I was in New York City. I grew up there. My family is still in Manhattan and, as I had a presentation about religion to give in Philadelphia, I thought I would visit. I fully embrace the powerful sense of my childhood nostalgia for New York, even the humidity, as sweaty and disgusting as it is.
On Tuesday, I picked my niece up from her Spanish language summer school/day camp. Maya is almost 5, totally fabulous and really, really smart. She doesn't like talking in Spanish, though.
We went for a walk. An ice-cream truck was on the first corner we came to. Maya had a red-white-and-blue ice-cone. I had rainbow sprinkles over vanilla ice cream on a wafer cone. We sat in the shade of a building on the Southwest corner of 91st and Broadway in Manhattan. At her age, she doesn't know you're "not supposed to sit" on street corners. It's yet another thing I love about her. Of course, I'm terribly biased – I start with the premise of just loving her and then look for excuses to love her even more.
We stopped at a McDonalds. Maya tells me that this is funny because we've already had dessert! Again, I am smitten with delight. She has a "Happy Meal." I have a Coke with a tad twinge of lament that I don't think my happiness can come from this boxed corporate meal. I had recently seen the documentary Super Size Me , which added the last bit of ammunition I needed to declare the food at this conglomerate un-kosher – unfit for my consumption. (The first strike against this corporation is that it actively prevents workers from unionizing.) |
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When we were ready to go, there were more fries than Maya could eat. I doggie bagged the remainder. At 79th Street, in front of the church on the corner, a man had a small, cardboard sign. "What does it say, Uncle Brian?"
"Hungry. Homeless. Help." I read. We stopped about 10 feet away. "What should we do?" I asked Maya. She shrugged, not having a clue. I suggested, "Can we give him the French fries?"
"No. I want them." I explained that we were walking home and would have dinner soon. This person has neither a home, a place for dinner, nor a dinner to eat. "Well," she started slowly, calculating, "We can give him all of them...except for three," was her answer.
I knew the man was witnessing some of our discussion. I approached him. "It seems, after some negotiation, that we can give you all but three French fries."
"It's alright, man," he replied. "I'm not really too hungry right now." I thought about telling him to hold onto the fries and explaining about the miraculous process they go through to keep them fresh, crispy, and mold-retardant. I opted not to. I said, instead, as we took our leave of him, "God bless you."
At the intersection, Maya informed me of something. "You can't say 'God bless you' unless someone sneezed."
"That's not true," I countered. "Of course, you can." We are quiet. I thought about explaining to her what I do for a living or about my title as a rabbi. I opted not to. I thought about explaining the God thing to her in terms she'd understand. Again, I opted not to. It was better. We continued our walk hand in hand.
We crossed the street, passing the Chase Bank. A man was sitting on the ground. As we passed, he said aloud, "Sir, in the grand scheme of things, could you give me a dollar?"
I was intrigued and mulled it over in my head. "Say that again," I requested as, hand in hand, we approached him. He did and I thought I could. I got out my wallet. I had three twenties – no singles. I thought, "In the grand scheme of things, can I give this man $20?" The answer was again, yes. I handed it to him.
He shook my hand and told me his name was Lester. I told him that I'm Uncle Brian and introduce Maya.
"God bless you, Brian. God bless you, Maya" he intoned. "You have a good uncle here."
"Lester?" I ask.
"Yes?"
"Can you explain to Maya why you are allowed to say 'God bless you' whenever you want?"
Lester looked at Maya. It was the shining type of look you see when someone's true self comes out from within. "Maya, my love," Lester told her slowly and deliberately, "God loves you very, very much. Always know that."
Maya squirmed a little. She squirmed like that the first time Aunt Jane and I did the "We love Maya dance" in Central Park a little over a year ago. She then reached into her diminutive pocket and pulled out a penny, handing it to Lester.
I choked up.
Lester took the penny in his hand. He reached into his pocket and removed a flattened $1 bill. He unfolded it then gave it to Maya.
As we continued walking downtown, a tear coming down my face, Maya handed me the dollar. "Uncle Brian?"
"Yes?"
"Would you put this in your pocket and give it to me later."
I taped that dollar to a piece of paper that reads, "Maya's magic $1 bill. With love from Lester and God."
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