We're on a rock in Central Park and
Dear One's telling me about a subway encounter. A livid woman chased
her cheating boyfriend through inter-car doors on the Manhattan
bridge. There was the quiet consensus from all early morning
commuters aboard that comes when one person does something zany. Out
of nowhere, the livid woman started wailing on a bystander teenage
girl, calling her 'the other woman.' Dear One acted on a terrified
impulse, she rushed to the girl's aid, the livid woman was
restrained. The train stopped and caused a big delay. We're talking
about people's reactions. We're defining heroes.
Apparently, no men came to the girl's
aid while the woman was wailing on her. We think about this in the
constellation of gender politics. Maybe lady-lady crime doesn't seem
as dangerous to them, we think. But still.
A friend of ours weighs in, an older
white buddy: he thinks he might have been afraid to intercede because
of, he hates to say it, a kind of racial fear. The livid woman was
Latina and the girl was black. But the girl wasn't even connected to
the couple fighting, Dear One says. We decide this is a lame excuse
but a good limit to recognize in yourself, maybe. But still.
A guy on the subway, a skater-dude
type, groaned actively about the wait for the police. The girl seemed
fine. She wasn't hurt. He had to get to work. We decide he's a class
A dirtbag, after the fact.
We talk about times we've called the
police when passing homeless people who seem ill on the street. I've
done it twice, I say, and feel I am bragging a little. Both people
woke up before help arrived. It's better to be safe than sorry. I do
the breathing test, she says, I wait to see if they're okay. Or
sometimes if I'm on my way somewhere I'll check for them coming back,
if they're still there I'll do something.
We're still on the rock.
Dear One is still visibly shaken from
the subway encounter three days ago. She makes a face at the basin
below.
We get to talking about the future, how
the artists we know are beginning to separate like wheat and chaff.
Did you know so and so got a “real job.” We talk about
compromises and how difficult it all is, how stupidly hard to
schedule things and make rent, how for the time being we wouldn't
trade it in. We talk about why we do it, if it's so hard. I forget,
we were also talking about the annexation of Hawaii and some
disturbing nineteenth century imperialist political rhetoric. I think
everything you do, no matter what, you ought to be thinking of it as
a gift, she says. She says the people looking to be famous, or leave
a legacy or an imprint in a future disconnected to now, to another
person that's for the wrong reasons, that impulse. So there is a
right way and a wrong way, we dismally conclude. And some things are
hard, but often these things are quite clear.
Going home, make certain mistakes: pass
beggars, pout at suits, ignore questions. We've talked about the
political system, too. How you are manipulated. How it is an engine.
How the complicated part comes in when
do-you-vote-for-Jill-Stein-and-sleep-tight or understand the pulse of
the movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,
sigh and pray in your little booth voting for Obama, deciding to
believe in something, moving the world around in 'bigger pictures'
when you yourself are oh-so-small. And give yourself points for
voting, because that's much of it. /making the eye contact/ defending
the victim, that's much of it.
It isn't enough,
though. You, I, we must live with that.
