I know most Harlemites are considerate, thoughtful people, but whatever we consider ourselves hits the third rail when we are on the subway, jockeying for that seat, positioning for that personal space we are going to claim for the ride home. I must admit, we often travel the subway with our ipods on, defenses up, and game face blaring. I am sure that the most centered yogi or Buddhist monk would get in touch with stress for a New York minute on the “A,” “4” or “2” train.
But there are moments in time that we can be a witness to that underground rainbow; when the subway illuminates with a random act of kindness, a shared thought with the person sitting beside you, or a group laugh. Those times are when we live in the moment and just appreciate the wonder of goodness. Yes, that really happens in the most stressful city in America. (Any “strap hanger” knew that before CNN made it breaking news.)
I would like to share a “for instance” with you. One day, riding from Brooklyn to 135th Street, I had my trusted journal and Waterman fountain pen out, writing what was on my mind that pre-rush hour evening. (I’ll admit) it was mostly babble, opinion and pontification, until a young man came on the train….then I felt a poem coming on….
Tall dark and handsome, a young brother came on the “2” train looking mighty stressed, he became a brother from another planet; bringing in the train with him a “vibe” that could not be ignored. Like a painter sketching a moment, I began to observe and write:
Thugs
Twisting mouth
Sucking teeth
Long
Lean
Aloof
Glide
To seat.
Shifting weight
Like sediment
Claiming turf.
Size 13
“just do its”
Sweeping across floor
Asserting dominion
Over sling back pumps
Florsheims.
Stainless steel eyes
Cutting through
Paper maché piñatas
If only there was
A tattered end
To grab
Pull
Watch the edges fray
Seams loosen
Fabric
Unfold
Unravel
Go beneath
In corporate pin-stripes
Hanging on bars;
Wrapped around poles
Mark of territory
With spray
Of hip hop
Homeboy
And bad attitude.
Tightly wound rage
Dressed in
Loosely wrapped package
Of gangsta couture
With Shar-pei [1] folds
From head-to-toe.
That mummified
Gangsterized
Chock full ‘o’ attitude
Go where
Momma still loves you
Sista still trusts you
Baby
Feels safe
In your arms.
Throughout my artistic channeling, I felt his eyes catching my glances as I wrote, looked up, and verbally sketched him. I also knew the brother had a right to even think I was either checking him out or doing some kind of recognizance on him, which would not mix too well with his “vibe.” When I was finished, before the stop at 110th Street, I had a portrait. After I drafted the poem, I quickly copied it, and as he made eye contact with me, passed the sheet of paper to him; something I had never done before. He looked at me, took it, opened the folds and began to read. Soon his game face transformed from a bothered brother, to a perplexed wrinkled forehead, to a sun shining Nubian smile. He folded the paper back and reached over to return the poem. At 125th Street, he moved toward the door, then turned and gave me an impish smile, showing just for that moment the satisfaction of being acknowledged. I recognized his “vibe,” I “felt” him
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