Looking at Blue Skies

The days have literally been sunny and bright since November 3rd, with the northeast enjoying unseasonably balmy days. Wary, I didn’t fully revel in it until the Associated Press called the results four days later.

I was glad I had work to occupy me. I am always grateful to be a working actor but this Tuesday I was never more thankful to put the details of my life on hold and jump into the skin of someone else.
I marveled at the smooth drive on a bright blue day and gave thanks that we were shooting outside in the sun. I thrilled at the little details the wardrobe department had added since the fitting. The story, while bittersweet wasn’t complex, a classic scene of a mother and daughter connecting. Art like life is a rollercoaster of connection and disconnection. I liked that the character’s name was Joy. It all felt like a good omen. I embraced the actor’s creed and lived in the present moment.

The limbo of last week should not have come as a surprise. 2020 has been the era of limbo; the suspension of time as we wait for what comes next. Through our collective purgatory of Covid, we’ve waited for curves to flatten, for official measures to be announced, for stimulus checks and federal assistance to be delivered. Some have waited for test results and the end of quarantines. Some waited for mail-in and absentee ballots to arrive. Some waited in lines for hours while others minimized theirs and set out to vote at dawn. A record number cast their ballots. Finally decision day had arrived but the waiting was not over.

I remember election day 2016 and the strange event that seemed a harbinger of what I thought impossible. When I cast my vote late morning my polling station had already run out of the iconic I Voted stickers. I remember being thrilled that they had underestimated the number of folks who wanted to cast a ballot for the first female President. Later I headed downtown and will never forget the scene when I descended the stairs at 145th and St Nicholas.
145th is an older station that hasn’t had a shiny new makeover but it’s always clean feeling and unlike the station at 125th it is a little brighter. There aren’t rusty water stains on the tiles and the tunnel is less grimy.
New York subways are notorious for all sorts of shenanigans from public fornications to public ablutions. I have seen every kind of grooming on the train, including the washing of feet and socks. But I had never seen this. As I arrived on the platform I spied the retreating naked ass of a scrawny strung out white man. His pants were gathered around his ankles, his naked feet chain gang shuffling around the corner of the next stairwell. I was stunned. But I also needed to get to the other end of the platform. New Yorkers learn to calculate the alignment of their connections for greater efficiency in their commutes, so I proceeded in a disbelieving daze while keeping my distance. He hugged a pillar with both hands, squatted then straightened and shuffled along to the next pillar and continued his bizarre calisthenics. Without getting into scatological detail, I soon realized I was witnessing public defecation. Vibrating with disgust and renewed horror I quick timed to the end of the platform just as a train came rolling in. I didn’t check the platform for him as we headed south and I didn’t look at other riders in case the eye contact triggered me to blurt out the trauma I’d just experienced. By the time I hit Columbus Circle my thoughts were onto something else. I noticed an I Voted sticker trampled on the ground.

In the evening I went to a screening at the Directors Guild of America to stop obsessing about the ballot count. It was a small audience. Afterwards two women ahead of me quietly discussed the film of which I remember nothing. A man further ahead on the escalator was feverishly jabbing at his phone. I had a heavy feeling in my gut. Outside the streets were eerily still and sombre. I waited a whole block before taking out my phone to confirm the news. I rode the train in a daze. There was no evidence of the earlier scene but I took the steps with a shudder of disgust. The shit slinging had only just begun.

I can’t help but marvel at the difference between the days post election 2016 and 2020. The sky is so vibrant and blue today. There are still some leaves clinging to branches, umbers and rusty reds backlit by the sun but most have been carried by the wind. Sidewalks are blanketed in yellow, signaling caution. There are always hidden dangers in the transition between seasons.

It’s been a lot longer than four years of disconnection, and the divide is a chasm not easily bridged. The country has been strung out and struggling but detox is difficult. There’s been so much pain for so long; America’s current list of traumas should be anathema to a democratic first world nation. Her third act needs many script doctors.

Life can’t mirror the sunny happy ending of a Hallmark movie, something always comes next. But maybe the scene where the maternal force soothes the troubled teen through their growing pains will have a lasting effect. Maybe the new teacher at the school will know how to connect with the bully and inspire them to change. I want to cast a positive spin because I’m an optimist. But the pragmatist in me knows democracy is not a star vehicle, everyone has a role to play. There’s no room for divos or prima donnas, this is ensemble work. We’ll find the script being revised even as we’re learning new parts. It’s part of the process. We’ll have to unlearn and learn as we go. And like good improv, listening will be the key.