There are days when you forget you’re a Formerly, and then–wham!–out of nowhere, someone breakdances into your life to remind you.
I was on the northbound B train this evening, on my way from work to meet up with my husband, and three little kids with a tagged-up boom box got on at 34th Street. They were wearing track pants and do-rags and were preternaturally nonchalant for 8 or 10-year-olds. Everyone in the car knew what was coming: a show for which we were the captive audience, and we braced ourselves for something excellent or awful (New York City subway performances are rarely middling.) The train was crowded, but the kids confidently staked out a space in the car and propped their box against a pole.
Now, I’ve been riding the subway since I was an infant, and have  seen buskers of all stripes pass the hat. South American pan flautists, doo-wop trios, saxophone players who claim to be from outer space, and elderly Chinese violinists who have clearly been classically trained. My reaction to them is predictable: If I’m in a good mood and the music is soothing or fun, I enjoy it and then reach into my handbag for some money. If, on the other hand, I have a headache and it’s that one-man band guy with the synthesizer and the bass drum and the harmonica wired to his army cap, I sit and seethe and wish I were somewhere else. Knowing that every single stranger in that subway car feels exactly as you do is one of those priceless New York moments of community that makes having to listen to bastardized Sinatra during rush hour totally worth it.
Sheila E. shot out into the crowd–“She wants to lead/the glamorous life…Without love, it ain’t much.” Soon the third graders were head spinning, back-flipping, armchairing (can that be used as a verb?), helicoptering, nutcrackering, doing all kinds of crazy moves, somehow without kicking other passengers or swinging their heads into the poles.
It was impressive. I was terrified for them. It was all I could do to not grab the boys, force them into their seats, shut off the music and lecture them on the dangers of putting all their weight on their spinal cord and rotating like a power drill. “You want to be paralyzed for the rest of your lives?” I thought, practically out loud. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THAT WOULD DO TO YOUR MOTHER?” Every one of my mommy hormones was surging, and these weren’t even my children!
(I also felt a wave of misplaced pride in them for engaging in such a wholesome activity to earn money; breakdancing on the subway struck me as the modern urban parallel to the suburban paper route. Do they even have paper routes anymore?)
But mostly I felt fear for their safety, and when I stuck a bill into the ski cap one of them brought around, I realized I was giving them money mostly out of relief that they had stopped. At least no one needed CPR on my watch.
I thought back to when I danced to that Sheila E. song at a frat party in college the year after it came out, feeling quite glamorous myself, and, yes, hot. That was then.
Now I’m somebody’s mother. Two people’s, in fact. I’ve heard that having children awakens a protective instinct, but until the breakdancers, I didn’t realize that that instinct applied to everyone’s children! Suddenly I felt ancient, not in the chronological sense, but like an Earth mama; in having children myself, in caring as much as I did, I had become everybody’s mother.
When, exactly, did that happen and will it last forever? I hope not. It’s very stressful. And it is absolutely not the Glamorous Life Sheila E. is probably no longer living either.
Photo by: Ralph Unden, CC Licensed
February 3, 2009 at 11:05 pm
this is hysterical. perfect. kudos.
p.s. i’ve long loved crazy legs!
February 4, 2009 at 9:20 am
For reference, yes, there are still suburban paper routes. No, they are not run by kids. Ok, sometimes a kid may help out once or twice, but they’re all run by Dads or couples who drive cars. Sometimes one drives and the other hands out papers. What is happening to this world?
February 4, 2009 at 1:30 pm
I don’t even mind the terrible singers, they establish a reference point for the better ones. …That’s an amazing observation about Motherhood… as a father, when I see kids that young on the train, I’m just glad they’re not MY kids, and wonder if their parents know or even care what those kids are up to.
February 4, 2009 at 2:44 pm
I have a lot of respect for these kids. They are creative, disciplined, brave and entrepreneurial. If I were their parent I would be proud. But like Stephanie, scared they would break their necks.
February 4, 2009 at 3:10 pm
I *loved* the sax player from outer space. He had that bent and mangled horn with huge gaping holes torn throughout… The horn would no longer sustain a proper note, but he could unleash these piercing, screeching caterwauling wails that caused serious aural anguish (no Sun Ra, he)… thus prompting one or two dollar-paymentsâ€â€made not out of largesse but sheer sonic self-preservation.
His appearances boasted all the squall of a John Zorn performance… only they were free and uptown!!!
I hope that he was finally able to purchase enough gold to rebuild his spaceship…
February 4, 2009 at 4:54 pm
Now THIS is what I miss living in L.A. We don’t get this kind of forced group entertainment here. Unless you consider getting trapped at a red light at the corner where that crazy roller skating man wearing leotards hangs out to watch himself in shop windows. Maybe he is a Formerly as well. Although somehow I think he believes himself to be currently hot.
And I totally get that “mother to all” feeling these days. Definitely a change from my former self who found all children to be annoying!
Love your blog, Steph! You’re the best!
March 14, 2009 at 9:15 pm
I comment rarely on blogs but just wanted to stop and say Great Content.