Accidentally Finding Humanity

I sank into my worn, gray, computer chair; the chair I had bought at Goodwill for fifteen dollars. It was the chair that held me as I wrote paper after paper, mere minutes from their deadlines, the chair that moved with me from dorm to apartment, to apartment again, and, finally, back home. I had just bought a plane ticket to San José, Costa Rica from JFK in that chair. The plane left in two days. I was going by myself, and I don’t speak Spanish. I took a large bus to NYC from my small, college town. I was planning on staying at my longest standing friend’s place for a night before my plane left in the morning. I gave him less than a day to save me from a night on a cold park bench, and he came through. We spent the better part of the night talking about life, growing up, and figuring out what sort of shoes I should buy to blend in to NYC. "A rule of New York City is that you don't stare," says my resident friend as I tag along on his morning subway commute. I immediately think that's dumb and continue to watch as people focus intently on their phones. We're underground, so I know they don't get service. But they'd rather stare at their unconnected devices than try to connect to these people. I thought that was dumb, but now I don't. You see, if your stare lingers too long, your passing glance becoming a brief moment of eye contact, you might start to actually see the people around you. Your mind might notice the worry lines, the smile lines, the blemishes, the scars. Your mind might realize the certain way they hold their bookbag - close to the chest, or their shoes - well worn and faded. Your mind might turn over stories that explain them, the family that created the person in front of you, friendships and relationships that created those worry and smile lines. Adventures past that left blemishes and scars. You might stumble upon their humanity. And if you should do that, it's hard not to fall in love. Not necessarily romantic love, but empathetic love. Then, the voice booms over the loudspeaker and you watch these people weave out of your life, likely never to be seen again, and you realize why everyone is so devoutly attached to their little bubbles. Because people can only take so much heartbreak in a day. I made it to JFK, and then to San José, and then to the farm I was staying at, and then around a couple other cities, back to San José, and then back to NYC. I survived with only a few key words and lots of wild gesticulation. That goes for both my travels abroad and NYC’s public transit system. I was beaten, worn, and looked like a homeless farmer. I didn’t match the dress code for a couple of restaurants, and the one I finally sat down in didn’t give me a menu. I’m pretty sure the waitress was just thinking of a nice way to kick me out once she thought that I had sufficiently warmed my ol’ hobo bones. When I got back on the subway to go home, I stared. Accidentally, I fell in love with every single person, because in that short time we shared something sad, beautiful, and pure - humanity.