Reading a Strangers Memoir Can Be Your Quiet Rebellion
He handed me a 160-page memoir of his life. As if to say: I want you to know me. I want you to understand why I am the way I am.
There’s a gentleman I often find on the front porch of his Brooklyn brownstone, no matter the time of day. I see him when I run to the park in the mornings, and again in the evenings as I walk back that same way. We smile at one another.
Lately, we’ve been dog-sitting through an app, bringing in a little extra income and a revolving cast of companions. While walking our current protagonist, Sheeba, we passed this gentleman as he moved his trash cans from the curb back onto his property. I asked his name. Before we even reached a full minute of small talk, he paused, looked at me, and said, “Wait here. I have something for you.”
When he returned, he was holding a book titled Fran. On the cover was a framed photo of a smiling woman. I asked who she was, though I already had a feeling, which he confirmed as his late wife.
“This is her story,” he said.
Moe handed me a 160-page memoir of his and Fran’s life. The details of how they met, loved, and built a world together. As if to say: I want you to know me. I want you to know who lived here. I want you to understand why I am the way I am.
I’m not sure I’ve seen this level of openness, trust, or community-driven engagement anywhere else since moving to New York three years ago. I’ve seen a city drowning in tiny screens and expensive lifestyles. Generations fluent in anxiety and depression. Eye contact treated as confrontation. Long-form curiosity traded for short-form distraction.
Moe’s gesture felt like an act of rebellion. It reminded me of art, the other place where someone says: I want you to know me. I want you to understand why I am the way I am.
But being a bystander to art and engaging with it are two very different things. We have to open the book. We have to look up at the street performer and ask their name. It’s only when we let these stories into our lives that we access something deeper. That’s when we tap into our shared humanity, IMO.
The abundance, pace, and design of short-form content is the most profitable distraction I believe will ever be created. There are literally millions of other pieces of content to swipe to if the one you’re watching doesn’t grab you in two seconds.
And when everything is disposable, nothing gets to matter.
But you matter. And you are literal, magical matter. You matter more than the views on your video or the like-count on your post will ever begin to validate. Your stories are real, and they’re probably not all that different from your neighbor’s, which you can only know if you're both open to engaging.
New York holds more art than most places in the world. And those stories are ready to weave into your own the moment you choose to let them. That choice, that act of curiosity, of presence, is its own quiet rebellion, my friend.
So fight on. Let’s be like Moe when we grow up.
PS: For the New Yorkers longing for Moe moments:
The Protagonist Festival is a surprise variety show inside a street fair. Happening next Thursday, July 17th, in Prospect Heights, they’ll be a surprise act popping up every 20 minutes, ranging from comics, actors, dancers, magicians, songwriters, and more. I’ll perform my album PROTAGONIST at the end of the night.
These festivals were built to make engaging with art feel effortless again, like bumping into a story on the sidewalk. A reminder that something real can happen the moment you choose to engage.
I hope to see you there. TICKETS HERE.
