Last night, while riding the U7 from Rudow to my neighborhood in West Berlin, a girl in a long green overcoat boarded the train and sat down across the aisle from me. I was feeling the full weight of exhaustion from traveling all day, and was beginning to experience the faintest traces of Post-London Depression sinking in on account of being away from my friends there, and my heart may as well have been anchored to ten tons of lead cast out into the deepest sea . . . yet I did happen to notice that, now seated, this same girl had begun to cry. She had on wired headphones and glittery eyeliner. From behind dark sunglasses, I watched tears roll down her face, which she attempted to hide by pointing her face toward the wall. It was the kind of cry you have when you feel a sort of quiet sadness, or else are lonely, or fed up with it all, or some mixture of the three. It’s the kind of cry you have when you are alone on public transportation after midnight.
Most people who find themselves crying in a public place probably wish they weren’t. Crying is an intimate, private thing to do. And so whenever I see someone crying in public, I feel a special kind of sympathy for them . . . something going on inside of them has prompted tears in a place where heavy emotions are often seen as awkward or unwelcome. The tears could not wait for home. I don’t feel discomfort at it. When someone is sad, even if I don’t know them, my instinct is to move toward them. And so, compelled by my own misguided programming, I took off my sunglasses and slid across the aisle to sit near her. I said: “Are you OK?”
She seemed a little surprised. She brightened a little and said, “Of course, of course. I’m OK, really. Thank you for asking.” I nodded and slid back over to my seat nearby.
After three more stops, a little past Neukölln, she stood up to get off the train. Just before walking through the doors, she turned toward me and, with tears still streaming through her glittery eyeliner and down her face, smiled and waved and said, “Ciao.” I smiled and waved back. Still, it has haunted me a little! She looked so sad . . .
I have been with plenty of friends who tell me “Just let them cry. You’re going to embarrass them!” when I see a crying stranger in public and feel that bleeding-heart urge in me to check on them. But I feel like it is such a powerful gesture even though it is so small. In nearly all cases, the stranger will tell you they are OK. They’re probably just having a bad day. Yet every single time I have ever approached someone in this way, they’re always taken aback, like they cannot believe a completely random person would be concerned for their wellbeing. In that holy moment, the outside world suddenly seems friendlier. When you’re down so low you could skydive off a snake’s dick, that moment can feel vast and beautiful, and badly needed.
There have been times in my life when I was quietly having an apocalyptic day in public and a stranger noticed and took time to check on me. I have remembered those times and I have remembered those people, angels all of them. They had the power to make someone they would never see again feel less alone, and so they did. I remember how good it felt to be seen like that . . . what else can you do except keep it going for someone else??? It’s like the fella said: Heaven have mercy on us all, for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.
