem in part from the unwritten rule of never acknowledging the existence of others. When you do this, you force them to acknowledge you, and it triggers something primal, like an animal being challenged for territory.

I was thinking about this one day when I realized that my moving around the streets to accommodate others was a way of signalling my submission to others. I was a target of bullying because I allowed myself to be bullied. I nearly laughed when I thought about the image of a 300 pound guy hopping out of the way of some 100 pound bastard sporting thick rimmed glasses and expensive brand name jacket; he was no better than I was, and I had every right to be where I was.

You move.

And as I crossed the street, they did.

Well, most did.

Whump!

Dude. I'm 300 pounds. Your skinny ass isn't going to stop me.

I don't think I've been a prick about it. I don't plow over old ladies or ram headlong into people just because they're there. But when I'm walking a straight line, and they clearly see I'm coming and they move into my way...I don't really move over so much to accommodate them. I've noticed that there are people who will actually move into your way, like a challenge.

Now I take that challenge.

Whump!

Times Square is worse. There are times when I've contemplated molding rubber to my shoulders to cushion the blows from passersby. Some of them almost seem shocked when I don't get out of their way.

Get used to it. You and me, when we die, we both become dirt. I've been a doormat long enough and I'm hardly invisible.

Then I get back to my apartment and I feel shock. I'm pushing people out of my way instead of dancing around, trying not to get pushed over. I'm ignoring people that sit on sidewalks painted in dried piss, begging for a buck. At times I hate myself for it. Other times I feel as if I'm seeing more of what people are really like; I see how it's possible to have little regard for other people and place yourself at the top of the priority list.

Care about yourself first; other people here don't give a damn about you.

The other night I sat on the floor of the Port Authority waiting for my wife and son to arrive on the bus. I clutched my bag, which basically held my clipboard of documents and a couple containers of lunch leftovers; my trenchcoat shielded me from whatever unpleasantness was skittering about on the floor, and my headphones played a podcast loud enough to drown out the low din of travelers trying to find their way around the terminal when it occurred to me that the best way to be ignored, even on an island with two million people crawling around it, was to put a cup in front of me and dump a couple dollars into it. That would virtually guarantee that I would become instantly invisible to people as they hustled by. Just sitting on the floor in my decade-old trenchcoat and out-of-fashion clothes seemed to be enough to keep me camouflaged from most of the travelers.

I was starting to understand how this worked. I was starting to understand how people are, when they feel anonymous in large crowds. When they are given the freedom to behave how they want without consequences. Without having to conform beyond the minimum of civility towards other people.

Basically, in some ways this was a real life version of the Internet. The city anonymizes you and gives you leave to care more about yourself, or you will be taken advantage of by others.

These emergent behaviors seem to make it hard to raise a child in the city environment. How can you teach your son to care about others when you also teach them that it's okay to ignore people sitting on the corner begging for money?

I'm not entirely sure.

I suppose the only thing I can do is look for teachable moments, where I can make some difference in his character. Not long ago we were in a Barnes and Noble, and he was looking at a large book. It's slightly above his reading level, but I still encourage him to read whatever he can, because $DEITY knows children today get more than enough flashy commercials to fill their brains with PURCHASE THIS OR YOUR PARENTS DON'T LOVE YOU messages. I hope that teaching my son to love books may foster his curiosity and help him become a bit of a critical thinker as he grows older.

As he flipped through the book I heard the sound of paper shredding. The heavy binding slipped from his grip and a page suddenly gained a four inch tear.

He was clearly embarrassed and his face reddened.

"Be more careful," I said. "Support the book with both hands."

"I will, Daddy," he said.

I sighed. "Well, it looks like you've gained a book." I closed the back cover. "Thirty bucks."

"That's a lot," he said. I could tell he was afraid I'd be docking his allowance to pay for it, which was horrible for a boy obsessed with trying to negotiate advances in his allowance to feed his BeyBlade addiction.

"Yeah, it is. Here's the deal...I'll pay for it, and you're going to read it to Mommy. You read it and if you do well we'll talk about a new Bey for Easter."

"Okay," he said.

On the surface it was a bribe. What I hoped it taught him, in some small way, was manifold lessons.

1. If you damage something like that, you don't hide it. You make it right. In this case, we bought the book. Because really...how would you feel if you bought a new book at the store and when you read it, found a page ripped?
2. I might get upset at something, but if we're going to work on a solution, it's okay to get upset. I won't stay mad. Cover it up, and then I'd get mad. Lie to me, and then I'd get mad. Acknowledge the problem and work on a solution, I'll get over it.
3. Honor is the one thing only you can give away and no one can take from you. I could have had him hide the book back on the shelf. Sometimes doing the right thing is more scary...or in this case, expensive...but it's still the right thing to do.
4. Mistakes happen, but if you learn from them, it's okay to make mistakes.

I can't help but think there's a paradox to the direction I find myself personally evolving. Becoming more impersonal, and seeing people as more generic when they hustle by me on the street. I sometimes question my own existence here. On more than one occasion I've even seen my coworkers, people I see in the office during the day, walk by me on the sidewalk without acknowledging my existence. Did they not see me? Are they ignoring me? Or am I just another empty shell, another obstacle among the many others shuffling around the streets of the city?

Then I find myself trying to teach my son to be better person, which in part is the opposite to how I see myself reacting to other people in the street.

I still haven't found a way to fully reconcile these observations and behaviors. Maybe in the next 200 days I will find a way to integrate them into a narrative that makes sense, so it will be okay to look out for your own good while still believing in the goodness of others and hoping that people aren't always, completely, selfish.

But in the meantime...don't stand in my way when I'm crossing the street. In New York City, I'm invisible. And you are too.