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Subway
Reflection
From Ecuador News
June 4-10
By Carlos Delgado Centeno
I arrived in New York with a heavy weight on my shoulders, full
of dreams and with expectations as big as this country. Brooklyn
was daring and dynamic, and everyones aggressive walk indicated
that those who come here do so to triumph and conquer this city
and the country. That is how I felt, and I disguised myself as a
New Yorker to walk the eight blocks to Graham station.
When you enter the train, 1,000 ideas converge. In a car you hear
more than one language and you see, in peoples reading material,
words in Chinese, Russian or Polish. You are so absorbed into this
new world that you dont have time to listen to yourself or
your own reality, because you are also worried about the moment
in which you will have to exit the train. These are the moments
where you feel as though you own the world and your surroundings.
You have an inner voice telling you that everything you see around
you is normal and natural. For this reason, when I left the car,
after the sound of the train passed, a sweet melody took its place
that both comforted and woke me from a dream
They were musical
notes that grabbed me and took me by the hand to show me the tapestry
of our Andean geography: I felt the smell of the country sides,
the plazas, the marketplaces, the look in my peoples eyes
that is at once happy and sad. It was something like opening a book
and flipping quickly through to the last page, when you are filled
with the chapters sensations, images and life.
All of this made me feel strange in New York. I couldnt tell
where these familiar sounds were coming from, moving me in time
and space to the Ecuador that I had left behind just a few months
ago. I decided to look for their source. He was leaning against
a wall in the stairwell, with a pan flute balanced on the microphone
stand, a guitar in hand. He had long hair and was wearing a hat
with an Equadorian cloth. Manuel (for afterwards I learned his name)
played a melody that captivated the crowd gathered around him. He
was so energetic, playing our music in such a passionate way, that
it gave me goose bumps. He was the king of this small underground
world, the train station converted into a concert stage. I thought
myself a worldly person, and so the first thought that crossed my
mind was, "This is a compatriot and artist, he is working for
a living and it is important to reward him with more than applause."
I walked up to the empty guitar case with a complicit smile, and
paid for the show. But when Manuels eyes met mine his expression
was so tender but firm, that it broke me. I got a lump in my throat,
and he, noticing my weakness, thanked me by playing a song that
was more Ecuadorian than the Chimborazo. It was that precise moment
that I realized that the only true thing I had in the middle of
this solitude was my identity, the country I had left behind, my
people, my customs, the geography that Manuels music made
me travel inside my head. The music brought back our history and
our political situation to my mind. The rhythm of the songs, coupled
with the movement of his feet made me think of the suffering that
our people have gone through in search of a better future for our
families. My eyes filled with pride thinking of Manuel, and all
of the Manuels who are proud and brave enough to leave their country,
the place where they were born, because they just cannot continue,
because they are betrayed day after day by false promises.
Manuel kept playing, and I stepped back, looking at each passerby
for compassion, someone who would tell me, "I understand, I
know your country and your people: they are honest, sincere, hospitable,
proud
" But no, there was only Manuels music that
understood me, keeping me from moving on my way. I heard the sound
of the next train arriving, and didnt have any other option
besides taking refuge in the group of people entering the train,
leaving Manuel in the station, with our music and our memories
Translated from Spanish by Erica Pearson
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