I have a theory, now stay with me here. I think that middle-aged-to-elderly black women are the guardian angels of New York City. I think that they meet every Sunday after church and divide up the territory making six-block sections and timetables of where they will spend their week saving stupid kids in the city. And I have proof!
Not once, or twice, but three times while living in New York City has an elderly black woman grabbed onto my purse to save me from rogue bike riders or psychotic cab drivers swerving unexpectedly onto side streets.
When I accidentally found myself a funeral crasher in Harlem, a wonderful black woman helped us find our way to the show we were trying to see. When I was lost in Hell’s Kitchen only a few blocks from my apartment and still couldn’t figure out how to get home at 2am, a middle-aged black woman led me home.
And once when my husband and I were riding the subway home he picked up a flyer off the subway floor and began to read it. I freaked out. I’m not a germaphobe, but there are limits. I told him to put it down or he would be patient zero in the zombie apocalypse. He still kept reading it. I pointed out the urine and bacteria and hepatitis that were probably on the paper. Still he thought it was fine. Then I told him that not everyone washes their hands after using the bathroom and that the person who originally had that flyer might have had poopy hands, at which point he finally dropped it in disgust. But there was nowhere to wash his germy hands on the subway. My sweet husband started panicking. He was going to get pink eye! A middle-aged black woman tapped him on the shoulder with hand sanitizer at the ready. She gave both of us a dab, thereby preventing the zombie apocalypse.
Proof! There are angels in New York.