For Liam

On witnessing difference, and the care we owe one another

I’ve been thinking about my first morning back in New York City after living on the West Coast for six years. Walking to get coffee in my then-new neighborhood on the Upper West Side. And noticing — almost immediately — the number of languages being spoken on the same sidewalk, within the span of a single block.

I remember counting at least five. I remember, too, seeing for the first time in years so many people who looked so different from one another, all gathered in the same place. And I noticed how each voice carried its own degree of expression behind it — but expression nonetheless — and thinking, yes, this is why people come to New York City.

Expression is the culture here.
The expression of difference.

A cornucopia of eye shapes, melanin levels, accents, spices, hair textures, styles, heights, choices, beliefs, talents. All of us wanting to be part of something bigger than ourselves — and therefore, a part of each other.

This week, while taking a taxi from my salsa class in Midtown Manhattan to continue dancing downtown, I noticed an emblem dangling from my driver’s rearview mirror — something written in Arabic. Not knowing what it said, I admired the beauty of the written language. I’ve always thought it looks like art. And once again, I felt grateful to be in a place where I can witness such beauty — the beauty of a language, of a way of expressing — one that does not belong to me, yet one I still get to behold.

Sometimes it’s a prayer written in Arabic. Sometimes it’s a Buddha. Other times, a rosary.

Weeks ago, I met a driver named Lovepreet, who told me about the girl he’s in love with.

He told me he left his family when he was fifteen, trying to make money for his mother’s breast cancer treatment. His father had sold everything they owned. So Lovepreet left India and went to Malaysia to find work. Then Italy. Then Spain. Sometimes he worked for months and was never paid. Then fifteen other countries — moving, searching, surviving — always trying to send money home.

He told me he’s Sikh.

Kindness is everything.
Trust God.
Be good to people.
And don’t make decisions when you’re angry.

I am so lucky to live in a place of such richness. To have access to lessons — to so many different prayers, in so many different languages — depending on the day, depending on my means of transportation.

And I’ve been holding all of this as I watch what’s happening in our country. Wondering why we would ever rob ourselves of the experience of knowing and witnessing those who add contrast, texture, and multiplicity to our lives. Wondering where this longing for sameness comes from — and what fear lives beneath it.

I don’t have an answer. But I do know this: when I stay open — when I witness, listen, and allow myself to be changed by what I see — my life becomes richer, not smaller.

And in that openness, I’m also reminded that being part of something bigger also means being responsible for one another.