There is no such thing as darkness in New York City. Always, streetlamps and headlights edge their lambent glows into even the darkest corners of my apartment, making it possible to walk across every surface without tripping or stumbling. I know that two blocks away, the subway is still running, that massive trains are heaving into stations at 4 a.m. to pick up the night creatures of the city, and if I wanted I could be on one of those trains, heading into the Village or Williamsburg, to a club or a friend’s apartment. This nocturnal ease of movement scares me. It seems as though the New York night greases the inhabitants of the city, making it easier for them to slip between neighborhoods and boroughs in cabs, trains, on foot.

In my California hometown, the night sky stretches on forever, full of stars, pushing all of us homeward. Taking refuge from the lowering darkness, we see each other with grateful eyes, reconnecting after a long day away from home. When I come back to my Brooklyn apartment, the nighttime drones with disjointed activity. Without the tacit community of my youth—or even the looser one shared by frenetic Harvard students—I feel more disconnected from my roots, from myself, than I have ever felt before.

Being alone in New York is remarkably easy, looking forward and avoiding the centers of nearby eyes, renewing a vow of silence every time I step out onto the street, sitting in my apartment checking my e-mail, sending letters to people in other states. To escape my unease, I stay out all night, party with my roommate and my roommate’s friends, go to Broadway shows, and see live jazz at the Village Vanguard. None of it, though, seems to have a lasting effect. It is impossible to feel isolated because so much is going on. The enormity of the city invades my life and the lives of everyone around me, yet silent walls separate us from each other, creating the disquietude I feel when I dim my lights for the night.

I long for the possibility of a connection, the potential for a glance or a smile to blossom into an acquaintance or friendship. The mentality of New York, unlike that of my small California home or even that of Boston, seems to prohibit this kind of unguarded familiarity. The glowing night shrouds the faces of New Yorkers in a blurring veil, making it possible to look at someone without remembering their features. After midnight, people are set apart, wrapped in their own thoughts and concerns.

But sometimes the city feels different. On the subway, a mother plays peek-a-boo with her young daughter. I smile at her older son, and he smiles back. It is the first time I have met the eyes of another person on the subway for a long time. The mother looks at me protectively, and I grin back. Her expression softens, and before she goes back to playing with her little one, her lips tense into a guarded hint of a smile.

Later in the week, I stroll through the sprawling lawn at the center of nearby Prospect Park. As I go to get a drink from a water fountain, I meet a young girl, perhaps three or four years old, who is holding a hollowed out version of Cinderella’s carriage with a pour spout. I watch her give it to her brother, who drinks from it in large silent gulps. She looks at me and says, “My Cinderella!”—a proud proclamation of her desire to share with him.

This quiet revelation stays with me the next time I ride the subway to work. I wonder what would happen if I smile at the person sitting across from me. The next night, when I slip out with my eyes to the pavement, I think that if I look up, I might see into another person deeply enough, and, completely by accident, find the part of them that might have said to that little girl, “That’s very sweet of you. You’re so kind.”



Kyle L. K. McAuley ’09, a Crimson arts editor, is a literature concentrator in Leverett House.