On my way home from work, I rarely look up from my phone. I half-heartedly scroll through clickbait, selfies, shares, tirades, and puppy pics, doing all I can to avoid eye contact with others who are just as tired as I am, some more, but weren’t as lucky to find a seat at their stop. I’m not saying I’m proud of it; I’m just saying when these old dogs are barkin’, I’d prefer to let ‘em sleep under the porch if there’s shelter to be had.
Well, yesterday on the way home, the train doors open and this tiny Asian lady of a classic vintage shuffles on. I glance up as she enters: perfect curly ‘do, flowery backpack, wee hands folded together at her waist, a smile in her eyes. I know she’s getting my seat from the instant I see her.
I gently tap her on the elbow and offer, and the wattage on her eyes amps to sunshine as her teeth join.
I take my place on the handrail and go back to my phone. About four stops down the line, the seat beside her becomes available. She looks to me excitedly and pats it, beckoning me over. I weave my way back to the empty space to her right and sit. As I take my place, I rub my shoulder against her for a quick moment, shoot her a tight-lipped grin, and shrug/lean that armless hug of gratitude and contentment at the kindness shared between two strangers. I don’t know that her English is super-solid; doesn’t matter. The message is clear.
I didn’t look back at my phone for the rest of the ride. I didn’t look at her—didn’t want to make her feel obligated to chat, or self-conscious. But I wanted to give her my PRESENCE for the rest of our journey as seatmates. And y’know, sometimes I think that’s more than sufficient.
The doors opened at 30th and I wished her a good evening as I left. She nodded and smiled, raised a hand in acknowledgement, and I entered the platform with the rest of my neighbors.
Connecting with kindness. It makes a difference—in a day, in a life. It does mine. I hope it will yours, too. Love y’all.