Cracker with a Conscience

Rewind to Friday the 24th.  

I've just finished my usual 4 to midnight shift at TJ's.  My friend Greg and I take the train together, as we often do, down to Columbus Circle.  We transfer to the uptown A, a ride which, at midnight on a Friday, can mean just about anything.  I'm usually prepared for good conversation at the least--and some guy puking in the corner, if it's one of those nights.  You never know.

The A is crowded with our New York neighbors, some of them tired after a long night of work, others just gearing up for a night on the town.  Greg and I stand in the center of our car and hold the pole.  I, at least, covet the happy feet of my fellow travelers with seats.  Seven hours of standing, walking, and hauling really do a number on this body, even at twenty-four.

Greg and I chat about music and movies and the upcoming Oscars, our usual post-work banter exalting the superior geekdom of independent films and music, namely New York's bevy of stellar singer-songwriters who scratch out a start playing in subways.

Sitting below me is a scraggly middle-aged man talking gibberish and invading the personal space of the people around him.  He's more than drunk.  This guy has to be strung-out on crack.  For a moment, he's creating a minor scene.  I get ready to step behind Greg if he gets too close because I have my suspicions about this less-than-coherent guy groping me, either by accident or on purpose.  Here we go.  But the man retreats into his own world again, simply mumbling from his seat.  All is well--or well enough, at least--on the A train.

And then I hear it: "Don't be gay!" 

What?  I try to register what I just heard.  That wasn't an off-handed exclamation; that was a verbal attack.  To my left, two clean-cut men are sitting together and talking.  They blink.  Sitting down the car and facing them is the man who just announced his bigotry for everyone with ears to hear.  

With Greg standing in front of me, the man is out of my line of sight.  White-knuckling the pole, I swing out past Greg's shoulder and eye the man.  "Excuse me? I think you need to watch what you say."  I spit each word at him, slow and clear, not to be mistaken.  

He laughs.  Buttoned-up and seemingly sober, he is not at all what I expected: a loud-mouthed punk kid who's had a few too many.  This man is lucid, self-satisfied, and cocky as hell.  He's got a girl on his arm and a posse of equally deluded friends guffawing right along with him.  Disgusted, I swing back to my spot in the center of the car, hoping it was enough to shut him up.  It's not.  

"Homos!"  He's not stopping.  I can't think about what's going to come out of his mouth next.  I check in with the couple to my left.  They smile at me.  I'd smile back, but I'm too furious to put on a bright face, even for them.  

The bully keeps throwing his punches, taunting the couple and congratulating himself on his remarkable wit and wisdom.  He's so smug I could puke.  Again, I swing out past Greg and stare the man down.  "Hey! You need to keep your opinions and your comments to yourself.  Some of my best friends are gay, so you can just shove it."  The last time I used that phrase, I was six, and I thought it meant "shut up"--or something equally benign.  Not so after a strong reprimand from Mom.  But I know even Mom would cheer me on tonight.  

But what about everyone else?  I'm in too much of a blind rage to take in much else on the train.  Are people reacting?  Doesn't anybody else have a shred of sympathy?  Or a conscience?  Not one other person speaks up.  

I shake out the fist I've been making and quip sarcastically, "Remind me, Greg, what century are we in? Is this  really 2012?" 

"It's like being back in the schoolyard," one of the couple adds.    

"No," Greg interjects, "I think we've devolved to the paleolithic era."

No one can argue that point.  We stand in silence.  The bully sees his window of opportunity and segues from the gay couple to me.  "Polly wanna cracker?"  He cackles and squawks, imitating a parrot.  It takes a minute for me to register what he means.  "Hey, little cracker.  Polly wanna cracker?  Huh?  Polly wanna cracker?"  

Cracker.  Because I'm white.  

I look to Greg, who's steady and understanding.  "Don't let them get to you."  But I can't really help it.  I stare at my shoes, biting my lip and still white-knuckling the pole.  

One of the men I spoke up for reassures me, "You can't let him win.  Just let it go.  You know you're the bigger person, anyway."  

It's not enough to stamp out the fire in my belly.  It literally burns, and I'm so furious I'm shaking all over.  Hot, angry tears leak out the corners of my eyes as I try to keep it together.  

"Harlem-bound A train!" shouts the bully.  "Last stop 116th street!"  He keeps it up for a few more blocks, getting louder and more indignant by the minute.  "Cracker's on the wrong train!  Harlem-bound A train.  Last stop 125th street!  Get off the train, cracker!"  

"That's right!" I say, mostly to myself.  "This cracker's going home to Harlem.  And I'm not getting off until 135th!  Snow bunny in Harlem, God forbid!"  I'm at my wit's end. 

But the guy hasn't run out of ammo yet.  "You're on the wrong train, little cracker!  Get off at the next stop and take the train downtown.  And don't forget to take those two with you," he continues, indicating the gay couple.  "Make sure they get off at West 4th."  Greenwich Village.  Of course.

I can't believe it. The guy just won't shut up.

He keeps up his act, throwing the three of us around, and making a few stray comments about others on the train, including the crack junkie.

Greg checks in with me, offering to walk me off the train back to my apartment.  "No, thanks.  I should be fine.  As longs as those fools don't follow me off the train."  

Once we hit 135th, I steal a glance behind Greg to make sure they're all still sitting.  "Now's your break," he tells me, and I dart off the train without looking back. 


::::::::::::

My friends have been so supportive in their responses to what went on that night.  But much as I appreciate their support, I want to make something very clear: what I did and said was not particularly brave or courageous.  If it is inspiring to you, great.  If you're proud of me, fine.  But I was just being a decent human being.  Call it a conscience.  Call it a backbone.  Call it whatever you like, but as a Christian, I try to live by Micah 6:8: "And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."  Justice was not being done, so I spoke up.  Anything less, and I'd have called myself a hypocrite.


The thing that breaks my heart is that if I hadn't done something to defend that couple, I don't think anyone else on that train would have.  And let's be real.  This is definitely not the first time they've been harassed, and it probably won't be the last.  


It should not "take guts" to do what I did.  But if it does, I hope the next girl on the next train has guts enough to open her mouth, too.

Don't Stop Believin': The Glee Project

I did it! My online audition for The Glee Project is up and waiting for all your love.  I'll be at the open auditions here in New York, too, on Sunday.  If I am cast, I'll compete with a bunch of other talented, fabulous Gleeks for a role on Glee next season.  Please "like," "share," and comment on my video as much as you can, and please pass it on to your friends via Facebook, twitter, and whatever else strikes your fancy.  

Thanks so much for your support! Love you all! xoxo

Hurricanes and Spaghettios

I bought a can of Trader Joe's brand spaghettios for the hurricane.  Because it was either that, clam chowder, or green beans.  (Talk about a gutted store!)  And while the hurricane wasn't all it cracked up to be and my power never went out, it's still a quick meal.  I'm unpacking a bunch of boxes from storage today, so I thought I'd give the o's a go.

Let's just say nostalgia got the better of me when I bought this can of tomato-y goo.  Spaghettios must have been much tastier as a seven-year-old.

Mediocre canned food aside, things have been pretty great here in the city.  I was prepared for the worst when we got news of Irene (which, for me, wasn't until 5pm on Thursday at work!), and we got off relatively unscathed.  Areas like Coney Island, the Rockaways, Staten Island, and Battery Park took a hit because they're low-lying coastal areas.  But it could have been so much worse.  Thinking that we'd see window-blowing, basement-flooding conditions, I took before-and-after shots outside my apartment.

Before, just across the street, around noon on Saturday

 Before, the empty lot at the end of the block

 Mid-storm

 Afterward, around noon on Sunday

Apart from a large but short-lived puddle in the corner of the empty lot, plus a few blown-about pieces of trees and bushes, you'd never know New York saw a Category 1.  At least here in Harlem.  Things are quite a bit soggier downtown.

Speaking of my new place in Harlem, here's a shot of the gorgeous City College of New York (better known as CUNY).  I snapped it on my phone last night while walking back from the bank and stretching my cabin-fevered legs.

So there you go! Things are great here on the East Coast.  We're moving into my favorite time of year, I'm living in a beautiful new apartment with two lovely new friends, and work at Trader Joe's is still fantastic.  I'll be back to auditions within a week or so, once I get all settled here.  

Thanks for keeping up with me, and thanks, especially for all the concerned calls, texts, and FB posts during our crazy weekend of weather.  We made it!  Love you all. xoxo

summer sweetness

It's been a great couple of weeks. :)

Last Thursday, I go in for an interview with the Trader Joe's here on the Upper West Side.  You may wonder why, of all things, I'm applying with Trader Joe's.  After all, I swore I'd never work retail, especially grocery.  But circumstances change, and I'm open to a lot of options.  Part-time status earns me a 10% employee discount and full benefits.  My medical, dental, and vision coverage with Dad's insurance policy expires at the end of the summer, so the benefits with TJ's are especially attractive.  It's either that route or $400 out-of-pocket every month.  Considering I'm not a chronically ill individual (thanks be to God), I can't see forking over hundreds every month.  And frankly, my budget won't stand it.

So I interview with Kelly on Thursday afternoon.  She's super nice, the interview is really informal and fun, and as I leave with a firm handshake and wide smile, she tells me she'll pass along my application and "I really like your energy." Awesome.  Talk it up, lady.  Get me Interview #2.

And she does. Just a few hours later, as I'm on my way to Ben's 23rd birthday party at West 3rd Common, I get a call.  I'm asked if I'm available to come in the next day at 1pm to interview with Bobby.  YES, I'm available!!!  I show up to the birthday bash high on adrenaline.  Gourmet Mac and Cheese, a decidedly "adult" board game, and a bottle of cider round things out for a very fun, carefree night.

The interview with Bobby on Friday goes well, but he asks challenging questions, and when all is said and done, I don't really know where I stand.  He's a little hard to read, and unlike my experience with Kelly, I leave feeling a bit uneasy.  But I've prayed about the situation a lot, and I know God has my best interests at hand, and whatever happens is what needs to happen.  I've long since quit my end of the guessing game with God.  It's so much better to be surprised and roll with it than to pointlessly agonize and worry about every detail.

On my way out, Bobby tells me if they're interested in hiring me, I'll hear by Tuesday at the latest.  I hate the waiting game.  I might as well be six years old again, already itching in July for Christmas to hurry up and get here.  I've never been too good at the whole patience thing.

Saturday morning, I am determined to run off all my anxious energy.  I lace up my Sauconys and run west across town in what I feel is a bizarre workout combo: a white tee, running shorts, my Nathan runner's pack (for my phone, keys, ID, and debit card), and a bikini top.  Yep.  After 2+ miles down the Greenway, I stop on the water at 72nd St.  At 11am, it's hotter than the blazes--at least for this mild-blooded Northwesterner--and I congratulate myself on my clever plan.  

At 72nd St. (and two other locations in the city), the Downtown Boathouse offers free kayaking every weekend, all summer long.  Volunteers and donor-sponsored equipment means there's no catch.  You just sign a waiver, pick up a life vest, and wait your turn in line.  Awesome!  I take my kayak out and paddle around for about 20 minutes.  It's the perfect cool-down after a hot run.  And seriously, if we have to suffer the heat by being sticky and wet all day, it might as well be thanks to the Hudson rather than sweat, right?  I think so.  After docking my kayak, thanking the nice volunteers, and catching the train home, I decide I'll be back next weekend with Mom, Daddy, and Chelsea. (They fly in TOMORROW!!!!)

Laura and I round out Saturday night at her place, over homemade spaghetti and So You Think You Can Dance from the DVR.  It's so nice just to kick back with a good old friend and relax.  We can be total bums with our pasta, sparkling wine, and cupcakes.  No judgment.  Who needs therapy?  We both agree we need to do this more often. :)

I'm at home after church on Sunday, making lunch, when the call comes.  These days, every unknown number on my cell makes my stomach do a little flip-flop.  (I never know if it's going to be a job offer, a casting director, or some other random twist of events.  Anything can happen in this city.)  I answer, and the guy--whose name I missed in my blurry fog of anticipation--tells me I'm hired.  At which point I proceed to do a skillfully restrained happy dance--you know the kind--and all but gush my thanks.  Orientation is on Thursday. 

Pete's sermon that morning was "God Keeps His Promises" (scripture reference below).

And boy, does He.  Every single one of them.  Trader Joe's may not seem like such a big deal, but in the scheme of my little life, I think it is.  And I give God all the credit.

Hebrews 6:13-20 (NIV)

¹³ When God made his promise to Abraham, since there was no one greater for him to swear by, he swore by himself, ¹⁴ saying, “I will surely bless you and give you many descendants.” ¹⁵ And so after waiting patiently, Abraham received what was promised.

¹⁶ People swear by someone greater than themselves, and the oath confirms what is said and puts an end to all argument. ¹⁷ Because God wanted to make the unchanging nature of his purpose very clear to the heirs of what was promised, he confirmed it with an oath. ¹⁸ God did this so that, by two unchangeable things in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled to take hold of the hope set before us may be greatly encouraged. ¹⁹ We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the inner sanctuary behind the curtain, ²⁰ where our forerunner, Jesus, has entered on our behalf. He has become a high priest forever, in the order of Melchizedek.

____________________________

Monday morning, I'm up early for three calls.  They close the Mary Poppins audition to non-Equity, so I don't even have to bother with Pearl.  I hang out with my friend Bryna at AEA, hoping to be seen for Nice Work If You Can Get It and Camelot.  I get to sing for the first, but the folks with Camelot ask us to come back tomorrow.  It's only 2:30, so I still have a lot of my day left.  Awesome. :)

I do the same routine this morning: up at 6:30, out the door by 8, on the list at AEA by 8:30.  Little do I know what a whirlwind I'm in for!  The monitor for the New York Musical Theatre Festival calls me in around 10:30.  I sing "A Summer In Ohio"--definitely a new favorite--which goes over well.  One of the guys behind the table asks me where "Gon-ZAH-ga" University is.  Ha.  Spokane.  That's what happens when you're from the west coast.  At home, everyone west of the Dakotas has at least heard of the basketball team.  New York casting folks, however, don't seem concerned about the geography of Eastern Washington, much less college basketball (and I don't blame them).  But it's nice to be talked to in the room, beyond the obligatory "hello." :)  Thanks, Gon-ZAH-ga.  I'll take it.  

I schlep myself and my things back to the non-Equity lounge, the space to which we underlings are relegated until we earn our much-coveted Equity cards.  I sign up again on the Camelot list since my name was called while I was on line for the other audition.  And just as  I'm about to sit down, monitor #2 calls me in.  Well, alrighty, folks! We're going back-to-back!  I'm still buzzing a little bit from being in the last room, so I focus on breathing more and gathering my thoughts.   

Camelot asks us for 16 bars of a standard up-tempo.  I love up-tempos, but singing just 16 is always so hard.  The music moves much faster, and I always wish for at least a 32-bar allowance.  Still, I choose a chunk from the middle of "I Have Confidence."  

And what does the girl in front of me sing?  The end of the same song.  

I stand there in the hall, grinning (how ironic!), knowing that I'd be foolish to change my game plan now.  So I pull up my bootstraps, greet the room smartly, and make my good-humored announcement: "Well, she gave you the end of the song.  I'm gonna give you some of the guts of the song!"  My ego silently thanks them for their chuckled response.  And I sing my bit.

Afterward, the first thing they say is, "You do have confidence, singing that right after she did!"

"Yeah, well, I wasn't going to change my cut last-minute.  It's either sing what you've got or scramble and sweat right before you walk through the door."  They definitely agree with me on that one.  Smiles all around. :)

I thank them and glide right out of the room, savoring the sweetness of doing something good for myself.  Sticking to your guns and being brave is sometimes the best--and most rewarded--policy.

____________________________

Mom and Daddy and Chelsea fly into JFK tomorrow afternoon for a week-long visit.  Mom was here last August, but it'll be the first time Dad and Chels see the city.  I can't wait.  I'm totally going to go bonkers-tourist-cheesy with them.  And I don't care who laughs. :)

Thanks for reading, guys.  Your quiet, steady support means the world.  Love you all. xoxo

beautiful-difficult

There are so many things about New York that I love right now.  

Like summer thunderstorms.  Except when you're at the airport, your plane is diverted to Philadelphia, said plane is stuck in Philadelphia due to an oil spill on the runway, your flight from JFK is delayed three times, then it's canceled, and you don't know until 3am the morning of your brother and sister's graduation that you'll be home for said graduation--instead of making a connection in Salt Lake City during the ceremony.  Thanks a lot, Delta.  (Don't worry; I made it home in time.)

Then there's napping in Central Park--and Central Park, in general.  Not to mention all the free concerts, Shakespeare, and other events.


My already-lovely weekends are made even better by extra-sunny church time at City Grace.  Gotta love those massive windows!  Throw in a dinner with a friend, a free Starbucks Mocha Lite Frappuccino (free drink every 15!), or a kid playing "Chopsticks" on Moira Fain's Sing for Hope piano at Tavern on the Green, and we're golden.


And of course, what is summer without ice cream?  My new obsession: je & jo ice cream, specifically the Fresh Mint Ice Cream with Lemon Lavender Shortbread Cookie Dough.  Total foodgasm.


But despite all the sunny loveliness, I see things every day that remind me it's not all beautiful.  Or simple.  Or good.  Or pixie-dust fixable.  


Earlier this week after work, I load up on some produce at Whole Foods.  Mangoes, peaches, apples, celery, lemons.  On the way home, a man passes through the C train, asking for help with food or money.  His speech is slow and labored, his frame bent with the burden of too many hungry days, too much hardship, and very little recognition, let alone respect.  "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.  I am sorry to disturb you.  But I am in desperate need of help..."  He would like a warm meal.  Or money.  

Since moving to the city, I've struggled with how to respond to people who are homeless and asking for help.  Once in a while, I'll offer change, but it seems like such pittance--almost an afterthought as far as real compassion goes.  So food has seemed to be the best I can offer.  Lucky for me, this time I have a bag full of good things from Whole Foods.  

We're almost at my stop, so I stuff my fist to the bottom of the bag and fish out a fuzzy, near-ripe peach.  I stand and offer it to him, "Sir, would you like a peach?"  Obviously discouraged, he shakes his head, points to his mouth, and mutters "Sorry, no teeth."  Sure enough, most of his teeth are missing.  I exit the train, peach in hand, and say to myself, "at least you tried."  It's frustrating.  I want to help.  But dental issues aren't something you think about when you're a middle-class girl with dental insurance and a mouth that probably cost her parents about three grand.


After church today, some of us stay to listen to a talk by Jonathan Walton, Director of the New York City Urban Project.  I learn dental problems are a common challenge for people who are homeless.  I am not the first person whose food offering has been turned down.  I also take away a few helpful nuggets that will make me a bit more useful and sensitive when I interact with those in need.  Ask him his name.  Introduce yourself.  If she's asking for money, offer to walk with her and buy her a meal.  Don't just sympathize, empathize.  Ask about his or her situation, and if you don't understand, ask questions.  Be an active listener.  Don't feel like you have to feed everyone or fix everything.  One person at a time is all we are called to.  We are simply called to be the hands and feet of Jesus; we're not asked to be the entire body.


One thing, in particular, that Jonathan said settled right into my bones: other languages have the right idea in putting the adjective after the noun.  A person's situation should never define them.  He is not a homeless man.  He is a man who is homeless.  She is not a prostitute.  She is a woman who is being prostituted.  Condemn the injustice of the situation, not the struggles of the individual.  Very often, prostituted women are trafficked.  Some homeless people have suffered monumental trauma and simply cannot find a way to cope.  Jonathan told us about a man whose wife had been killed by a drunk driver.  He couldn't bear to return to a closet full of her clothes, so he never went home.  


I guess this is all to say that while you're enjoying your je & jo ice cream and concerts in the park, take time to listen to the difficult stories.  Leave home ten minutes early to talk with the woman you pass on the corner of 34th and 10th every day on your way to work.  Pack some extra food whenever you leave the house.  Give away your post-dinner to-go box.  Offer the man on the train a peach, and then take him to Jamba Juice when you learn the peach won't work. 


It's the little things that count.  And we all have time for that.