Good Men in East Harlem

 Photo compliments of Diane McCabe

Driving into the city from Connecticut,the old orange van was loaded with gifts from my mentor, Martha Crampton - chic accessories from Italy,  hand-made Quaker bed, lamp, cushions, framed pictures, books to read, etc. She was down-sizing to move into an apartment in the city and I was setting up living in an an apartment after living out of two-suitcases for many years.

At the time there was a gas shortage. I stopped at a gas station on the Hutchinson River Parkway, got the ten gallon max, and gave the  attendant my last ten dollars.

This amount should have been enough to get to home on the lower east side of Manhattan.

However, as the sun was setting in East Harlem, I ran out of gas. Anger at the gas station for cheating me wasn't going to solve this problem, so I tabled the rage I felt for the time being.

I  pulled off the highway, which fortunately was on a slight decline, so I was able to steer to the curb near a store with a phone booth.

This  was before the day of the ever ready cell phone. I searched for a dime to call home for help, but the search didn't even result in two cents.

As I was contemplating my next step, five young men surrounded the van. Terrified by what might happen, I was ready to bargain for my life. However, when I explained that I didn't need my windows washed and why I was sitting in East Harlem at sunset, one of the men offered to go go get gas for me.  I told him, emphatically, that I had absolutely no money and suggested we bargain for a goods exchange.

This bargaining phase was not accompanied by self-confidence and a steady delivery. I shook and tears were running down my face. The one who offered, said, "No problem, " and took off to get the gas while the others stood by the van while he was gone - while I sat there expecting the worst.

The man came back with a red five gallon can filled with gas and poured it in, then told me how much it cost him. I explained once again that I literally had no money and offered him to choose from the contents of the van. Neither he, nor the four others,were interested.

So, while expecting it, but hoping they would not just take the van, contents and all, I offered to repay him by sending money in the mail.

He agreed to that. I gave him paper and pencil. He wrote something down and returned the paper and pencil. I put both in my pocket, thanked them all, and started the engine.

As I drove off still shaking, I  pondered the miracle I had just experienced. Not only was I in one of the most dangerous hoods around, and not only was I still alive, I had been treated like a queen.

When I got home, I took out the piece of paper to write the name and address on an envelope with the money.  I looked at the name and laughed in astonishment.

But, of course, what else could it be.

The man's name  was Angel -Angel Ramos. 

I'll never forget his name. I will never forget  that day after sundown in East Harlem where, to my disbelief, I was as safe as a baby in a crib!!

They responded to a real need, and I acknowledged that place where trust abides - in this case - beyond my biased image of men from East Harlem.

When is a time your own biases have been challenged, and you

have been gratefully humbled by the goodness of people?