New York is a weird wonderful place. Everyday I commute to work passing a man who wears a huge Flavor Flav plastic WalMart clock on a gold chain and has "Save your Soul" signs. thousands of people pass him everyday and seem to give it no second glance. Similar to me at that moment of the day, he is commuting to work. I provide people a service, and seemingly, so does he or he wouldn't be returning day after day with his peculiar outfit. His wardrobe objective is simple, just weird enough to be noticed but not enough to be out of place in this massive city of eight million wandering souls living firmly between the lanes of fortune and survival.
I walk past him every morning with my collard shirt tucked into my jeans and my nondescript brown leather laptop bag. I can look across the street at any given second during peak commuting hours and see a near reflection of me, walking in clean earth tone clothes, hustling to a job that is two steps below your potential but pays two steps above your basic needs. Yet this man passes this sea of denim and khaki clad monotony as a sprinkle of weird on vanilla frosting. This juxtaposition, and even more the lack of acknowledgement, is what perplexes me. He may very well have been brought up in the great city of New York, and even patronize the same institutions, yet his culture and mine are wider than the cities separated by the Pacific ocean.
I hope one day to understand what makes this man "tick" with his plastic clock emblazoned on his chest, but as for now, I must make my way toward work to begin my day contributing to this society that none of us will ever fully experience.
