What does it feel like to not see people? I don’t mean in a literal sense, with impaired vision. I’m talking about the folks who are so incredibly self-involved that they insist there is nobody else around. What is that world like for them?
How empty it must be to not notice who makes the music. To know recognize who is hungry or who is helping to ease the hunger.
What is it like to not have any awareness about who works harvests the food or who plants the pansies that make a boring strip mall a little prettier?
Do those folks only recognize people who look exactly like them, dress exactly like them, and commute exactly like them?
Are they the same people who manage to not see a bicycle lane or claim to have not seen the pedestrian who was in the crosswalk?
Do they have any inner life, those folks who say Hartford is a ghost town? How could they miss people sitting by the pond, watching ducks or playing with their phones?
Are they wanting to hate so hard that they block out the presence of people just about everywhere?
Where does that bitterness come from?
What does it feel like to be someone who simultaneously believes Hartford is a ghost town and a dangerous hellscape? How does one even reconcile these thoughts?
It’s bothersome to contemplate that, so instead, I’ll offer something else.
When you are willing to see people, you notice that they have to ride bicycles on sidewalks because the alternatives are not safe. You’ll see people making the best out of underwhelming infrastructure.
You see that there are lots of dogs that need walking.
You notice that people of all ages and abilities use the sidewalks, and do so at varying speeds. Seeing this really shows how important it is that the paths are level and free of stumbling blocks — whether those are snow mounds or debris from car crashes or mattresses.
When you allow yourself to see people, you begin to see a full range of folks — from those on their way to work to those out for a jog to those who are seemingly aimless. I think I am among the seemingly aimless.
Once you begin to see people, you might talk to them. The girl riding her bicycle complimented my mask. I thanked her. This was no earth-shaking conversation, but it’s a normal, quick exchange that can happen when you allow yourself to see and be seen by strangers. Instead of living a life of mistrust and fear, you realize that most people are pleasant, or at least neutral.
You’ll notice how it becomes harder to stereotype people when you begin to really see them. But, you’d have to take the time to see them.
Seeing people means becoming less suspicious of them. Another person I encountered wanted directions to a Covid test station/vaccination clinic. She had the address written on a piece of paper and I mimed the directions as best I could, knowing my Spanish vocabulary has gaps.
The other day, a guy was telling me about how he stood on a guardrail along the highway while his girlfriend took a time lapse photo as a big rig blew by him. I don’t know who he was or why he felt like sharing this, but it made for an interesting story. That was it. That was the entire interaction.
When you acknowledge other people, you open yourself up to the possibility of meeting them. I hear complaints from adults having trouble making friends, and I don’t understand this. In a city, you’re surrounded by people. Talk to some. How’s that any stranger than limiting interaction to only those who you encounter at work or church?
So, this last week, once again, I had no trouble seeing people who were riding bicycles. . .
. . . or walking here and there . . .
. . . or carrying coffees.
In parks, next to parks, nowhere near parks.
And I even saw one dog who thinks he’s people
