When I was very young, perhaps about six years old, I loved Thursday afternoons. That was my mother’s day off from her work as a domestic for the Simpson household. Almost every Thursday we would walk together from East 91st Street to 86th Street and Third Avenue. I loved 86th Street because of the Woolworth Store, or as my mother called it, “the 5 and 10 cents store.” Occupying about a half block, it was our local department store where, unlike Bloomingdale’s further uptown, everything was more affordable. Of course, not everything cost a nickel or dime, but for me, the downstairs section of toys, dolls, and comics was my idea of heaven: there were so many items to choose from which I could afford to buy with my quarter allowance.
On the way to Woolworth’s, we always walked along Lexington Avenue before turning East on 86th Street towards Third Avenue. One day, in the middle of the block we saw an African-American man standing on one normal leg, but the other was a wooden stick from the knee below. Next to him lying down was a large German Shepherd dog. The man was poorly dressed except for the brown felt hat on his head. In one hand, he held a bunch of yellow lead pencils. When my mother spotted him as we drew closer, she opened her pocketbook, took out a quarter, and handed it to me to give to the man. Slowly and shyly, I walked up and placed the quarter in his hand. He doffed his hat, thanked me with a warm smile, and offered a pencil. I shook my head, declining his pencil, feeling a bit embarrassed. Then I hurried back to my waiting mother, and we continued on our way to Woolworth’s. The following Thursdays, whenever we saw him, I would give him a quarter. It became easier each time and I felt less intimidated. I wondered what he would do with his quarters and asked my mother. She thought he would probably go to the nearby Horn and Hardart Automat where a cup of coffee cost a nickel and a piece of pie a dime.
Now so many decades later, I remember him because he was the first person I saw up close who was physically disabled. I imagine that since it was the 1950s, he perhaps had fought in World War II and had lost half of his leg in some battle. I didn’t understand at that time how difficult it would have been for him to be hired to work once he returned to civilian life, given his disability and race. How hard it must have been for him to swallow his pride before making the decision to rely on the kindness of strangers. But he remained dignified as he tipped his hat in thanks. He knew he was the recipient of someone’s generosity and compassion and tried to offer back a token of thanks—a pencil.
I don’t know how much he received and if it would be enough to survive on. While 86th Street was a very busy commercial area, most people were rushing by and I didn’t see other people lining up to give him money. But thinking of this time, I appreciate how my mother, being poor herself, could have a sense of his struggles and wanted to help in a small way.
A few years later when I was a bit older, my mother decided to take me to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. It was a cold, clear day and the long line inched along West 50th Street. I was feeling impatient because we were moving so slowly. While we were standing on line, my mother saw a group of two or three young men not far away from us. This group looked unusual and my mother identified them as Japanese because of the writing on their sailor caps. Walking up to them, she started speaking to them in Japanese, and found out they were on shore leave. They were under a tight schedule and would have to get back to their ship that evening. My mother realized that they were still a long way from the box office, and that they might not have enough time to see the show. Leaving me to hold our place in line, she brought the sailors up front, explained to the management their situation, and requested that they be allowed to purchase their tickets to see the show. She must have been very convincing because amazingly, the management kindly honored her request to allow the sailors to go ahead of others. She came back to rejoin me and we continued waiting for our turn.
When I think about this incident, I realize now how bold my mother was to ask the manager to let the sailors jump ahead. I wonder—did she feel fearful of asking and of being told, “No!”? While waiting for her, I felt afraid for her because I was too shy and couldn’t imagine ever going against the rules. It surely took a great deal of courage for her to ask the manager to relax the rules and she risked being rejected. But perhaps, right at that moment the Christmas spirit of generosity was floating around, allowing everyone to feel a little kindlier to one another. Lucky for me too that we were not living in a time when a stranger would want to kidnap me. We were all protected by that spirit of goodwill.
These acts of kindness offered so long ago still remain deep in my memory even today. I would like to believe that however small and seemingly insignificant, kind acts are also noticed and cherished by our loving Heavenly Father.
© 2023 by Emy Kamihara