I don't know when or how it got started or who's responsible, but there's long been a nasty rumor circulating around this country that New Yorkers are nasty.

I won't deny that we're an assertive lot and, at times, even aggressive. Don't dawdle in front of a New Yorker in the subway during rush hour and for God's sake, don't stand on the escalator platform and try to get your bearings as thousands of us are trying to move from one train line to another. It's true that we can be direct. Just this morning, I walked our dog to Walgreen's, where I planned to buy laundry detergent, dog food, and nail polish. "No dog food," the Indian woman barked at me, as the Puerto Rican woman yapped, "Ya gotta pick up your dog when you're in the store, ma'am." "I didn't know," I said. "Well now you do," she said in a particularly rude tone. "You should get some manners," I replied, as if politeness is something you can buy at the store.

But I don't want to perpetuate the rumor. By and large, we're a nice bunch of folks and it's not infrequent that something happens here that absolutely restores my faith in humanity. At least for a little while. I was coming out of the library this afternoon when I saw an elderly man tumble face first onto the sidewalk. I was about a 1/2 block away and I rushed to help him, but by the time I'd reached his side, eight people had closed in around him in a protective circle. Though 30 seconds before we'd all been heads down, hurrying on from one errand to another as if we were the most important people doing the most important task in the world, we waited patiently for the man to absorb the shock and muster his energy to get up again. He rested with his shiny black leather shoes toes down until he caught his breath. And then, two women flanked his sides and gently slid their own arms underneath his armpits, lifting him up only when he was ready. They didn't speak with each other, but they didn't need to. Another woman stood in front, ready to catch him if he pitched forward again, and a fourth woman picked up his cane. I stood behind, unsure what to do but sure I shouldn't leave, and I straightened the pack on his back, lifting it away from his wool coat so he wouldn't have to bear the weight as he righted himself. Still another woman stopped and asked if we'd called 911. His spill wasn't that severe, but she lingered too, long enough to make sure he was steady. "I think I'll just go over to the park and sit down for a bit," the man said wearily as we each took a step back to give him some space. "Would you like me to walk with you?" I asked, as he seemed a bit wobbly still. "No," he said, slowly turning around and smiling,"but I sure appreciated everyone's help."

This isn't an isolated incident. I was at a subway stop recently and noticed that a man seated on a bench next to his wife had, I thought, dropped a glove. I bent down for the glove and extended it to him, saying "I think you might have dropped this." He laughed and turned to his wife and said in a familiar Southern drawl, "This place is something else. It's amazing. That's not my glove. But in the past three minutes, about 10 of you people have stopped to ask me if it's mine." He laughed again and shook his head. "And they say New Yorkers aren't nice. Nobody in Alabama would've handed me that glove."

New Yorkers ARE nice, dammit. And don't you forget it.