Don't let Them See You Smile.

     As I sit here, eating my Honey Bunches of Oats with my Silk soy product, I look out my window at all the bundled patrons crossing the street. Last night I actually had to shut one of my windows. So maybe it is getting to be fall, and even winter, after all.
     I called my Gramps just now to wish him a Happy 80th birthday! He wasn't home, so I tried to leave as loving a message as I could. I was even contemplating singing that infamous birthday ditty, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I always feel so strange singing for family, even though they are the ones who appreciate my voice the most.  What makes it even more awkward is singing through the phone, so I hoped my sincere best wishes left a strong enough impact minus the song.
     Well, as much as I love my grandpa and breakfast, that's not the real reason for this blog. I've been wanting to talk about the city life and this unspoken law that consumes the people who live here. Now, I find myself to be a rather open, fun-loving person. With that being said, it seems I have to mask that person at times, which can make me feel uncomfortable. Now, everyone is multi-faceted. We wouldn't be human if we were solely labeled as always being "happy," or "sad." Our toolbox of emotions is forever open as we drive through our journey of life, trying our darnd-est to avoid the pot-holes.
     So I'm not always open and giggly and trusting, but that's the person I strive to be. However, that person has to take a back seat when I ride the subway. On the subway, it is a way of life one soon adapts. On the platform, there may be some discussion about what stops this upcoming train will make, but that's pretty much where the discussion ceases. You stand and wait either with your headphones in, your book in hand, or your eyes solely focused on the direction those two high beams will come rattling towards you. You don't sit next to someone at one of the limited brown benches and smile at them. No. You don't look at them. Or if you do, it's very subtle, using your peripherals. And on the subway, it's even more intense. If you are riding with a friend, then there is conversation. Otherwise, if you are taking the subway solo, you under no means can talk to someone.
    I once told my fellow-city friend, Michele McNally, who has quite a comical disposition, how I was talking with this man on the subway late at night. He was from Columbia and he was lost. I helped him find the right train and our discussion continued after he saw me reading a play. He was an actor in his country and so we had a lot of things to talk about. Once my friend heard this, she immediately told me to NEVER talk to anyone on the subway ever again. I laughed it off, thinking she was kidding, but then she repeated her statement, with a more serious tone and eyes slightly bulging. I tried to explain, but it didn't matter. "Even if you don't have an i-phone put your headphones in and pretend you are listening to something." Then I felt stupid. I was obviously seen as a naive young girl, unable to adapt to the strict survival city laws. (This probably isn't the best time for a friendly plug, but here is her website! She's off to great things! http://www.actorwithabusinesscard.com/ )
    My dad finds me to be a sucker too. And maybe I am. Perhaps that's a compliment, stating that I am a kind soul who can find love in my heart and give respect to others. However, I think it's leaned more toward an insult, in that I cannot handle the harsh dealings the city can dish out; that I am not equipped enough to manage my own in this rough and tough neighborhood of mine. That I am too sensitive; a wimp. My dad admitted to me that he feared I would easily be taken advantage of here. He was afraid I would be too trusting. He was and still is concerned that it will be my downfall.
    So now on the subway I ignore the people who ask for help. I don't fish into my pocket as I hear another sob-story of how embarrassed they are to beg for money. I continue to keep my eyes on my page as I hear two Mexican men sing in perfect harmony from their accordion and guitar. I stare at the poster across from me as I hear a Vietnam Veteran physically sob as he screams to all of us, "What did I do?"  I feel like I have to prove to my dad, my friends, and myself that I am not too soft-hearted. I can be just like everyone else on the subway. I can stare at inanimate objects, close my eyes and listen to my music or be engrossed in my book. God-forbid I should be pursuing acting and want to interact with people.
    But I understand. I really do. I get it that you cannot trust anyone here because so many people are off their rocker, or homeless, or poor, or angry. You just can't extend a helping hand as easily as you would before, back home, because you have to look after yourself first. I really do understand the city way of life, but just because I understand it doesn't mean I like it. It doesn't mean it makes me feel comfortable. The smiling Kristen inside of me only comes out at work, or with my friends. I save those smiles for them. On the street or riding the train, however, I'm on a mission, my face in a straight line and my eyes focusing ahead. I keep wary of my surroundings, but I'm in no way inviting. I'm trying to survive here, and in order to do that, I have to choose when my true self can emerge and when it has to burrow back within and wait.