You Know You're a New Yorker When...

...You have built an enormous tolerance to crazy.

You know you've lived in the city long enough to be influenced by it when you realize things that would have freaked you out, scarred you for life, and given you nightmares are now commonplace daily occurrences, things you try to block out with music in your ears and a book to read on the subway.

But every now and then, of course, they get to you... just a little bit. I thought about this the other day (where else?) but on the subway. I chose my car carefully because I saw an empty bench through the window from the platform and thought "Hooray! My ride on the train will be comfortable and enjoyable. I'll read my book and people watch a little, all while resting my feet on my way home from running errands." It was all planned, all arranged. Until, of course, I realized from inside the subway car that the "empty" bench was actually a buffer zone for a man who was having a full-on attack of some unidentifiable yet terrifying mental illness and no one knew what to do but to give him a pole and a corner of the subway to keep him at bay. All of us sat, some reading, some listening to music, some simply pretending they were doing either of those things, while this small man in flared jeans kicked the subway doors, crouched, screamed, kicked some more, and convulsed, all accompanied by sounds he was making with his mouth, beatbox-style, that resembled the soundtrack to a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

He didn't seem interested in getting off at any of the stops, or in interacting with any human beings -- not that we gave him much choice. All of us, eyes down, were clearly afraid that he would go beyond fart noises and screaming outbursts. I think, beneath the bent-back pages of our magazines, we were all shaking in our boots that he was going to open the sliding metal door and throw himself onto the tracks to rid himself of whatever demon was in there. But we didn't outwardly show this fear. Instead we sat, quietly, in our spots, giving him space... because we didn't know what else TO do.

Some might call this apathy. About a week ago I saw a segment on a news program that was purposely set up to show just how rude New Yorkers are. An attractive blonde anchor dressed up like a pregnant woman, dropped some bags, and looked to see who helped her and who didn't. Unsurprisingly (or surprisingly, depending on how you look at it) the results were mixed. Some people ignored her feeble attempts to bend over her faux-bump and pick up her broken shopping bags. Others immediately rushed to her rescue. When her male colleague did the same thing (minus the preggers part, of course) pretty much everyone ignored her. Of course, the point of this was that New Yorkers Are So Rude and no one helps anyone anymore. It's a cruel, cruel world and no one cares for anyone but themselves.

I don't agree. I think New Yorkers are totally kind and helpful when you need them to be. Whenever I need a pick-me-up, there's always someone complimenting me (and not in a sketchy, "Hola Guapa" way, but in a "Wow, cute hat!" kind of way.) Anyone who I ask for directions or for assistance is quick to help and point me in the right direction. But if anyone ignored me, I wouldn't be offended for a second. In a city like this, it's all about self-preservation. If some guy dropped his briefcase in the middle of the sidewalk, sure, I would try to help him gather his papers. But when every other person on the sidewalk is all like "Hey, Save the Whales!" or "Where Do You Get Your Hair Cut?" we HAVE to tune out our fellow human beings or we'll go insane.

One time, I rode the subway home late at night next to a homeless man who was using the seat next to me as his bed for the night. He was fast asleep, had only a suitcase to his name, and smelled pungent. His fingernails were black from dirt and the creases on his neck were also filled with the same black residue. Until then, it hadn't occurred to me that without a place to bathe, every crevice on a body could fill with grime. I thought about leaving him money, about putting it on his suitcase for when he woke up, until I remembered I had no cash and that whatever I could give him (ten dollars maybe? I'm not doing so hot monetarily right now...) would maybe feed him for a day, but wouldn't get him a home or a job or a steady way to support himself. I wanted to cry, fought back tears, watching him sleep with his head against the metal pole, but I couldn't. If I cried every time I saw some unfortunate person without clothes or food, or a man kicking the subway in a schizophrenic outburst, I wouldn't survive.

I guess my way of dealing with it is writing it here and knowing that I'm not alone. Since I've been in the city -- three years and counting -- we've hit an economic decline that has affected this city and its inhabitants. I swear to you there are more homeless people and more sad, disillusioning sights to see everywhere you go, month by month. But I know at heart that we're all sad about it, everyone on the subway with me, everyone who passes the outstretched plastic cups jingling nickels and dimes. Certain sights and people stick with you, like the dirt-stained man whose life I can't even begin to imagine but whose path crossed with mine while he was asleep, unaware I was examining his fingernails. Whoever he is, I hope he's sleeping in a warm place when it gets colder out. I hope his life takes a turn for the best. I hope the psychopath in the L train made it safely to wherever he was trying to go. I see you -- WE see you, we do -- we just pretend not to, and we're sorry.