Clad in businesswoman attire and
sneakers, my heels remain tucked away in my messenger bag, situated near the
umbrella, trail mix, Nalgene, and iPad.
I am a commuter.
Once a phenomenon as foreign to me as parallel
parking, [see post dated May 3rd]
I have grown to admire the public transportation facet of my east coast way of
life. While some benefits are monetary, an element that most commuters take for
granted is the chance to engage with [and oftentimes literally bump into] those
around you. During my Los Angelena life, the world of human interaction was
stunted by metal behemoths linearly trapped on the 405. Any “bumping into” that
occurs here is expensive, if not fatal, and altogether an unenjoyable experience.
On the T, however, [or Train to you
non-Boston residents] a morning trek into the city becomes a series of
vignettes that even the most cynical of early-risers could appreciate:
Thursday morning, I ventured
underground to find an elderly guitar player whose voice [note for note and
tone for tone] is indistinguishable from Steve Perry’s [lead singer of
Journey]. At first I was hit with a mixture of surprise and intrigue, but
before my train had arrived, these emotions shifted to heart-wrenching
disappointment that this man wasn’t a
San Francisco native in the early 1970’s when Journey ached for its front man. Who dictates that his fate was
meant for the morning commuters’ enjoyment and not for sold-out arenas? I suppose destiny can be categorized as a future post of its own.
Next up, a tweenager with impeccable
posture, high-bun, pale pink tights, loose shorts and wrap-around sweater
seemed unforgivably late for her Center
Stage 3 audition, as her frantic,
doting and less well-groomed mother tried to follow her daughter’s long,
elegant strides.
This people-watching Elysium is not
simply marked by the ability to catch glimpses into the lives of others, it
forces complete strangers to occupy the same space; a microcosm of the exterior
world. Amid this congested study in human behavior, every individual’s
patience, personal spatial relations, and varying levels of courtesy are tested
for the duration of the journey. Class systems and racial homogeneity differ
from stop to stop; a frequent commuter may recognize what part of town rests
above by taking note of those entering or exiting the train car.
One easily concluded notion is that
while on the train, every commuter awaits the start of his/her day’s activities. The commute is the means by
which the above ground day can begin. But if we all remain on auto-pilot
awaiting our final stop, we miss the fact that life and activity are
happening around us.
The ballerina’s mother may not have had
time to fix her own hair or check her own appearance in the mirror, but she did
not forget a single eight-count of her daughter’s choreography which they
recited together repeatedly until their stop arrived. While I will never know
what monumental performance awaited her or how well she fared, I pray [as a
daughter who has spent years and thousands of miles away from her mother] that
this young woman remembers the most poignant moment of her day occurred as her
selfless recitation partner put the needs and dreams of her daughter before her
own. It is not the destination that matters most, kid, it is the commute. And
if you are very, very lucky, you will get to disembark the train with the same
loving person who frantically pushed others aside for you to make it there on
time.
~carter
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