Life is a Dance
By Summer Bacon
We're back from New York City! Oh what a time we had playing tourist! The Statue of Liberty looks more beautiful than she did when I visited in 1973, and Greenwich Village is once again alive and hopping with people, shops, restaurants and an abundance of tatoo parlors.
There was the expected hustle and bustle of the city, and the hours of train and subway rides to get from point A to point B. What a dance it was! Leaping gracefully onto the train platform, high stepping across the two to four inch gap between the train and the platform, doing the boot scoot shuffle as we joined the dozens of other passengers on the trains, and the slow dancing sway as we rocked with the motion of the trains while gripping the metal bar overhead. There were a few Barishnokov wannabes who made the treacherous last minute ballet leap into the train car as the doors were closing, sometimes getting caught in between them like the wonderfully flamboyant man who roared at the conductor, "Open the damn doors!" then turned to all of us in the car with a melodic and gentle, "Sorry about my language babies" as he swished his way to a seat.
The rhythmic clatter of the subway accompanied us "Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk." I found myself butt to butt with a total stranger for about twenty minutes, with no room to back away. Arm's length is simply not possible on a NYC subway train.
The crowd of passengers on the train undulates in a kind of modern folk dance, reminiscent of my days of folk dancing at the Jewish Community Center in Granada Hills, California. The doors of the train car open, people pour out, others pour in like the waves crashing and receding on the Jersey shore. Sometimes there is an ebe tide where more people get off the train than get on, and then there is a refreshing, relaxing hush that comes over the passengers. There might be a little sigh here, a little moan of relief there as those who have stood for hours finally get a short respite in a vacant seat.
The silence is broken by a young man and his five year old son trying to make a living. Hip hop dance music fills the air, and with the flair of an old time Circus Master an announcement is made by the young man, "Please turn your attention to the back of the car, ladies and gentlemen!" and he announces his son who jumps, turns, spins, and waves rubbery arms in an impressive display of break dancing. A few grateful souls toss coins into the outstretched cup, thankful for this break in the monotony of the train ride. "Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk."
A lesson in "unity within the diversity" follows. A tall African-American man enters the bus, and he reeks of alcohol. He calls to his invisible friend Jake to follow him, and of course he ends up standing right in front of Bobbi and me. He argues loudly with Jake, threatening to hit him if he doesn't shut up. He pulls out a tiny bottle of scotch and guzzles it down, holding the empty bottle to the light to make sure that every drop has been drained from it. Then he begins a grand dissertation, first quoting Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech verbatim. He then begins to talk about scripture, stating loudly, "I am well versed in the scripture, and it is the way of the Lord that all of mankind shall be created equal. Is it my color that matters? No! It is not the color of my skin, it is the color of my heart! What if all people of all races looked exactly the same? They would still have their own lives, their own beliefs, their own ways of living. The world is meant to be diverse, and yet unified by love! By the Glory of God!"
Bobbi and I were nearly moved to tears. Then the train stopped at 42nd street and he called to Jake, "C'mon Jake! We gotta get moving! Hurry!" and dashed out the doors to who knows where.
The quiet on the train doesn't last long, and eventually the car fills beyond capacity once again, with people leaning on doors that state boldly, "Do Not Lean On Doors" and dashing between train cars while the train is moving to find more room elsewhere. A young girl, about sixteen maybe seventeen years old, joins us with her friends, and pushes a baby carriage with a gorgeous sleeping girl in it. The young girl is loud and obnoxious, but then I realize that she is crying out for help. Not literally crying, "Help!" but simply sharing too much information in a public platform about her upcoming drug deals, the guns she owns and her willingness to use them, and how she pushed her diamond ring into the skin of her former boyfriend who was stalking her. She talks loudly because inside she is afraid and alone. She doesn't want the world to see her vulnerability. I can feel it, and it is all I can do to refrain from pulling her into my arms and giving her the hug that she probably has never received from her own mother. I want to stroke her hair, let her cry, and tell her that everything is going to be alright. In the midst of her aggressive display of toughness in front of her friends, her voice drops slightly and she sadly admits, "I wish I could have stayed in school."
I wish I could tell you that we also heard lots of uplifting stories on the train, and saw people who seemed joyful and settled in their lives, but frankly, we didn't. Only occasionally did we see the small random acts of kindness when a young man who looked like a thug held the train doors for a guy he didn't even know. Or, when the fifty-something disheveled passenger who looked like he would not hesitate to kill you for looking at him the wrong way turned out to have a wonderful toothless grin, a black eye, and pointed out his wife who he'd been married to for twenty-five years and loved deeply. She was sleeping on the seat across from him, and when they arrived at their stop he gently woke her up, held her arm and shuffled out of the train with a grin and a glance back at us. What a wonderful spirit.
So many people in this dance of life. I am grateful that we had the chance to ride the trains in NYC. I was surprised at the level of intimacy, respect and trust between passengers that it inspires. No one reprimanded the drunkard for taking his drink, or the young girl for her wayward stories. No one commented on the delightful flamboyant man who cursed the conductor, other than to smile and feel gratitude that he had the courage to voice the very thing that they had wanted to say for a long time. Though no one tended to talk much stranger to stranger, there was a lot of unspoken communication through a gentle smile, or a nod here and there.
We move about the earth, gathering together in what seems to be haphazard ways, be it at the grocery story, on a train, or in a museum. But if you listen and look about, there is so much to be learned from every moment. Life is a dance, and God is the conductor. When the dance is done, we'll all get off at the same station at the end of the line.
We're back from New York City! Oh what a time we had playing tourist! The Statue of Liberty looks more beautiful than she did when I visited in 1973, and Greenwich Village is once again alive and hopping with people, shops, restaurants and an abundance of tatoo parlors.
There was the expected hustle and bustle of the city, and the hours of train and subway rides to get from point A to point B. What a dance it was! Leaping gracefully onto the train platform, high stepping across the two to four inch gap between the train and the platform, doing the boot scoot shuffle as we joined the dozens of other passengers on the trains, and the slow dancing sway as we rocked with the motion of the trains while gripping the metal bar overhead. There were a few Barishnokov wannabes who made the treacherous last minute ballet leap into the train car as the doors were closing, sometimes getting caught in between them like the wonderfully flamboyant man who roared at the conductor, "Open the damn doors!" then turned to all of us in the car with a melodic and gentle, "Sorry about my language babies" as he swished his way to a seat.
The rhythmic clatter of the subway accompanied us "Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk." I found myself butt to butt with a total stranger for about twenty minutes, with no room to back away. Arm's length is simply not possible on a NYC subway train.
The crowd of passengers on the train undulates in a kind of modern folk dance, reminiscent of my days of folk dancing at the Jewish Community Center in Granada Hills, California. The doors of the train car open, people pour out, others pour in like the waves crashing and receding on the Jersey shore. Sometimes there is an ebe tide where more people get off the train than get on, and then there is a refreshing, relaxing hush that comes over the passengers. There might be a little sigh here, a little moan of relief there as those who have stood for hours finally get a short respite in a vacant seat.
The silence is broken by a young man and his five year old son trying to make a living. Hip hop dance music fills the air, and with the flair of an old time Circus Master an announcement is made by the young man, "Please turn your attention to the back of the car, ladies and gentlemen!" and he announces his son who jumps, turns, spins, and waves rubbery arms in an impressive display of break dancing. A few grateful souls toss coins into the outstretched cup, thankful for this break in the monotony of the train ride. "Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk."
A lesson in "unity within the diversity" follows. A tall African-American man enters the bus, and he reeks of alcohol. He calls to his invisible friend Jake to follow him, and of course he ends up standing right in front of Bobbi and me. He argues loudly with Jake, threatening to hit him if he doesn't shut up. He pulls out a tiny bottle of scotch and guzzles it down, holding the empty bottle to the light to make sure that every drop has been drained from it. Then he begins a grand dissertation, first quoting Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech verbatim. He then begins to talk about scripture, stating loudly, "I am well versed in the scripture, and it is the way of the Lord that all of mankind shall be created equal. Is it my color that matters? No! It is not the color of my skin, it is the color of my heart! What if all people of all races looked exactly the same? They would still have their own lives, their own beliefs, their own ways of living. The world is meant to be diverse, and yet unified by love! By the Glory of God!"
Bobbi and I were nearly moved to tears. Then the train stopped at 42nd street and he called to Jake, "C'mon Jake! We gotta get moving! Hurry!" and dashed out the doors to who knows where.
The quiet on the train doesn't last long, and eventually the car fills beyond capacity once again, with people leaning on doors that state boldly, "Do Not Lean On Doors" and dashing between train cars while the train is moving to find more room elsewhere. A young girl, about sixteen maybe seventeen years old, joins us with her friends, and pushes a baby carriage with a gorgeous sleeping girl in it. The young girl is loud and obnoxious, but then I realize that she is crying out for help. Not literally crying, "Help!" but simply sharing too much information in a public platform about her upcoming drug deals, the guns she owns and her willingness to use them, and how she pushed her diamond ring into the skin of her former boyfriend who was stalking her. She talks loudly because inside she is afraid and alone. She doesn't want the world to see her vulnerability. I can feel it, and it is all I can do to refrain from pulling her into my arms and giving her the hug that she probably has never received from her own mother. I want to stroke her hair, let her cry, and tell her that everything is going to be alright. In the midst of her aggressive display of toughness in front of her friends, her voice drops slightly and she sadly admits, "I wish I could have stayed in school."
I wish I could tell you that we also heard lots of uplifting stories on the train, and saw people who seemed joyful and settled in their lives, but frankly, we didn't. Only occasionally did we see the small random acts of kindness when a young man who looked like a thug held the train doors for a guy he didn't even know. Or, when the fifty-something disheveled passenger who looked like he would not hesitate to kill you for looking at him the wrong way turned out to have a wonderful toothless grin, a black eye, and pointed out his wife who he'd been married to for twenty-five years and loved deeply. She was sleeping on the seat across from him, and when they arrived at their stop he gently woke her up, held her arm and shuffled out of the train with a grin and a glance back at us. What a wonderful spirit.
So many people in this dance of life. I am grateful that we had the chance to ride the trains in NYC. I was surprised at the level of intimacy, respect and trust between passengers that it inspires. No one reprimanded the drunkard for taking his drink, or the young girl for her wayward stories. No one commented on the delightful flamboyant man who cursed the conductor, other than to smile and feel gratitude that he had the courage to voice the very thing that they had wanted to say for a long time. Though no one tended to talk much stranger to stranger, there was a lot of unspoken communication through a gentle smile, or a nod here and there.
We move about the earth, gathering together in what seems to be haphazard ways, be it at the grocery story, on a train, or in a museum. But if you listen and look about, there is so much to be learned from every moment. Life is a dance, and God is the conductor. When the dance is done, we'll all get off at the same station at the end of the line.