The Language of Stoplights
On a spring Tuesday in Morgantown, West Virginia—a classic one with bright skies; 60s temps; and sidewalks sprinkled with dog walkers, stroller pushers, leisurely lunchers, and college clique-ers—there was one peculiar creature under the overpass of the university's Personal Rapid Transit System, or PRT as townies call it.
Built in 1975 and modeled after Walt Disney World's PeopleMover, WVU's PRT has carried ~83 million people since its inception. I wonder what percentage of those millions have been drunk or hungover from raging football tailgates or drink-and-drown night at the local dive. I'd wager a strong 50 percent.
Anyhow, I was headed to the Evansdale campus (for a cheat-day sugar bomb from Terra Cafe) when a yellow light slowed me enough to offer serendipity in the form of a skinny, shaggy haired, baggy T-and-jeans-wearing college quasi-hippie. Although he was the only person in the intersection, that's not what kept my gaze; it was the jerking and undulating gestures taking over his entire body as he listened to, I don't know, Matisyahu, or maybe even The Recipe if he was hip to the old-school Morgantown jam scene. We were both high in the moment, but only one of us was sober. Because I'm a control freak, God blessed me with an extroverted personality so I can get high on circumstance, not substances.
On that day, traffic, of all things, offered space to be present and enjoy a sliver of the immense Universe that is filled with reasons to smile. To the casual (or uninspired) observer, Underpass Guy looked like he was experiencing a medical emergency, but if you took an extra second to scan his face, dude was blissed out. Literally dancing like no one was watching. A wonderful kind of weird. Uninhibited. Not hurting anyone. Pure, innocent pleasure.
My version of Underpass Guy wasn't necessarily that of the driver in front of me, or behind me, or that of cheeseburger munchers in the window of the nearby McDonald's. Surely someone else, possibly many someones, shared my fascination with him. The human gaze finds what it's looking for. Some of us will see ugly where others see beauty, and vice versa. Sometimes we'll see nothing at all, because maybe we aren't looking...or we aren't even aware that we could be (a real shame).
On the same Tuesday on which Mother Nature donned her seasonal best in Morgantown, I took a walk, as I do nearly every day when Mother's mood permits. Unlike Underpass Guy, I don't do earbuds; I prefer the cacophony of birds, kids, woof!, beep! beeeeep!, vroom!, and the whoosh! of the wind if you listen closely enough. My place is a small apartment in a 4-plex smack dab in the middle of a neighborhood known for harboring the creative class, both moneyed and not, and is a quick two-minute walk from the bridge to downtown.
Anyhow, I was headed to the Evansdale campus (for a cheat-day sugar bomb from Terra Cafe) when a yellow light slowed me enough to offer serendipity in the form of a skinny, shaggy haired, baggy T-and-jeans-wearing college quasi-hippie. Although he was the only person in the intersection, that's not what kept my gaze; it was the jerking and undulating gestures taking over his entire body as he listened to, I don't know, Matisyahu, or maybe even The Recipe if he was hip to the old-school Morgantown jam scene. We were both high in the moment, but only one of us was sober. Because I'm a control freak, God blessed me with an extroverted personality so I can get high on circumstance, not substances.
On that day, traffic, of all things, offered space to be present and enjoy a sliver of the immense Universe that is filled with reasons to smile. To the casual (or uninspired) observer, Underpass Guy looked like he was experiencing a medical emergency, but if you took an extra second to scan his face, dude was blissed out. Literally dancing like no one was watching. A wonderful kind of weird. Uninhibited. Not hurting anyone. Pure, innocent pleasure.
I don't take those moments lightly because I'm generally as high strung as a Wallenda, except thankfully, like that clan of rope-walkers, I know balance is crucial. It seemed like the red light lasted longer than usual as if to say You're Welcome, have a good day. I wondered if Underpass Guy saw me looking. If he did, I bet I entered and exited his consciousness as fast as the lone bit of litter picked up and dropped by the breeze, fluttering toward the ground alongside his gesticulating fingers. A green light screamed Back to reality! Foot on the gas. As he became a blip in my rearview mirror, I thought, Hey man, thanks for being you.
My version of Underpass Guy wasn't necessarily that of the driver in front of me, or behind me, or that of cheeseburger munchers in the window of the nearby McDonald's. Surely someone else, possibly many someones, shared my fascination with him. The human gaze finds what it's looking for. Some of us will see ugly where others see beauty, and vice versa. Sometimes we'll see nothing at all, because maybe we aren't looking...or we aren't even aware that we could be (a real shame).
On foot, I took in even more of the sights of spring in University City, like the stretched-thin septuagenarian whose skin matches the miniature pine cones my son loves to gather from the neighbor's bushes.
He often walks the main street in town, distinguished by a slight limp and primed with a friendly greeting for all. Recently I was told he found a place to stay that's far from town, too far to walk for someone without a car. So now he has a home, yet no means to get downtown where he makes his mark on the vast universe by spreading smiles. What a happy/sad situation. I was glad to see him that day. Maybe a do-gooder gives him a ride to town now. I hope.
The proprietors of the barber shop almost exclusively patronized by young men:
They stand outside the door in couplets or occasionally in a group of three. Each time I pass by, which is often, none of us acknowledge the other. It's not an uncomfortable silence, although next time maybe I should say a simple Hey or raise my chin to say hello without actually saying it. Maybe they ignore me because they think I'm just another boring mom. Psh. Thirty-eight years still feels pretty young to me.
The motley crew that hangs on the steps of the Baptist church:
As I pass by, I'll usually hear "That's a beautiful dog you have," of my strong, magnificent canine love, Pvt. Joker. Or "Pretty soon he'll be pushing you" of my three-year-old son, who might be smiling or scowling in his stroller, depending on the day...or the hour, or how I broke his piece of cheese the "wrong" way, or the fact that I didn't praise him enough before flushing his potty masterpiece. Three-year-olds can have as many personalities as that crew that holds court on the church steps. The step-dwellers, they're typically smoking, usually cursing, often unkempt, occasionally unruly—like the twentysomething guy raging at his comrade over taking his last cigarette—and rarely infuriating, like the young mother smoking in the face of her baby captive in a stroller. Overall, my interactions with them are fine, or at least innocuous.
We have to take care not to let our eyes do the work of our minds. Vision is unrefined. It is the mind that processes images and—if our souls are so inclined—allows us to see under the surface.
Underpass Guy and all the characters I encounter on sun-lit walks in Morgantown—and once upon a time on fiery days in South Beach, frigid days in NYC, and sweltering days in Memphis—they make my world a colorful place to behold. Life gives us so many reasons to look at others with disdain, so any time—or the many times—we overcome that urge, it's a win for humanity.
To be fair, and for the sake of coveted balance, a bad attitude also has its place—like toward jerks who catcall a mom trying to enjoy a walk with her toddler. Or jerks who abuse dogs. Jerks who are racist. Jerks who don't give unless they receive. Although life is beautiful, jerks abound. Sometimes you gotta spit a little fire in their direction.
He often walks the main street in town, distinguished by a slight limp and primed with a friendly greeting for all. Recently I was told he found a place to stay that's far from town, too far to walk for someone without a car. So now he has a home, yet no means to get downtown where he makes his mark on the vast universe by spreading smiles. What a happy/sad situation. I was glad to see him that day. Maybe a do-gooder gives him a ride to town now. I hope.
The proprietors of the barber shop almost exclusively patronized by young men:
They stand outside the door in couplets or occasionally in a group of three. Each time I pass by, which is often, none of us acknowledge the other. It's not an uncomfortable silence, although next time maybe I should say a simple Hey or raise my chin to say hello without actually saying it. Maybe they ignore me because they think I'm just another boring mom. Psh. Thirty-eight years still feels pretty young to me.
The motley crew that hangs on the steps of the Baptist church:
As I pass by, I'll usually hear "That's a beautiful dog you have," of my strong, magnificent canine love, Pvt. Joker. Or "Pretty soon he'll be pushing you" of my three-year-old son, who might be smiling or scowling in his stroller, depending on the day...or the hour, or how I broke his piece of cheese the "wrong" way, or the fact that I didn't praise him enough before flushing his potty masterpiece. Three-year-olds can have as many personalities as that crew that holds court on the church steps. The step-dwellers, they're typically smoking, usually cursing, often unkempt, occasionally unruly—like the twentysomething guy raging at his comrade over taking his last cigarette—and rarely infuriating, like the young mother smoking in the face of her baby captive in a stroller. Overall, my interactions with them are fine, or at least innocuous.
We have to take care not to let our eyes do the work of our minds. Vision is unrefined. It is the mind that processes images and—if our souls are so inclined—allows us to see under the surface.
Underpass Guy and all the characters I encounter on sun-lit walks in Morgantown—and once upon a time on fiery days in South Beach, frigid days in NYC, and sweltering days in Memphis—they make my world a colorful place to behold. Life gives us so many reasons to look at others with disdain, so any time—or the many times—we overcome that urge, it's a win for humanity.
To be fair, and for the sake of coveted balance, a bad attitude also has its place—like toward jerks who catcall a mom trying to enjoy a walk with her toddler. Or jerks who abuse dogs. Jerks who are racist. Jerks who don't give unless they receive. Although life is beautiful, jerks abound. Sometimes you gotta spit a little fire in their direction.
As I write, another sunny day is awakening the city of Morgantown. The sun—certainly on smooth, balmy days but even when shrouded in winter's itchy wool—reminds me to be more like Underpass Guy: Grooving in the moment. Grateful that I am free.
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