Becca Faith Yoga

If you’ve never been in NYC for Halloween, let me give you the gist: roving gangs of drunken, overgrown teeny-boppers dressed as slutty versions of your favorite childhood storybook characters throng the streets around Sixth Avenue, clog the subway system with their MetroCard ineptitude, and cause a general raucousness above and beyond the standard level of raucousness one expects from a place purported to never sleep.

Harrumph.

On my way back from visiting my most excellent, newly-engaged best friend (Hi, beautiful! Yes it’s really real and yes, we’ll figure it all out and yes, you can still write your dissertation and plan a wedding!) in Hoboken, I walked right into the storm of bridge-and-tunnelers making their way to the parade.

Cue wildly overcrowded train.

When we arrived at 14th St., people were pushing and shoving to get to the turnstiles and I got swept up in the crowd, unable to get to my connecting subway through the station. Instead, I ended up at street-level, smack in the middle of the festivities.

Cue sheeting, blinding, torrential downpour.

I grumbled all the way to Union Square,  cursing New York with every cold, wet step.  After what felt like a veritable battle to reach the platform, I finally got on the Q and finally finally reached DeKalb, just 4 stops from home.

Cue elderly woman questioning me about how to get to Methodist Hospital, then telling me her entire life story up-to-and-including her granddaughter’s derelict baby mama who used to beat her with a cell phone, her determination not to be a burden to anyone, and her mysterious gas pains that — brace yourself — turned into bloody explosions of nasty in the middle of Canal Street earlier in the day. The conversation had a few false starts as I tried to disengage, but every time I had one side of my headphones in place, she would start up again. Eventually I felt bad about trying to evade her, and I silently reprimanded myself for not being more compassionate to someone so obviously lonely, so clearly suffering. I put away the headphones, stood a little closer, and stopped checking the track for oncoming headlights.

Cue elderly woman suddenly doubling over, muttering in Spanglish about how she can’t make it any further. “Do you need an ambulance?” I asked. And this absolute stranger looked me in the eye and said “I’ll do whatever you think is best.” I told her I couldn’t make a decision for her, but that I could help her get an ambulance at the station if she wanted. She did.

Cue frantic sprinting up the stairs, brief conversation with the station agent, and arrival of friendly NYPD officer. The latter two decided I should accompany Gloria to the bathroom, “to make sure she doesn’t fall and stuff.” I have a history of squeamishness activated by things far less extreme than bloody, explosive diarrhea, but I chastised myself again for my would-be heart-closing and walked into a bathroom that — sorry, MTA — already smelled like dead bodies. Gloria was struggling to get in a stall. Phrases like “It’s coming out!!” were being tossed around.

Cue Becca Faith almost almost almost losing her shit. So to speak.

Cue arrival of paramedics. Gloria reached up to hug me and I bent down to fit into her hunched frame and wrapped my arms around her and tried to pour love and compassion and healing into my embrace. She kissed me on the cheek and told me I was a nice lady.

As I made my way back to the platform to wait for the local, I couldn’t help but think about how much I heart the city that literally throws bloody shit at my pretentious irritation and attempts to separate myself from the rest of the world.  This city refuses to let me close my eyes to suffering, insists that I learn compassion, and demands my humanness.  This city is hard-core heart-core.  And this city? It’s home.