It starts with a piece of gum. Or maybe a seat on a crowded subway. Jesus Soto wrote about a simple interaction in 1950s New York that most of us would have ignored, and yet, decades later, the phrase little things are big jesus remains a persistent ghost in the back of our collective conscience. It’s a weirdly phrased thought, isn’t it? It sounds almost like a broken translation, but it’s actually the title of a classic essay by Jesus Colon, a Puerto Rican immigrant who became one of the most vital voices of the Nuyorican movement.
He was a writer. A worker. A man who watched the world through the lens of a "black-skinned" Latino in an era where that identity was a minefield.
One night, around midnight, Colon was riding the subway. He saw a woman. She was white, burdened with three kids and a heavy suitcase. This is where the internal monologue starts. It’s the same one you’ve probably had when you see someone struggling but hesitate to step in because you don't want to seem "creepy" or "intrusive." But for Colon, the stakes weren't just about social awkwardness; they were about the brutal reality of racism in mid-century America. If he, a dark-skinned man, approached a white woman at midnight on a deserted platform, what would happen? Would she scream? Would the cops show up? He stayed in his seat. He walked away. And that decision—that "little" moment of inaction—haunted him so deeply he had to write it out of his system.
The Weight of the Unspoken in Little Things Are Big Jesus
Honestly, we talk about "big" activism all the time. We talk about protests and policy changes and massive donations. But Colon’s point was that the fabric of a society isn't actually made of those huge moments. It’s made of the microscopic choices we make when no one is looking. When he didn't help that woman, he felt he had betrayed his own humanity to protect his safety. He felt that by letting the fear of how he was perceived dictate his actions, he let the "little thing" of a subway ride become a "big" failure of character.
It's a heavy concept.
The essay, originally published in his book A Puerto Rican in New York and Other Sketches, isn't just a memoir; it's a critique of how prejudice shrinks our world. It shrinks our ability to be kind. If you can’t offer to carry a suitcase because you're afraid of being lynched or arrested, the "little thing" has become a monstrously big thing. That is the core of little things are big jesus.
Most people read this in high school or college and think it’s just a story about manners. It’s not. It’s about the psychological toll of living in a world that assumes the worst of you. Colon was a refined man, a scholar of the streets, and a socialist who believed in the collective good. To him, ignoring that woman was a violation of his political and personal creed. He realized that if we stop doing the little things for each other, the "big" stuff—solidarity, community, love—doesn't stand a chance.
The Anatomy of a Missed Connection
Let's look at the mechanics of that night. The train reaches the Atlantic Avenue station. The woman is struggling. Colon is standing there, his heart probably racing. He knows what he should do. But he also knows the 1950s. He knows the stories of men who looked like him being accused of things they didn't do.
He writes: "I buried my courtesy, my help and my boy-scout-of-the-past spirit."
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That's a brutal line. He didn't just walk away; he buried a part of himself.
Why does this still matter in 2026? Because we are currently living in a "main character" culture. We are told to mind our own business, to keep our heads down, and to prioritize our own safety and comfort above all else. We have "stranger danger" baked into our DNA now. But Colon suggests that every time we choose fear over a small act of service, we lose a bit of our soul. We let the "little things" go, not realizing they are the only things that actually matter.
Why the Context of 1950s New York Matters
You can't understand why little things are big jesus is so impactful without looking at the atmosphere Colon breathed every day. He arrived in New York in 1917 as a stowaway on a boat. He worked the docks. He worked in factories. He saw how the city chewed people up.
By the time he’s on that subway in the 50s, he’s a seasoned observer of the American racial hierarchy.
- The Nuyorican movement wasn't just about poetry; it was about claiming space.
- Colon’s writing was a way to say, "I am here, and I have a moral compass that you refuse to see."
- His "failure" to help was a direct result of a system that made his kindness dangerous.
Think about the sheer unfairness of that. A man who wants to be good is prevented from being good by the very society that claims to value "goodness." It's a paradox. It’s why his internal conflict is so much more profound than just "should I help this lady with her bags?" It was a question of whether he could afford to be a human being that night.
The Modern Reinterpretation of the "Little Things"
Today, we see this play out in different ways. Maybe it’s not a subway platform at midnight, but it’s the person struggling with a stroller on a flight while everyone else stares at their phones. It's the neighbor whose mail is piling up. We have a million excuses—we're busy, we don't want to overstep, someone else will do it.
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But little things are big jesus tells us that "someone else" doesn't exist. There is only you.
There’s a specific nuance in Colon’s writing that often gets missed. He doesn't blame the woman for being white or for having kids. He doesn't even really blame the cops. He blames the structure that created the fear in the first place. He’s mad at himself, sure, but his essay is a quiet scream against a world that makes a simple act of chivalry a life-or-death gamble.
Honestly, it’s kinda heartbreaking.
He ends the essay with a promise. He says that if he is ever in that situation again, he will offer his help, regardless of the consequences. He decides that being his true self—a helpful, kind person—is worth the risk of being misunderstood or even endangered. He chooses the "little thing" over the "big" fear.
Common Misconceptions About Jesus Colon’s Work
A lot of people think Colon was just a storyteller. They group him in with the "melting pot" writers who wanted everyone to just get along. That’s a massive oversimplification.
- He wasn't a pacifist in the traditional sense. He was a radical. He wanted systemic change.
- The essay isn't a "feel-good" story. It's a tragedy about a lost opportunity.
- He didn't write it to be "inspirational." He wrote it to hold himself, and his readers, accountable.
When you look at his other sketches, you see a man obsessed with the dignity of the working class. Whether he was writing about a "lady" who didn't want to sit next to him or the way people talked about "the Puerto Rican problem," his focus was always on the small, daily interactions that reveal the truth of a person’s heart.
Actionable Lessons from a 70-Year-Old Essay
If we want to actually apply the lessons of little things are big jesus to our lives today, we have to look past the literal subway car. It’s about the "micro-moments" of integrity.
Recognize the "Friction" of Fear
Next time you hesitate to help someone, ask yourself: Why? Is it because you're actually in danger, or is it because you're afraid of a social "glitch"? Most of the time, it's the latter. Recognizing that friction is the first step toward overcoming it.
The 5-Second Rule for Kindness
Colon lingered in his thoughts for too long. He over-analyzed. Sometimes, the "little thing" requires us to act before our brain can talk us out of it. If you see a need, fill it before the "what-ifs" start piling up.
Acknowledge the Stakes
Understand that your small actions—or inactions—ripple out. When you choose to be kind in a world that is increasingly cold, you are performing a revolutionary act. It sounds cheesy, but Colon believed it was the only way to stay human in a machine-like city.
Audit Your Inaction
What are the things you "bury"? Colon said he buried his courtesy. What are you burying to keep yourself safe or comfortable? Maybe it's your voice when you see something unfair at work. Maybe it's your patience when dealing with a difficult family member. Identify what you're burying and start digging it back up.
The Legacy of the "Little Things"
Jesus Colon died in 1974, but the Nuyorican movement he helped spark is still thriving. His work paved the way for writers like Piri Thomas and Nicholasa Mohr. They all understood what he did: that the political is personal, and the personal is often found in the "little things."
The title little things are big jesus is a bit of a linguistic puzzle, but it basically translates to the idea that the smallest acts are where the "divine" or the "ultimate" resides. It’s the secular version of "whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me." Except for Colon, it wasn't about a reward in heaven. It was about whether he could look at himself in the mirror the next morning.
We live in an age of performance. We post our "good deeds" on social media for likes. We want the credit without the risk. Colon reminds us that the most important deeds are the ones that happen in the dark, on a cold subway platform, when no one is watching and there is everything to lose.
He didn't help the woman that night. He failed. And by being honest about that failure, he gave us something much more valuable than a success story. He gave us a map of the human heart in conflict with itself.
To live out the spirit of his work, we have to stop waiting for the "big" moments to prove who we are. We have to realize that there are no "little" things. There is only the choice to be present, to be helpful, and to be brave in the face of our own prejudices.
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The next time you're out and you see a small way to make someone's life easier—hold the door, carry the bag, give the directions—do it. Don't think. Don't analyze the demographics. Don't worry about the optics. Just do the little thing. Because, as Colon learned the hard way, those little things are actually the biggest things we will ever do.