be kind to me

The doors opened. People off, people on. The doors closed. Onward went the subway.

It was my first time in New York. I was there with a group of 100 college kids... yes, we were THOSE kids. You know.. the ultimate tourists. Cameras and maps in hand, too many or not enough layers, bright eyes and loud voices.. kids from the south crashing the Big Apple for one week to serve and love in Brooklyn, and tour the city that never sleeps in our free time.

She made her way through the subway cart, as so many of them do. Dirty face and unkempt hair, ragged clothes and holey shoes. A woman in her 50s maybe, with her hands outstretched for anything anyone would give, as so many of them are. She was mildly abrasive, and borderline rude.. not what we are used to in Tennessee, especially not from a beggar.

Most people ignored her.. kept right on reading their paper or listening to their music or faking a nap so they didn't have to make eye contact with the people around them. They looked past her or through her, like she wasn't real or didn't exist. Some acknowledged her by waving her past them, nothing to give or no desire to give it. Some handed her a dollar or two, or some change. Nobody lifted their eyes to meet hers. Nobody.

I watched idly as this scene unfolded, quite unaware of my own self or my friends. Before long, she had reached the back of the subway cart and her hands were out empty in front of me. "Whats your name?" I asked. I could feel the entire cart full of heads turn and stares began to pierce me from all directions. "Julia," she replied.

And then, before I even knew what I was doing, I dropped my bags and wrapped her, dirty hair and smelly clothes and all, in a bear hug, right there in the middle of the subway in New York City. Then I fumbled in my purse and found a pack of crackers I had been saving for later. I handed them to her and she wept. "I wasn't always homeless and poor. I was married and lived in another city. My husband had an affair, he left me and took everything. That was less than a year ago. I never thought I would be where I am now.." She sobbed her story.

And it was only that, her story. Who knows what parts were true. Perhaps none of it, or perhaps the whole thing.

I met Julia over three years ago. I have not seen or heard from her since that day. But I think about her frequently... she changed me.

When I have a patient who is ornery or stinky or just flat out mean, or an old man taps on my window asking for money for a bus ticket, or a middle-aged lady grumbles and huffs at me in the grocery store line.. when I cross paths with someone who isn't well kept or who is difficult to manage or who is just plain different from me, I think of Julia.

And I'm reminded that I do not and cannot know everyone's story. Perhaps she needed a sign, and perhaps many people need to bear a sign that reads "Be kind to me, for I too have a story."