That's Not Coal in that Stocking
It's been a helluva week. I, like many others, have been riding an emotional roller coaster of highs and lows as I struggle to make sense of the Sandy Hook shootings, seek out the joys and gifts that the holidays bring, and meet the ordinary, day-to-day challenges typical to a working mid-western Mom---deadlines, bills, surly teen-aged children, seasonal affective disorder, and no time for exercise.
While it sounds odd, my rides on the CTA Green Line usually have a calming effect at the beginning and end of each day. However, lately, I find myself packed between fellow passengers like a sardine in a can due to the newly designed passenger cars. In this way, I am unable to get truly comfortable reading a book, and the possibility of starting a conversation with my seat-mate is hindered by our proximity to each other. (The other day my cell phone died and I turned to the guy next to me to ask if he could give my husband a call---he was seriously freaked out by my invasion of his personal space, my nose being about 2" from his).
So, I experienced a strange blend of empathy and amusement when my friend sent me this news story yesterday. Empathy for the poor passenger who most likely had nowhere to run or hide as the shit literally hit her commuter fan and amusement for the creativity that this particular individual brought to his crime:
Oak Park police are seeking the public's help in
finding a man who reportedly struck a woman with a feces-filled sock as
she rode a Blue Line train last Wednesday evening, Dec. 12.
The
eastbound train was near Austin Boulevard at about 4:50 p.m., according
to a police statement. The 21-year-old victim told police the suspect
hit her with the object as they both left the el car at the Austin
Boulevard stop. He then fled up the exit ramp and north on Austin.
Oak
Park police released photos from CTA security cameras and would welcome
the help of citizens in identifying the suspect. The police phone is
708-386-3800. Tips may be left anonymously at 708-434-1636.
Citizen of the World
If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world.
-Francis Bacon
I have become a creature of routine, directed mainly by my teenager's morning rituals and bus schedule. Almost every day I take the 28 minute ride on the green line from Ridgeland to the Adams Street station. Once I hit the pavement below, I am caught up in the energy of the street. I peer into the school where they train young barbers, wave hello to the shopkeepers at Central Camera (one of the oldest retail establishments in the city), and read the colorful displays on the health food store's window---the ad for a nutritional supplement to ease joint pain has been capturing my attention these days).
Before I even reach the corner I can hear the bellow of the vendor on the the corner of Jackson and Wabash. His voice is a deep baritone and cuts through the din of the el train and rises above street traffic. He is hawking "Sun Times!" "Get Your SUN TIMES." As I 'round the corner, he comes into view. We say good morning as I pass, and he wishes me a blessed day. And in my next few steps, my mind races with wonder and curiosity. How old is this man? Why did he recently move from the SW corner, where he's been stationed for the last several years, to the NW corner, where I greet him every morning? Does he have a family? Grandkids? And what about the newspaper biz? Surely he can't be selling too many of these soon-to-be-extinct daily dispatches? He is certain to go the way of the printing press operators and bank tellers. And then, I reach the revolving door, and it whisks me into my 9-5 tower, where I queue up with the crowds at the elevator and I move on.
Late last week I stepped off the tracks and descended the stairs, weaving through the barbers on their smoke break. I turned the corner to find it vacant and empty. My citizen of the world was nowhere to be found.
O Happy Day!
My morning started off badly. My usual morning exchange with Mike, the friendly station manager, was clipped short, as I tried to get quickly through the turnstile without letting on that I just had a dust-up with a loved-one. I sucked in my tears and straightened my shoulders as I climbed the stairs to the el platform. Just as my foot hit the boards, the loop-bound train breezed in and I hopped into the last car. Fortunately I found a seat at the very back near the window and attempted to fade into the worn-out upholstery, sunflower-shelled floor and grimy texture of my daily commute.
And then I woke up. I could either take the daily bait and go into the 25-minute coma that my daily ride offers or inspire myself out of the fog and into a state of curiosity and wonder. But how? And then I remembered that my fully-charged I-POD shuffle was at the bottom of my backpack. I fished it out and clicked my way past Madonna's "Express Yourself," Steve Miller Band's "Jet Airliner," and Emmy Lou Harris and Gram Parsons' "Love Hurts" in search of my morning musical elixir...the sure thing, the remedy, the antidote to the tragedy of the suburban commuter commons, Ladysmith Black Mambazo (LBM) and gospel singer Betty Griffin singing, " O Happy Day!" My day began to turn around. My CTA mojo was coming back.
As LBM and the gospel choirs' soothing harmonies blended with Betty's raspy, soul-filled, God-lovin' voice I got inspired. I took in the mixed bag of professionals, students, service-workers, health-care aides, welfare mothers, uniformed elementary kids. Black, white, Latino, suburban, inner-city, rich, poor, educated, uneducated. The list goes on. I imagined what was playing on the I-POD of the middle-aged woman tapping her fingers on her thighs. My eyes wandered to the 20-something wearing the "Tattooed Lady" t-shirt. Her hair was yellow and pink, her skin inked with two skull-headed serpents resting above each breast on her collar bone. I enjoyed the pimped out clothing of the man across from me---a studded jacket, large gaudy belt buckle, pointy shoes, Kanye West shutter shades and bauble-y rings and jewelry. The man in front of me snoozed behind his New York Times.
Some days I keep my eye on the occasional preacher, panhandler, or street urchin. Sometimes I listen to the eery silence, although the car is packed from end-to-end. And still, other days, I find myself turning to the stranger next to me and saying "good morning" or asking, "how was your day?"
Many times my simple greeting elicits a conversation that lasts the entire ride. I've heard stories from factory workers, corporate transplants, greying retirees and toothless men. Many of these stories remind me that God exists, life is precious, and that a life well-lived might best be found in our connection to each other.
Thanks to my Facebook Friends who have encouraged me to go further. To write more. To capture the images. To share the journey and the stories alongs the way.
