The
train stops and, just for a moment, I am sitting parallel to him
Me
in the train, sheltered by the steel walls,
him
in the station, vulnerable and in the midst.
He
is playing an instrument,
vigorously,
desperately,
and
suddenly, I see from his perspective.
People
rush by, averting their eyes, head down, briefcases clutched.
We’ve
seen this before. It is familiar.
Ignore the needy so you’re not responsible.
But
today I’m with him on the receiving end.
Trains
come, trains go.
People
come, people go.
It
is colors and noise and movement and somehow he seems so separate. Fixed. Not a part of the ‘real world.’ Things happen around him, not with him.
His
necessity is their inconvenience.
He
gives his talent freely to an unwilling audience, a resisting audience.
Yet
he stays, plays, waits.
The
doors close and the train speeds away, bringing me closer to my important
appointment or meeting or deadline.
And
I can forget about him. We can all
forget about him and hide behind deadlines and luxury and noise.
And
not just him, but all of them
The
man who beats his cup for change next to the grocery store
The
boys who play buckets like drums in the subway tunnel
The
man with the long hair who wanders the same block downtown over and over again
The
woman who sits under the awning covered in blankets
The
war veteran with the cardboard sign
The
man who tries to make conversation with everyone in sight
The
unemployed man who walks the trains not to ask for money, but to pass out his
resume
The
boys who stand on the corner during the day because school has failed them
The
senior citizens who stay in their homes all day because they don’t have the bus
fare
The
eager students who don’t know that 60% of their classmates will not graduate
The
refugees who spend their lives waiting for something better than stick tents
The
teens who leave their families and think it is better for them across the
border
The
children whose parents have been killed or lost
The
villagers who see more deaths than births since disease has taken over
The
victims of the latest natural disaster
The
urban slave workers who have made my shirt
That
is what character is, life is.
Deciding what you notice.
