Three Pounds of Coffee, One Ton of Reality

I arrived in New York in late August 2024. As my Uber from JFK approached Manhattan, the iconic skyline filled me with awe. It was a spectacle of human ambition reaching toward the heavens.

That awe quickly transformed into shock when I saw the fare, followed by the extravagant cost of our takeout dinner to save us from cooking after our exhausting journey. The fried rice was delicious, infused with the comforting MSG umami that Uncle Roger would approve of, momentarily easing my homesickness for Hong Kong. But it was almost twice the price of an equivalent dish in Hong Kong. New York revealed itself immediately: glamorous, but mercilessly expensive.

What struck me even more profoundly was the omnipresence of homelessness. On nearly every block, someone occupied a corner, typically near supermarkets with heavy foot traffic, asking for food, spare change, or clothing.

As autumn progressed and temperatures dropped, I noticed homeless individuals moved from streets to subway stations and trains to seek warmth. New York's fall is unforgiving; each year, people perish from exposure when left without shelter. According to the Coalition for the Homeless, in recent years, dozens of unsheltered homeless New Yorkers have died annually due to cold weather-related causes, with hypothermia being the primary killer.

One experience remains etched in my memory. My husband and I had journeyed to Greenwich Village for reasonably priced coffee beans, a luxury we justified as caffeine-dependent, brain-intensive workers. We deemed it impractical to meet a free shipping threshold online, so we paid for subway fare and carried three pounds of beans by hand. After adding frozen food from Trader Joe's for late-night snacking, we boarded the train home.

A middle-aged man entered our car, holding the hand of a young girl no more than six years old. "Hi New Yorkers," he announced, "I recently lost my job and have become homeless with my family. Could anyone spare any ready-to-eat food? We don't need cash. We're decent working citizens just asking for affordable food."

My husband and I exchanged glances, shame washing over us. We had been lamenting our status as a "poor student" and "unemployed," yet here was a stark reality check. We could afford transit fare and coffee, hardly a necessity. Looking at our grocery bags, we realized we had nothing ready to eat. Our embarrassment was profound.

That encounter haunts me still. The little girl's face and her father's dignified plea occasionally surface in my dreams, a poignant reminder of food insecurity and poverty in New York, which was supposedly one of the world's wealthiest cities.

Months later, after completing my New York bar exams, I began freelance work. My employer generously offered lunch reimbursement without specifying an amount. Having been raised in an Asian culture where one orders modestly when treated, I selected the least expensive salad near my workplace (which was still a hefty $14). The portion was substantial, justifying the price. "Would you like complimentary pita bread?" the cashier asked. Remembering the homeless father and daughter, I accepted, despite the knowledge that the salad alone would satisfy my hunger.

My intuition proved correct. On my journey home, a homeless person boarded the train asking for food. This time, I could offer something ready to eat, slightly alleviating the survival guilt that had become my companion in New York. Yet that feeling lingers whenever I encounter someone asking for food.

In quiet moments, the faces of those experiencing homelessness, especially that father and daughter, surface in my prayers. New York's homelessness crisis represents a complex socioeconomic challenge without simple solutions. As a newcomer, I have come to understand this as perhaps an inevitable element of a hyper-capitalist society with limited social protections. Still, I hesitate to critique a system I am only beginning to comprehend. Now, I always carry ready to eat, hygienically packaged food whenever I venture through the city, prepared for anyone who might need it. These items serve not primarily for their consumption, but rather as a small remedy for the survival guilt I feel while navigating this concrete jungle.