American Scientist

To the Editors:

As a New Yorker for all of my adult life, I had a good chuckle at Robert Levine's article about helpfulness ("The Kindness of Strangers," May–June). There is a fundamental flaw in the design of this experiment: Despite all his efforts to the contrary, Dr. Levine has managed to measure civility rather than actual helpfulness. Two main factors have skewed his New York numbers: perception of fault, and what he terms "wariness " but is also known as the "New York sixth sense."

First let's talk about perception of fault. New Yorkers do not like to help people who have foolishly brought their problems upon themselves. If you walk down the street dropping your possessions (pens, letters, $20 bills), then you are considered a fool who deserves what you get. The first lesson in New York is to know who's around you and where your possessions are. Pen-droppers have violated that rule and therefore can probably be classified as "tourists" (a discussion for a different letter).

I howled with laughter when I read the note scribbled on the letter that had been returned, and I think Dr. Levine missed the point entirely. The author was not merely maligning your mother: He was telling you what YOUR problem was. The key word, in both English and Spanish, is "irresponsible." Only the irresponsible son of an irresponsible puta would be so careless and foolish, as you obviously were.

Now on to wariness. You would have to be better than an Academy Award–winning actor to convince a New Yorker that you are (a) injured if you are not actually injured or (b) blind if you are not actually blind. Furthermore, if you are blind and don't know how to cross a street by yourself (which all blind New Yorkers actually know how to do), why are you out here? See point number one: "perception of fault." I wonder if any of the test subjects were asked how convincing they found the performances to be.

I'd like to leave you with a memory that is as vivid as the one the author had in Rangoon when he witnessed help given to a stranger. As I was walking up Seventh Avenue, a middle-aged man suddenly collapsed in front of me. His wife was distraught, and he was dazed, disoriented and unable to stand. Immediately, four of us New Yorkers swung into action, while a group of sympathetic hand-wringing tourists gathered around us. One of us used a cell phone to call 911 (more than once, to ask them where the hell they were), one found a police car and brought the officer over, one sat on the curb next to the man and his wife, speaking to them and calming them, and one procured a pillow and blanket from the (extremely reluctant) staff of a nearby hotel. When the paramedics arrived, we had a quick sidewalk conference and determined that the poor folk would never manage to negotiate a New York hospital emergency room on their own, so the person who had the least pressing schedule that afternoon volunteered to stick by them until they were out of danger. Were we polite? Not really. But effective in a crisis? You bet.

Renee Colwell
New York, New York

To the Editors:

Rarely have I read a magazine article that gripped me as hard as did "The Kindness of Strangers." Though dyslexic and lazy, I clung to every word until I finished. The article was to me a first thrilling restatement of a thought I have lived with—and spoken of—for 35 years.

Not only does treatment of strangers deteriorate with population density, I kept saying. There is, as in atomic science, a "critical mass," above which people treat one another horribly. Now Robert Levine shows that that density is about 1,000 persons per square mile. Yes, of course, there are sensible reasons why good people act badly, but so what? I live in a real world, not a possible world.

Thirty-five years ago I was still looking for work in New York City (density 7,500 persons per square mile). Writing, cartooning, illustrating, editing, advertising, publishing—any of these could have had my contribution. But each day of job hunting took on an acrid odor from the receptionists, taxi drivers, bus drivers, news dealers, storekeepers that I did talk with. Real job interviews were rare, and even those were often unpleasant.

Then in 1968 I exited a Broadway matinee into the sunshine. Flagging down one of a taxi pack waiting for the theater crowd, I opened its rear door for my mother and brother. Before I could turn and motion them over, I was hit from the rear with a crushing football-style block that sent me staggering to 10 feet behind the cab. When I was able to look back, I saw a very well-dressed man holding the door for his own significant other.

Call it a last straw if you must; I call it a bale. My neighbors and my family visit New York frequently, but I have never set foot in that repulsive city since that day. Parties? Jobs? Shows? No thanks. Even when a 1973 invitation came from Max Frankel to interview for a job as an editorial-page writer for The New York Times, the center of my particular universe, I turned it down. I often wonder if I would refuse today, and I think I still would.

David Royce
Westport, Connecticut