Story Time: A Homeless Black Man Told Me To Comb My Hair

It was a chilly morning in Midtown Manhattan. I stepped off the train at Penn Station and joined a crowd of people in coats and scarves who were walking to work.

Some of the same train passengers I shared my commute with trailed off to grab their morning coffee at Starbucks. A few broke free from the group to purchase their usual bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich from their favorite cart vendor. But most of us stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and waited for the cars to pass; we were headed towards the Port Authority bus terminal a couple blocks up. While waiting impatiently to cross I observed the homeless people in colored blankets, huddled together under the warmed steel grates that lead into the subway tunnels. I paid attention to the shiny skyscrapers and the shy hints of sunlight bouncing off their structures. I desperately needed a distraction from the chilled air which felt like bitter frost on my skin.

While I was lost in the gritty beauty of New York City, I heard a voice shouting in my direction from the distance. A black man’s voice.

“Aye! Comb your hair!”

The comment was coming from the distant area where the homeless people were gathered. I previously spotted a few black men over there, and one of them decided to take the time and single me out; such is the…