We were walking through the Grand Central market–the one with all the artisan foods and endless samples of Greek olives–tasting chocolates and ogling at baguettes from heaven. We spoke to the chocolate vendor for a few minutes, discussing the milk content in 72% dark chocolate. Walking away with salivating smiles, we wished we had the infinite allowance to purchase and eat these treats, just like “real New Yorkers” do. The long market held enormous energy, with its bright colors and variously shaped exotic fruits. The authentically seasoned Italian cheeses were enough to make us feel weepy…
As we left the chocolate counter for the next tempting shop–shelves of apple jams and current chutneys calling our names–we spotted a little girl. Her youthful, innocent features gave her a soft intrigue that drew us to question her presence. She seemed well dressed, bundled in a sweet tan and pink winter coat, snow boots protecting her little toes, but something was off: she was sitting on the floor.
Now, I–being someone who enjoys sitting cross-legged on the floor to feel “grounded”–at first, found this endearing and innocent. This was until I noticed that she was repeatedly turning her head left and right, left and right, seemingly searching for something, or someone. My friend and I waited near the coffee stand, casually glancing every few seconds, anxiously hoping to celebrate her parent’s return.
Nothing.
Finally, we approached her and, bending down to her level I asked, “Are you with someone?” She looked up at me, allowing me for the first time to see her face completely. Sloppy pageboy haircut, startlingly nervous eyes, and oversized, crooked buckteeth–was there anything more endearing than this disheveled little girl?
After a few seconds of silent, unfamiliar eye contact of two, typically avoidant New Yorkers, I asked again, “Are you with someone?” this time adding, “are you lost?” Her comical smile became even more prominent (if possible) as she looked at me, looked down, and waved her hand a bit frantically. Something was wrong.
I asked again a few times, finally catching the eye of the coffee vendor. I walked over to him through the oblivious rush hour crowd (so busy to get home that this curious situation was simply absent from their consciousness), I bumped into suits and dresses unapologetically. After inquiring about this girl’s guardian, the man helped us look for a parent and said he found none. Consulting back with my friend, we decided I would stay with the girl and she would find a police officer to alert them and ask for help.
Returning with three police officers, my friend briefly explained the situation, both of us offering to stay with the girl while the police searched for a parent. The head officer, however, meaningfully thanked us for our help, took the girl’s hand and walked away. We had passed on this problem to the authorities and it was no longer ours to solve. Our job was done. We had been upstanding citizens, we followed our moral compasses to help navigate the underground city of Grand Central–in short, we helped.
Of course, it was extremely troubling to see this lost little girl sitting on the floor. Each possibility ran through my mind as we decided how to approach the situation. “Is she homeless?” I asked myself; “Maybe just wandered from an inattentive mother?” What was to become of this child?
Before leaving Grand Central, I gave my name and phone number to one of the officers that we’d spoken to, asking him to please contact us if and when they found the girl’s parent, (or when they decided what to do if they didn’t…). About an hour after leaving, walking down Madison Avenue with glum posture and fearful uncertainty, I received a call from the officer that the girl’s mother had been found and that they were reunited. Relief. Sort of.
Walking along, my friend had regained her springy gait, announcing that she could now relax and enjoy her evening. I, on the other hand, was not so immediately pleased.
Perhaps it was my tendency towards self-imposed anxiety, but I couldn’t help but question why this had happened. Why, while walking through this glorious market of abundance and life, did my mind transport me into a Dickensian world of orphaned children and careless adults? Yes, I was—and am–relieved that this little girl with her buckteeth and non-verbal confusion was returned to her mother. Still, I can’t help feeling angry that a twenty and twenty-three year old are, in this case, the upstanders, while the rest of these shoppers, tourists and residents of this world were bystanders.
Without ranting to the point of numbing the readers into a lull of “she’s still yelling about something,” I think it’s important to say that it is fitting that this happened right before Purim. If it was the norm to bypass this child on the way to a train, and my friend and I were the exception, then I think there should be exceptions far more frequently.
Perhaps the most overused phrase throughout the Purim season is “v’nahafoch hu” meaning, “and it was overturned” or, “and the opposite happened.” The traditional manifestations of this holiday slogan are synagogues filled with costume-laiden children–mirrored by their parents who may drink some alcohol—thus reversing their states of being and “overturning” typical reality. These flips in our conceptions of order and alternate realities that permeate the Purim experience are customary and familiar for most people who attend the annual Megillah reading.
However, without discarding Jewish traditions that I too enjoy (who doesn’t love costumes?), this year I am interpreting this phrase anew. In addition to adding silliness into our lives, we should go farther to reverse the opposing negativities. Let us not be complacent or apathetic to a child on the floor of a marketplace. Let us not rush home to our pajamas and warm food so quickly that we obliviously pass a lost little girl. Let us reverse the norms of (literally) “going with the crowd” this year, and instead, let us stop, consider what’s around us and how we can help.