Sensory Deprivation: My Ipod, My Shield

I live in New York City. It is LOUD. I mean, really really loud. New York is also an extremely public city inasmuch as the majority of one’s life is lived in full view of the public. To someone who has spent most of her life in cities where peaceful isolation in the imagined privacy of a car is the norm, and where maintaining a respectful distance from strangers is expected, New York’s public transit stranger-press-fest is a new and jarring experience. Here, people of all ages, sizes and backgrounds sit, stand and climb on top of each other in an effort to get from place to place. Often, there are singers, musicians, children selling candy and panhandlers vying for your attention and money. Usually, there is a group of two or more people talking, laughing or even singing to each other in “outside voices.” Along the streets we are jostled by other pedestrians and assaulted by horns, sirens, construction and more loud conversation.

Enter the ipod, Apple’s portable, handy-dandy, fashion-conscious, uber-trendy mp3 music player. Armed with an ipod and a magazine, a New Yorker can reconstruct some of her lost privacy and access some of her drowned-out thoughts. My ipod provides auditory isolation and respite from a loud, invasive city. It also supplies a peppy soundtrack for a busy life spent hop-bopping down the street from one avenue to the next.

But the other day, my ipod gave me pause. I was sitting on the subway engrossed in a magazine and wrapped in “Pink Cashmere” by Prince. As the train pulled into the stop, I heard a faint cry over Prince’s sweet love song, “Please, have a heart…” Looking back over my shoulder as I stepped off the train, I saw a small forlorn-looking woman holding an empty cup pleading with passengers for change. I hadn’t noticed her because I had shut myself off from my surroundings in hope of finding some afterwork peace of mind.

I felt oddly guilty, like I had cut myself off from humanity. I can accept choosing not to give to every supplicant, but I could not accept that I had purposely walled myself off from the supplicants in an escapist sensory orgy. How can I purport to be someone who cares about the welfare of everyone if I cannot be bothered to hear them?

"I can't have a heart," I thought, "my song is on." Even a bleeding heart needs time to heal.