Generosity breeds generosity

I think that the Scrooges of the world have simply never had a meal bought for them by a well-meaning acquaintance. Truly. Because anyone who has had a meal or a dessert or any small token purchased for them unexpectedly out of the plain kindness of another person’s heart—that simply makes you want to pass that kind of generosity on.

I say “on” because you should not necessarily feel indebted to the particular person who did the kind action for you, although I once believed that was what I was feeling—an intense desire to pay that person and only that person back for his/her generosity. But no, instead I feel that because a kindness was done to me or for me, I have received a sort of “good karma,” and I now have a duty to extend that karma to someone else.

This all sounds very “new age,” particularly for someone like me, but it is simply a feeling I have been having recently, as I have been witness to several different individuals’ unselfishness. It is a basic lack of penny-pinching, of who-owes-how-much and where-is-my-fair-share-ness that amazes me, because I have always had such a calculating give-me-my-due demeanor. I admittedly walk from grocery shop to grocery shop until I find apples for less than $1.49/lb and. I do get upset if I walk away and discover that I was charged for two heads of broccoli when I only purchased one (as occurred two nights ago). But, for instance, when I was out with my cousin the very day I moved in, walking along the sidewalk, and she asked if I was thirsty, and we stopped to buy juice from a street vendor, I fully expected to have to pay for my own juice. However, she waved my money away and handed me my bottle of pear juice. I was amazed. She didn’t have to do that.

Of course, “she’s your cousin” you might argue. But then I went to The Heights with my suitemates and their friends, and several of us who had already eaten dinner split chips and salsa. I was the only one who didn’t drink alcohol, so when it came time to pay the bill, I was going to contribute some cash while everyone else paid with their cards, but Alisha told me to forget it, she’d cover it. “Are you sure?” I asked, my money still in hand. “You really don’t care?” And I could tell, by her voice, her demeanor, that she really didn’t care. Really. It was only a few dollars, but still.

So now I want to treat other people to these frivolties. I can’t wait to have people come visit me so I can buy groceries and cook for them. I can’t wait for them to use the rides I have stored up on my Metro Card. I don’t mind spending money as much anymore. I think it just has to be on my terms. I don’t want to be forced into it by anyone. That’s not the same. That’s not generous. And then I start worrying.

A Peek at Where I Live

My beautiful bedroom. (A great deal larger than anything I ever stayed in at Rochester or in England, that's for sure!)


The bathroom. (Clearly pre-lived-in, as it is very clean and very empty.)


Our living room. (Not very homey, but we are only here for two months. I wish this had been my undergrad dorm!)


And finally, my favorite: the glorious, gorgeous kitchen! (Can you see the dishwasher? All those cabinets? The counter space?!)

How Things Work Out

Sometimes, the chance randomness of life overwhelms me.

I was spending my afternoon in Riverside Park, reading in the sunshine. It was about 2pm, and I wanted to make sure I got back in time to pick up my packages from the Columbia package store, which my roommate Alisha had told me was open until 3 or 4pm. I had gathered my things and begun walking down the path back toward the 116th street exit when I noticed a roughly college-aged girl in a bikini top and cut off jeans shorts awkwardly wielding a football. The two boys on either side of her seemed to be teaching her how to throw it properly. Somewhat entertained, I paused to watch. However, as soon as she saw that she had a spectator, the girl grew even more self-conscious, which made the process take even longer. I tried to appear as though I was still walking, while glancing over my shoulder to see how she did, but she still hadn’t thrown the ball by the time I had maneivered several feet down the path. Finally, one of the boys looked up in my direction.

“Okay, hotshot,” he called. “Do you want to throw it?”

I was a bit shocked that he was talking to me, but now that I had been called out, I set down my backpack right there in the dirt and went over to them. I am not a football player, by any stretch of the imagination, by my throw didn’t tumble end-over-end and almost had a spiral to it. The two boys nodded in affirmation.

“Not bad,” judged the one who had called me over. “You’ve thrown before. I can tell.”

“Yeah, in someone’s back yard,” I tell him. It turns out his name is Tim and he is studying pre-law at Columbia. He and his friends are all taking summer classes, which is why they are here in June. I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, except that his friend had a boom box on their blanket, and all of a sudden a Michael Jackson song started playing. I spoke up that I loved Michael Jackson, and the look of surprised shock on Tim’s face opened the gate into our conversation about music that led to Usher’s new CD, which led to the dance class he and his friend just took, which led to my tap dancing history, which led to his invitation to salsa or tango dancing sometime (he and his friend are looking for partners), which led to my asking if they play volleyball, which led to what sports we each play….

The afternoon did eventually end when it started raining. Long story short, the package store was closed and I never did get my package. My other endeavor for the day was to go grocery shopping, but by the time I returned to my room and took a shower, I just didn’t feel like leaving again.

Eventually, by about 7:30pm, I had rounded up enough motivation to go out and find food for the first half of the week. I decided to go to Target, but then as I started out for the subway stop, I remembered that because it was a weekend, the subway ran express uptown, past the Columbia University stop. This meant that I would either have to wait for a bus or walk the 21 blocks to the next subway stop where I could catch it to 225th street. Because I am impatient and was annoyed with myself for being so lazy as to wait until 7:30pm to do anything productive with my day, I decided to walk.

As I started out, I remembered Tim having mentioned a grocery store existing at 125th street. He had said that the best way to find it was to go down Riverside Drive. Thus, since I would have to walk past 125th street to get to 137th street (where I needed to catch the subway to Target), I decided to try and find this grocery store. If all went well, I wouldn’t even have to go all the way to Target.

I did end up managing to find the grocery store, but once I did find it, I knew I’d never be able to navigate my way up to the main street where the 137th subway stop was. Thus, I would just have to do all of my grocery shopping at this store. I went inside and began scoping the place out. As I wandered up and down the aisles, I heard from behind me, “I love New York, too.” I didn’t realize that the man who had spoken was talking to me until he was standing in front of me, pointedly staring at me. I looked up and smiled, suddenly remember that I have a button on my backpack that says “I [heart] NY.” The man was still staring, though. Suddenly, he spoke again.

“Your shirt…. Do you go to the University of Rochester?”

I looked down. I was wearing a grey T-shirt I had won from a random raffle at a UR soccer game. Actually, I wasn’t even supposed to get a T-shirt, I was supposed to get a Wegman’s gift card, but at the last minute, they kept the gift card and gave me a T-shirt. I usually sleep in it, but that evening I had been too lazy to change.

“Actually I just graduated,” I told him.

“I’m a UR alum, too!” The man pulled out his keys and showed me a UR keychain with the crest on it. “I’m actually attending my 20-year reunion this October!”

It turns out he was in that grocery store to pick up some tangerine popsicles for the employees at his restaurant. “They are absolutely the best,” he raved about the popsicles. “You really should buy some.” I passed him on his way to the cash register and he actually opened one of the boxes and gave me a popsicle when I said I probably couldn’t buy any because they would melt before I could get back to my apartment. Then he wanted to give me a business card but couldn’t find one, so I let him write his e-mail address in the little notebook I unfailingly carry around. “If you ever need help with anything in the city,” he said, “just shoot me a line.”

So if I hadn’t stopped and thrown a football around in Riverside Park with a few strangers, I wouldn’t have heard about this grocery store. If the subway didn’t run express uptown on the weekends, I never would have gone to this grocery store. If I had taken that goofy “I [heart] NY” pin off of my backpack (because now, being in NYC, every tourist shop sells identical merchandise), I never would have caught that man’s attention. And if I hadn’t won a UR T-shirt in a raffle instead of a Wegman’s gift card and been lazy/unselfconscious enough to wear it that evening, he never would have known that I went to the University of Rochester.

Life can be so incredibly random sometimes!

Compliments

What exactly does “down to earth” mean? That was the compliment I received last night, right before a goodnight kiss was proposed (I turned it down), and I spent the remainder of the evening thinking about whether it accurately described me and whether or not I was pleased to be thought of in that manner. I suppose it is a pretty accurate description—I am practical and rational, if I am anything—but for some reason it just doesn’t ring out like a compliment I should want to receive.

I think who I receive a compliment from dictates whether or not it is a compliment. For instance, I would never take a statement like “You look best like this” [in sweatpants and a T-shirt] as a genuine compliment from anyone other than Ben. I just know it wouldn’t be true, because no one else dresses like me and thinks about clothing the way I do except for him, so no one could use that as an honest compliment.

I guess it’s difficult to explain. Similarly, the only people who could ever tell me I am growing up to be anything like my mother and have that be a compliment would have to be those people who know my mother intimately: my father or Emily or my mother herself. It’s a bit difficult to explain, but compliments—true, honest, deeply felt compliments—are more complicated than they seem.

Calling for Nice People

Nice people make me want to cry. Truly. After talking to sales people and PR people, people who refuse to give straight answers at all costs, people who snap at me for simply trying to do my job (the grunt work of my editors—the fact-finding work, the price-finding work), after trying to make someone commit to some sort of price when they don’t want to look like the evil over-priced company so they just won’t give a price at all and want to be described as “competitively priced,” someone on the other end of the phone finally says, “Yeah, readers do need a price to see if they can afford that cabinet,” and I am nearly in tears.