Neighborly connections

 

Am I a good neighbor? I'd like to think that I am. When I hear the word "neighbor," I often think of the last line of Robert Frost's poem "Mending Wall": Good fences make good neighbors. Living in an apartment building I don't have an actual fence, of course, but there certainly are metaphorical ones. Like many New Yorkers, I generally don't engage in more than a "Good morning" when I meet a neighbor in the elevator or lobby of my building.

I consider myself an introvert. I like other people, in fact I love some of them, but I also enjoy my own company. I remember reading a long time ago that one of the differences between extroverts and introverts is that extroverts draw energy from others, while for introverts like me, too much human interaction sucks the energy right out of us. If I'm at a social gathering and it's too "peopley" I may soon yearn to return home, cuddle with my cat and take a nap. 

I'm not a complete loner and do enjoy the company of people I know, especially in smaller groups. For some strange reason, I've been interacting more with my neighbors of late, and not just those who live in my building, but the neighbors I encounter on my daily strolls, including the hungry, the homeless and the immigrant. 

I need only walk a few blocks from my home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan to encounter someone sitting on the sidewalk begging. I rarely give these people money but if I have food on me I may offer them some, or if I'm in a particularly gregarious mood, I may offer to buy them a meal. A couple of weeks ago, I encountered a young man with a cardboard sign that said (in English) "help me get food for my son" or something like that. A child of about 8 or 9 years old was with him. My first reaction was irritation -- that he was using the child as a prop -- but something about either the man or the boy melted away the negative feeling and I decided to offer my help. I asked what he would like to eat but quickly realized that he spoke only Spanish. I've studied French, Italian and German, but never Spanish, though I've learned a few words from volunteering at a local food bank. Through a combination of my broken Spanish, a little Italian and some sign language, I was able to convey that I would get him sandwiches with "huevo, queso y jamon" and some orange juice. I walked a couple of blocks to a diner to get the sandwiches, then stopped at the grocery store and bought a large container of OJ. When I returned with the food and juice both he and the boy said "thank you" in English. I then inquired in my Italo-Spanglish where he was from (Venezuela) and how long he had been here (3 months). I walked away with the joyous feeling of having done a good deed, and it honestly made my day. 

A few days later, I made both myself and a senior gentleman (perhaps homeless, perhaps just hungry) happy when I bought him the slice of pizza and Sprite he had requested. This man spoke perfect English so that wasn't an issue. I asked his name and told him mine, then walked back home with a smile on my face.

Several days after that, I had a less satisfying encounter with a stranger who seemed to be in need of help. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was on my way to the post office in my neighborhood, when I was stopped by a young man who appeared in some distress. He didn't look homeless (his clothes were clean) and he didn't smell bad or seem crazy. I decided to stop for a moment and listen to him. He said he had been jumped and robbed of his wallet and train ticket and just wanted to get back home to Westchester, after having spent a night on a park bench. He said he filed a police report but they didn't help him or give him money to get home. (I don't know whether that's something police usually do.) Anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt, and trying to retain my faith in humanity, I pulled out my wallet and handed him all the change I had, along with a $5 bill. He saw that I had a twenty and asked for it, but I said I couldn't give him that. He then got irate, insisting that I could afford to give him the twenty, and started cursing at me. I was still stunned as he walked away (with the $5 and change). All I could think to respond was, "very nice language!" as the man and his f-bombs faded into the distance. I felt foolish and angry that I had been suckered so easily, but resolved not to let this incident sour my view of humanity, or my impulse to help. Next time, I may not be so willing to give a helpless fellow human any cash, but I will continue to offer food and kindness on occasion to my neighbors on the Upper West Side, or farther afield, be they homeless, migrants, addicts, or even the occasional scammer. Bad people need to eat, too.