A drunk man sits at a New York City bus stop in the cold. He has a cane and looks to be about 80. One woman acknowledges him, calls an ambulance to take him home. “I want you to take me home,” he says to her in a voice nearly inaudible. Others look on but ignore him until they recognize that he has become visible to someone else. Then they join in, some wish to help.
I am one of those people: I move in close and ask if I may pull his hood over his head. I get no response and decide to give it a go. He takes it off immediately. Another attempts to put gloves on the man’s hands then settles for one fist in a tattered sweatshirt pocket. A woman waiting for the bus says, “The helpless have to help themselves. You understand?” But that isn’t how it works and that isn’t the whole picture.
If we’re ignoring the freezing, elderly man at the bus stop, then surely we are ignoring other things as well. Parts of ourselves we can’t stand to look at. The ways in which we, too, have been rendered invisible. To be seen requires vulnerability, a willingness to need and be needed. When those things stop being true, it seems easier to hide. Addiction, of course, is a whole other animal.
When the ambulance arrived the man was helped up, strapped to a gurney. He would likely be out here again the following day. But I silently thanked the woman brave enough to call for help, to show empathy for a fellow traveler in need. Her willingness to see and be seen.