by Caroline Graham
I have 2, 307 songs on my iPod. When I’m in the subway, I listen to Frou Frou. At the gym, I listen to Kanye West featuring Twista’. Twista’ raps fast and I use my short strides to keep up to his beat. When I study, I listen to Chopin Nocturne in G minor. I like to walk through crowded areas and watch peoples’ lips move. There is a man in a business suit. A woman in a Dunkin’ Donuts uniform hurries past me. They are singing Van Morrison or Ben Harper. I tune out the bearded man on the corner. There could be a bomb on Madison Avenue, but I only hear the vibrations from my ear buds.
New York State Senator Carl Kruger is hoping to pose a bill that bans individuals from wearing electronic devices when crossing streets. “You can’t be fully aware of your surroundings if you’re fiddling with a BlackBerry, dialing a phone number, playing Super Mario Brothers on a Game Boy, or listening to music on an iPod,” he says. According to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, cell phones or other electronic devices used by drivers were the cause of 29 accidents involving pedestrians in New York State in 2005. Conveniently, BMW released the first iPod automobile interface, allowing drivers of newer BMW vehicles to control their iPod using either the built-in steering wheel controls or the radio head-unit buttons.
I drop my gym bag and watch my Nikes spill out onto the floor. I walk through the apartment fatigued with the idea of the coming day. In my beeline to the bathroom, I peer at the kitchen sink disparagingly. A tower of dishes creeps over the side of the stainless steel basin. Some have pools of water collecting with bubbles of oil colliding into each other. I look at the glass on the table and it’s empty. All the forks seem to be somewhere in the sink. I keep walking. I haven’t eaten anything at home for weeks. Take-out is so much more convenient. I used a fork once, but those plates are definitely not mine. I am not personally responsible for the pile of dishes in the sink.
I am listening to Sufjan Stevens. I am on the 4 train from Union Square to Grand Central. It’s 7:30 at night and the rush hour is over. I am standing because the benches are full enough. Sitting can be suffocating. The awkward occasional knee grazes or elbow rubs. I quickly mumble, “Ahem, sorry...” to the receding hairline of a man trying desperately not to make eye contact with me. So I swagger from stop to stop. Around 23rd Street, I see out of the corner of my eye a homeless man fling open the steel door. He slowly strolls down the car. He bobs from one seated individual to the next. The man in the pinstriped suit buries his head further into the New Yorker. The mother discretely nudges her stroller closer to her knees. I lean back and press my shoulders into the crease of the door and steel pole. He walks past me and stops. I look down and press my index finger against the scroll button. The man is
now kneeling in front of me. I look up and anxiously scan the crowd for help.
This is uncomfortable. I don’t have any money. Well, only big bills. So I figure I will just take a lesson from my pinstriped friend. My iPod becomes the most interesting device I have ever come into contact with. Oh the scroll option! Oh it lights up! Look at all these silly names for playlists. He’s still there. I see his mouth open and close. I can’t hear what’s coming out, but it’s not words. He is missing a tooth and I concentrate on that for a bit. The pinstriped man is now looking up sheepishly. The mother is staring, and her stroller slowly scoots further from her. I feel eyes on me, pressed into the corner. I scroll my finger slowly and the volume decreases a few bars. He’s singing. Loud. His eyes are fixed on mine and he is belting out, Al Green? The benches are laughing and the pinstriped man claps and smiles. His magazine sticks out of his briefcase, stored away minutes ago. I blush. This affection from a homeless stranger is embarrassing. He continues to sing, belting out the hook.
The train halts at 42nd Street. I momentarily look at the man on the floor. I hear the dull buzz of my ear buds. I left them in the entire time. I smile. I step out of the car and feel everyone watching. I’m not sure what they expected me to do. I am flattered but I have nothing to help this man. He could have been singing his sorrows. But then again, I couldn’t hear him. He’s just another dish in the sink. He is just one of 100,000 New Yorkers who experiences homelessness each year. In the face of injustice, I am listening to Bone Thugs-N-Harmony’s “First of the Month.”
I consider myself socially conscious, even progressive. I volunteer at the Knox County Drug and Alcohol Clinic. I signed the petition to end world hunger. I’m even a vegetarian! But this man, missing a tooth, spoke to me in a different way. He made me turn down my iPod. I care. I really do. But giving him twenty dollars would not address his sorrows.
Just outside of New York City in Long Island, a bustling family center, more and more individuals are choosing to live alone. From 1980 to 1990 more than 50,000 new single resident homes popped up. With an increase of people living alone outside of the city, there are fewer around to see the individuals living alone in the city. Around 740,000 people live alone in Manhattan, a number rapidly rising. And each night, over 38,000 homeless individuals sleep in the New York City shelter system. This includes more than 16,000 children and 8,000 single adults. Thousands more sleep alone on city streets and in other public places.
Sociologists from Duke University and the University of Arizona have compiled a study that makes it clear that isolation is perpetuating itself. From 1985 to 2004, the number of individuals reporting that there is no one with whom they discuss important matters with nearly tripled. “Almost half the people around you have at most one person they feel they can speak with about what is most important to them,” the study reports. One in four Americans report they have no confidants, family or non-family. In these 20 years, the types of meaningful relationships that decreased the most were neighbors and members of voluntary associations. And that’s exactly it. I see the injustice. I feel the burden in the commuter’s frantic attempts to tone out every homeless person every day. But his problems are so isolated from mine. In handing over a twenty-dollar bill, we wouldn’t have to talk or look each other in the eye. Or share. Or talk about music. But we do share the subway. And we do share the fundamental right to dignity. And even though I didn’t use those dishes, I’m not going to let them continue to pile up. It may not be my responsibility, but it’s still my problem.
All social movements and progressive social change are built by the consciousness of the people. An individual cannot single-handedly take on injustice. Change comes from the community. As the philosopher Tocqueville said, “Feelings are renewed,the heart enlarged, and the understanding developed only by the reciprocal action of men one upon the other.” In other words, a change cannot truly come from an individual; only a group of interacting individuals can bring life to change. Movements occur from Pinstripe confronting injustice. In his confrontation, he is creating a network for change with his fellow commuters. Voices are louder when singing together.
“Stand clear of the closing doors please.” I swear that voice haunts my dreams. Where did the Metropolitan Transit Authority find this guy? The homeless man pulls himself up. The New Yorker is back in action– Pinstripe invests himself in the witty texts of his own world. The abrasive lights of each car spot down the track. We live in a parallel existence, boasting our rights and liberties all the while isolating ourselves from each other. I alleviate my discomfort through my prized gadget. Ryan Adams “Come Pick Me Up” seems appropriate. I walk up the stairs and
get onto the Metro North to Bronxville, alone.
I have 2, 307 songs on my iPod. When I’m in the subway, I listen to Frou Frou. At the gym, I listen to Kanye West featuring Twista’. Twista’ raps fast and I use my short strides to keep up to his beat. When I study, I listen to Chopin Nocturne in G minor. I like to walk through crowded areas and watch peoples’ lips move. There is a man in a business suit. A woman in a Dunkin’ Donuts uniform hurries past me. They are singing Van Morrison or Ben Harper. I tune out the bearded man on the corner. There could be a bomb on Madison Avenue, but I only hear the vibrations from my ear buds.
New York State Senator Carl Kruger is hoping to pose a bill that bans individuals from wearing electronic devices when crossing streets. “You can’t be fully aware of your surroundings if you’re fiddling with a BlackBerry, dialing a phone number, playing Super Mario Brothers on a Game Boy, or listening to music on an iPod,” he says. According to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, cell phones or other electronic devices used by drivers were the cause of 29 accidents involving pedestrians in New York State in 2005. Conveniently, BMW released the first iPod automobile interface, allowing drivers of newer BMW vehicles to control their iPod using either the built-in steering wheel controls or the radio head-unit buttons.
I drop my gym bag and watch my Nikes spill out onto the floor. I walk through the apartment fatigued with the idea of the coming day. In my beeline to the bathroom, I peer at the kitchen sink disparagingly. A tower of dishes creeps over the side of the stainless steel basin. Some have pools of water collecting with bubbles of oil colliding into each other. I look at the glass on the table and it’s empty. All the forks seem to be somewhere in the sink. I keep walking. I haven’t eaten anything at home for weeks. Take-out is so much more convenient. I used a fork once, but those plates are definitely not mine. I am not personally responsible for the pile of dishes in the sink.
I am listening to Sufjan Stevens. I am on the 4 train from Union Square to Grand Central. It’s 7:30 at night and the rush hour is over. I am standing because the benches are full enough. Sitting can be suffocating. The awkward occasional knee grazes or elbow rubs. I quickly mumble, “Ahem, sorry...” to the receding hairline of a man trying desperately not to make eye contact with me. So I swagger from stop to stop. Around 23rd Street, I see out of the corner of my eye a homeless man fling open the steel door. He slowly strolls down the car. He bobs from one seated individual to the next. The man in the pinstriped suit buries his head further into the New Yorker. The mother discretely nudges her stroller closer to her knees. I lean back and press my shoulders into the crease of the door and steel pole. He walks past me and stops. I look down and press my index finger against the scroll button. The man is
now kneeling in front of me. I look up and anxiously scan the crowd for help.
This is uncomfortable. I don’t have any money. Well, only big bills. So I figure I will just take a lesson from my pinstriped friend. My iPod becomes the most interesting device I have ever come into contact with. Oh the scroll option! Oh it lights up! Look at all these silly names for playlists. He’s still there. I see his mouth open and close. I can’t hear what’s coming out, but it’s not words. He is missing a tooth and I concentrate on that for a bit. The pinstriped man is now looking up sheepishly. The mother is staring, and her stroller slowly scoots further from her. I feel eyes on me, pressed into the corner. I scroll my finger slowly and the volume decreases a few bars. He’s singing. Loud. His eyes are fixed on mine and he is belting out, Al Green? The benches are laughing and the pinstriped man claps and smiles. His magazine sticks out of his briefcase, stored away minutes ago. I blush. This affection from a homeless stranger is embarrassing. He continues to sing, belting out the hook.
The train halts at 42nd Street. I momentarily look at the man on the floor. I hear the dull buzz of my ear buds. I left them in the entire time. I smile. I step out of the car and feel everyone watching. I’m not sure what they expected me to do. I am flattered but I have nothing to help this man. He could have been singing his sorrows. But then again, I couldn’t hear him. He’s just another dish in the sink. He is just one of 100,000 New Yorkers who experiences homelessness each year. In the face of injustice, I am listening to Bone Thugs-N-Harmony’s “First of the Month.”
I consider myself socially conscious, even progressive. I volunteer at the Knox County Drug and Alcohol Clinic. I signed the petition to end world hunger. I’m even a vegetarian! But this man, missing a tooth, spoke to me in a different way. He made me turn down my iPod. I care. I really do. But giving him twenty dollars would not address his sorrows.
Just outside of New York City in Long Island, a bustling family center, more and more individuals are choosing to live alone. From 1980 to 1990 more than 50,000 new single resident homes popped up. With an increase of people living alone outside of the city, there are fewer around to see the individuals living alone in the city. Around 740,000 people live alone in Manhattan, a number rapidly rising. And each night, over 38,000 homeless individuals sleep in the New York City shelter system. This includes more than 16,000 children and 8,000 single adults. Thousands more sleep alone on city streets and in other public places.
Sociologists from Duke University and the University of Arizona have compiled a study that makes it clear that isolation is perpetuating itself. From 1985 to 2004, the number of individuals reporting that there is no one with whom they discuss important matters with nearly tripled. “Almost half the people around you have at most one person they feel they can speak with about what is most important to them,” the study reports. One in four Americans report they have no confidants, family or non-family. In these 20 years, the types of meaningful relationships that decreased the most were neighbors and members of voluntary associations. And that’s exactly it. I see the injustice. I feel the burden in the commuter’s frantic attempts to tone out every homeless person every day. But his problems are so isolated from mine. In handing over a twenty-dollar bill, we wouldn’t have to talk or look each other in the eye. Or share. Or talk about music. But we do share the subway. And we do share the fundamental right to dignity. And even though I didn’t use those dishes, I’m not going to let them continue to pile up. It may not be my responsibility, but it’s still my problem.
All social movements and progressive social change are built by the consciousness of the people. An individual cannot single-handedly take on injustice. Change comes from the community. As the philosopher Tocqueville said, “Feelings are renewed,the heart enlarged, and the understanding developed only by the reciprocal action of men one upon the other.” In other words, a change cannot truly come from an individual; only a group of interacting individuals can bring life to change. Movements occur from Pinstripe confronting injustice. In his confrontation, he is creating a network for change with his fellow commuters. Voices are louder when singing together.
“Stand clear of the closing doors please.” I swear that voice haunts my dreams. Where did the Metropolitan Transit Authority find this guy? The homeless man pulls himself up. The New Yorker is back in action– Pinstripe invests himself in the witty texts of his own world. The abrasive lights of each car spot down the track. We live in a parallel existence, boasting our rights and liberties all the while isolating ourselves from each other. I alleviate my discomfort through my prized gadget. Ryan Adams “Come Pick Me Up” seems appropriate. I walk up the stairs and
get onto the Metro North to Bronxville, alone.
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