On a chilly winter afternoon, I boarded the F train with my son, Lucas, and his best friend, Mia. Lucas had just celebrated his 7th birthday, and to mark the occasion, I was taking them to see a Broadway performance of Mary Poppins.
Gone were the days when I would cling to their little hands or hover protectively over them. These two were now seasoned city kids, confidently gripping the poles and gazing into the distance as if they were born and raised in New York. That was until Mia, in a moment of distraction, pressed her lips against the pole. After capturing that hilarious moment to share with her parents, I insisted they take a seat.
They settled into the plastic seats across from me, chatting animatedly about whatever 7-year-olds discuss these days (this was before the Rainbow Loom craze but after Wow Wow Wubbzy). I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride watching them—so grown-up, so self-assured, navigating the complexities of urban life.
A few minutes later, with several stops still ahead of us, the distant clang of a subway door echoed through the car. A man stepped through, pausing to scan the rows of passengers. His camouflaged clothing, a cardboard sign around his neck, and a cylindrical container in hand painted a clear picture. I assumed he was a homeless veteran.
He began his slow march down the aisle, weaving between commuters and poles, mumbling his story. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. What would I say to Lucas and Mia about this man? Was I prepared to explain the reasons behind homelessness, mental illness, and the failures of social services? They were city kids, sure, but this encounter felt more intense and personal—he was now standing right in front of them.
I observed quietly, ready to see how the situation would unfold. The man looked to be in his fifties, and his sign, filled with shaky letters and doodled American flags, was almost illegible. His clothes were clean yet ill-fitting, and his eyes carried a profound sadness.
“I am a homeless veteran,” he began, his voice tinged with desperation. “I served this country and have been abandoned.” His sign seemed to serve as an outline for his plea.
Lucas and Mia were captivated, their chatter silenced. They exchanged glances between the sign and the man’s face, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the moment. They sat still, hands resting in their laps, and I felt a mix of pride and heartache at their evident empathy.
The man rattled his container, filled with coins that clinked in a rhythmic dance. I noted it was designed to resemble a giant roll of Lifesavers—the kind you might find in a Christmas stocking.
As he concluded his speech, no one in the car moved. The children’s eyes widened, reflecting their desire to help, but they were paralyzed by their own smallness in this vast world. I thought, at least this could spark a necessary conversation about compassion and empathy.
In my distraction, I forgot to offer the man some change. Not a single passenger around us did either. He shuffled off toward the end of the car, his expression blank as he searched for a glimmer of kindness from the crowd.
Just as he moved away, Lucas turned to Mia, his face lit up with unexpected excitement. “Mia!” he exclaimed, nodding toward the man, “That guy’s so lucky—he has a whole thing of Lifesavers!”
With that, the train lurched into a station, the doors opened, and the man stepped off, ready to continue his journey.
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In summary, this subway ride became a poignant moment of growth for the children, highlighting the importance of empathy and understanding in a bustling city. The encounter with the homeless veteran was a reminder that even in moments of discomfort, there lies an opportunity for learning and connection.
Keyphrase: NYC subway parenting
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