The Transition Artist

I pass them every single day. I recognize them. 

The man in the metro who walks around with a small, dirty espresso cup after he plays the same, disjointed melody that might be Frank Sinatra, might be his own composition, on his clarinet. The heavy set woman with her hair covered who sits on a little stool, without a sign, by the bakery. The mother of two holding a sign that says “Famille Syrienne.” The older man with a white beard and a crocheted, white hat who wears his shoes, if he wears his shoes, with his heels hanging off the backs, but otherwise removes them and sits next to his cane, calling out in Arabic to the passersby.

I’ve learned their lines. “Mesdames, Messieurs, I’m sorry to disturb you, but unfortunately I live on the streets… I appreciate any change, a ticket restaurant, or help that you can give me…”

I know their faces, but I don’t know a single thing about them. I don’t know where they sleep. I don’t know when or what they might eat. I don’t know if they’re alone, or where their families might be. I don’t know how they got here or how long they’ve been here, but, mostly, I don’t know how to help.

The doors to the metro open and people surge in and out. The empty seats are taken, the free spaces filled with those who were last into the train car or left vacant. The buzzer sounds and the doors close. The faces I know too well, and sometimes those I don’t, take center stage, and begin reciting their script. “Mesdames, Messieurs…” Their audience shuffles uncomfortably, and instead of looking to center stage, looks away; the uncomfortable spectators don’t like to have the song sung right to them. They look at their phones, look out the window, look down at their lap, look intently at their books. In an instant, all of the passengers are suddenly deaf and mute, besides the ones who are otherwise “occupied” with conversations or sleep. They hear nothing, see nothing, maybe even feel nothing; the speaker at the center of the scene incites nothing. It’s as if a performer on stage has suddenly called for a volunteer and the audience falls silent besides the sounds of breathing and a few heavy swallows.

The presence of nothing is so intense I drown in it. My skin bristles, I’m suddenly hot, I feel my sweat glands prick and my breath tighten. Where do I look? What do I say? In the minutes and seconds before the speaker approaches me, I can feel myself vacillating between wanting to follow the example of the other spectators and wanting to raise my hand as a volunteer. LOOK AT THE SPEAKER. DO SOMETHING, HELP THEM, my conscience screams at me. I can’t. I can’t speak, I can’t move. I can’t give away any more money… My rational mind replies. There is a war inside of me; a war between my head and my heart. There is a wrestling match between every feeling that finds its way to the surface as I listen to the scripted call for help.

Sometimes, my heart wins. I look up. I look at that person, that other human being that has humbled themselves to ask for help. I might discreetly reach into my purse and pull a few coins from my wallet, ready to hand them over as I offer a small smile. I might just look up right at the minute that they approach, long enough to look at their face and glance quickly at their eyes, sometimes attempting the smallest of smiles, sometimes just nodding, acknowledging their presence. I hear you, I see you, I murmur in my head as I look up at them, hoping they’ll read my words on my face. I might look at that person as soon as they start speaking, receiving their message from start to finish, watching them as they approach, searching for their eyes as they get closer. Something in that search feels terrifying to me. I want to look them in the eyes, but feel terribly afraid, yet I don’t quite know what is scaring me. The sight of their pain? The look of humility? The appearance of brokenness?

Sometimes, my head wins. How many times have they said this? What do they do with the money they receive? How much money have they made? How many people have helped them? Has this been working for them? I don’t have much money myself… I have to pay for groceries later… The rationale seems to create itself. My head tells my heart that I can’t help everyone, that it isn’t my responsibility. I feel myself harden. I shut down. If I look up, it’s only to glance. I can’t bear to look, I know I’ll feel guilty. I don’t want the responsibility of that guilt; of pity.

Pity. The word stings even as I write it. My rationale doesn’t leave room for compassion. In a matter of seconds, I have put myself in the asker’s shoes and decided that their position is one of shame, and mine is one of power: to give or not to give. And I can’t bear to see us playing out our roles. So I don’t. What I feel is not their pain, it is my own. I feel pain for not wanting to do something, without ever trying to understand the pain of the person standing in front of me; without even looking into a pair of eyes to see what they hold.

That pain hurts. It hurts because it forces me to ask myself when my heart went cold. It hurts because I wonder when all the spectators stopped hearing the music; when we all become deaf and blind. It hurts because I don’t understand how it’s possible to ignore someone that I see all the time, someone that is a part of my community, simply because they are always asking for help. When did I become so immune to the plea for help? What is my responsibility to this brother of mine that I can’t look in the eyes? The questions hunt me, they chase me, and even my rationale can’t chase them away. I am still living in a war that started inside of myself, inside of all of us, but has spread to the outside; the war on pain.