food for those

I'm trying to find time between audition prep (I'll have had seven this summer!), festival prep, recital planning, freelance grantwriting, and dayjob to structure and write my impressions of Boston. In just a few weeks I'll have my one year anniversary of life in this town. Meanwhile, I can share this story with you that happened just this morning.

One of my gripes (not like I have that many ;-) is that Boston fails to fill me with wonder. That is, I haven't encountered one single spot in the city where I've paused, admired, and thought "Oh the greatness of man!" Am I being too demanding? Well, I felt something like this on nearly every subway ride over the Manhattan bridge. A walk through the canyons of midtown or the tall peaks of Wall Street makes one feel like a god.

And in Rome, don't even get me started. Not just the Pantheon or the Colosseum but a crumpled napkin from a rip-off bar or a pile of dust from a construction site were enough to make my eyes go wide. The Puritan ethic of austerity and utility seem to have imbued architecture and city planning in Boston for all eternity. Sure, there are a few iconic churches and a couple of interesting modern buildings, but it's all on a small, restrained scale that does not overwhelm.

But what I am finding - slowly, glacierly - is a bit of what I always had experienced on my visits to Boston over the years: humanity. Friends gathering for dinner at home, new acquaintences becoming friends, people planning excursions to the many pretty villages close to town.

The workplace, however, seems to be exceedingly frosty. I've had two jobs here now, both times sharing an office with someone else, and both times only speaking to my office mate and/or boss only when absolutely necessary. There is no greeting or only a very reluctant hello when you walk in the door each morning. I used to say "bless you" when the other guy sneezed, but it got awkward when he would barely respond and didn't return the favor. Sitting down with colleagues in the lunch room makes me feel like a ghost: I appear to be invisible, no one addresses me, and I can't seem to make my way into the conversation. Whatever happened to the good old, "Hi, how are you, how was your weekend?" I swear, if my heart stopped right now no one would notice until the cleaning lady came!

So I suppose when a little human interaction happens in this ice block it seems like an exceptional event. Here, at last, is my story:

Mary W., a Christian first name and an African last, crooked glasses and relaxed hair, prim office wardrobe and an ample rear-end. She sits at her desk every day from nine to five, headphones permanently on her head.

“Do you sing?” Her question to me would sound like an accusation, but her voice has that delicious West African lilt. “How do you know?” I am surprised. Someone had found copies of my sheet music in the copier, and thought it was hers. She composes, she explains, but she can’t read or write music. She marvels that I can. She sings melodies in Swahili and records them to beat. “Do you have a recording of your work I can listen too?” She hands me a homemade CD from her computer, and I listen, and thank her, and we smile like two schoolgirls sharing a secret.

She replaces her headphones on her ears, and turns back to her work. High above her desk in bold print is Psalm 111:5: He provides food for those who fear him; he remembers his covenant forever.