Drained of much energy, I was hurrying to get onto the first car of the train after work. That car would bring me to the most convenient exit at my stop. But two teenagers in front of me––going home from school?––halted and turned away from the entrance I was heading towards. They were clinging to one other, and one was exclaiming, “What the heck!?”
Before I stepped into the car, I noticed what caused them to be disgusted? shocked? fearful? all three?
Right near the entrance of the car a man, naked to the waist, was lying down on his back, hands and legs splayed, his eyes closed. I looked at him for probably no more than two seconds and walked into the car without my steps faltering. I encountered the two teenagers again as they stepped into the car through another door ahead of me. I go to the other side of the car, away from the man at the one end and the teenagers huddling together in the middle, checked the seat to make sure it was passably clean, sat down and closed my eyes to wait for the train to pull out of the station.
After I had successfully made it out of the subway into the sunny but cold day, a dawning realization almost halted my steps. I had been neither surprised nor shocked by the sight that had so obviously disturbed the girls. I felt nothing about the incident: not pity, not surprise, not anger. It seemed quite commonplace to me to step into a train in NYC and find lying on the dirty cold floors a filthy looking shirtless man on a cold winter day.
But this used to shock me, arouse pity! When did my heart harden so?
Is one still human to see the explicit and undignified suffering of a fellow human being and not be roused to sorrow or even shock? How does one become so hollow? How does one keep on looking at the horror that is commonplace and keep seeing it? How does one nurture a soft but strong heart? I thought of the title of a book I hadn’t read in a long time: Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag. I don’t think Sontag answered those questions. But I also think of C. S. Lewis essay, “Talking About Bicycles” and I could only hope that I am at a disenchanted stage of experiencing such an event and would eventually, hopefully, advance to a re-enchanted stage.
I want to weep for myself and the friend whom I had encountered in need of help and could not even feel a drop of sorrow for. But I am unable to. What illusions cause one to be so immune to the suffering of their brother?
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J A O
