I just had a hard cry.
I.
I am having a hard cry.
So many unanswered questions, thoughts and feelings are in the process of colonizing parts of me. Those same parts of which I was convinced were immuned to these feelings.
It was as if I had seen a ghost from the past who had been haunting and pinching me through the decades of my life.
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I walked into the 135th street subway station in Harlem and after passing through the turnstiles, the short platform begged anyone with depression issues to forget its length and give it a few more steps. I noticed that I had two more minutes before the 2 train makes it’s entrance as the remnants of the passengers from the previous train changed the scene.
Out of the corner of my left eye the two main characters crept in. Their’s was a show stealing moment. In actuality, the theft seemed futile as there were really no other competitors. Everyone’s eyes were on this Fred and Ginger spectacle. You were drawn to the ambiguity of their essence. As a audience you felt uncomfortable because although something about them looked nostalgically familiar, their covert reality made you feel ashamed of anything expensive you have rightfully enjoyed or felt you merited.
They.
They were a short black older couple. I guessed their ages were somewhere in early 70’s. The two made me think of the grandparents I never got to meet. One pair of my grandparents probably looked like them, short, quirky, noticeably funny and evil at times. At least that is how I imagined them to be. I was taken into that place where you separately chuckled with both grandparents on different levels and neither they nor you were bothered by that.
THEY seemed extremely comfortable with each other. A comfort that could be easily defeated by a harsh and cruel remark which could ruin the rest of anyone’s day. They were a living dichotomy. Even their arguments were laced with love and torture.
Their openness and ability to air their dirty laundry seemed somehow too exposed for my taste. You can tell that their ugly ‘laissez faire’ was not a chosen path. You got the impression that it was inherited. All of these impressions ensued as they were gathering their bags and whatnot while exiting the 3 train. Their banter, could pass for cruelty to anyone at first glance but their raison d’etre was to take you back to that comfortable place watching your grandparents squabble and joke with them. They knew how to keep each other in check. I thought immediately of that fun annoyance that people who had been together for a long time like to do irregardless of whether they were alone or with friends. An annoyance you realized was only part of the play. An argument that you and everyone knew was of no importance but necessary.
Again I thought to myself: ‘what were my grandparents like?’
Their squabble was resolved by the time they reached the complimentary benches which at times serve as a bed to some, a meeting place to others but were now a place to gather your bearings. They were checking on their belongings making sure they left the subway with what they came in it with.
The time it took for me to wait for the next train was exactly the time they needed to let me know that they are still my elders. They seemed a proud couple. Proud of something that I was having a hard time understanding. You could tell that they love and support each other. Like Romeo and Juliet, one would commit suicide if the other one were to die.
For some reason, things began to get muddy as I began to see myself in both characters. I am sure that they didn’t see themselves in this situation at this point in their lives. I saw courage in them as they were dealing with what they didn’t have. I saw beauty in their gait and pride in their chins. They transitioned from my potential grandparents to two homeless people without scene or costume change.
Stranger thoughts began to stream into my mind like a sushi assembly line.
I pictured an incredible number of people of color who at the time of the depression could have been born as slaves or were related to former slaves. Imagine if things were so bad for the conventional Caucasian person, how bad it was for a person of color. I don’t ever remember seeing much written or anything chronicling the lives of those who were not Caucasian during that time. On that note, there is very little written about the great sacrifices forced on the slaves to build most of this country but as per usual, I have seen my share of pictures, literature about even the immigrant’s contribution to building industrial America. I only mention this because it is no wonder I am watching this couple making do with their homelessness, at times they remind me of what is normal. Today in 2023 the bulk of the homeless population are African Americans. Not even the efforts of their ancestors is recognized. Just for that alone I shouldn’t have to stand there and look at this. It is unfortunate that we keep hiding behind our shame of who we were and who we are. It is incredible to think that the bulk of us are still living the lives of slaves. We survived though and here we are Thankful that we did.
Or are we?
Back to George and Weezie:
This is when the show truly begins because these two knew that they had an audience although like myself, everyone was trying not to look. I don’t know, there was something about the way he threw his scarf around his neck. It had more regality than any of the English royals could muster.
I smiled inside at that bit of choreography thinking he must have rehearsed a million times. …and for no reason I saw hell. I saw the dark deep tunnels of the subway system where the ‘Mole People’ have created an alternate reality so far from ours. A reality where the healing sun is never there to cast the rays of vitamin D nor the moon to cast its ominous memory of all things dark deep and avoided. I imagine a reality where the human nose is put to the test of identifying odors. A reality where fresh air is but a remnant of the quick passing trains.
…and then they shimmied.
I watched them as they shimmied out of the station with their worn tap shoes and a lingering waft of foulness.
I saw how they never looked down.
As I watched the end of their exit I started crying thinking that could be anyone of us but it is the poorest who usually go first. Inside I became a socialist.
Again, my mind strayed to a time I most probably witnessed in my previous life. I saw the slaves kneeling at the shore chained and also smelly. I saw them hopeless and helpless as their captors bargained them off straight out of the ship.
[Unfortunately I cannot find the credits to these old paintings. I am sorry. The first painting I remember seeing months ago and the second has nothing to do with this story but when I saw it in my research, it left a great impression on me].
I saw the respect that is owed to our elders and those who have paved the way for so many of us.
I started to feel uneasy because I realized how easy it was for us to stand and watch these two experienced human beings and shrug it off. As if our lives were more important. Or as if we were too afraid to actually look at our shame. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t have their experiences.
I saw the futility of my life. The silly way I hold on to a picture or a memory when one day it can totally disappear and the importance of what I held dear becomes wind gusts which I no longer identify with it.
That is when I saw my face in the man’s face.
Who knows how things will end. Who knows what twists and curves I might encounter.
Who knows if the universe is not sending me a message by showing me these two.
I felt like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry felt when he left europe for the new world because he was disgusted by the inhumanity of the Second World War. What an irony! He came to the place that openly committed crimes of genocide in the past and covertly continues the act whilst justifying their actions with well crafted, lame and unjust laws.
As I watched the aged and negro Fred and Ginger couple make their grand exit. I noticed a young man standing by the wings of the turnstiles. He seemed to me in his early 20s. He was also agape and teary eyed. We looked at each other for a long time and then did what we as a society always do. Disassociate and move on.
after finishing my entry I decided to research a little this idea of not being alone while homeless and there are quite a few lovely and heart warming stories which pertain to this idea. It is wonderful to know that even though reality has been harsh to some of these people. Love keeps them going. I don’t know, it sounds gauche but there is something so romantic about having the world as your backyard and someone to share it with. Here is a sweet article from the Guardian about said subject.
Love is for everyone who is open to it.
https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/nov/04/homeless-couples-tell-their-love-stories
JE7 