I sat on the subway coming home, weary from my last day of jury duty, relieved not to have made the 15-day trial I almost made.  I had done my two long days of sitting and waiting.  At our first stop, Canal Street, she got on and took stage in the middle of the car not six feet in front of me.  She announced, “Get ready, people, cause I’m a’gonna sing.”

Everybody on the car basically groaned and checked out their shoes, looking away in weariness and embarrassment. I’m sorry to say I did the same.  She was a female bum – here in NYC we have our share.  She was clearly a crack victim – 45-55, filthy dirty dress, ripped and tattered, shoes that no human being should ever have to wear, and she carried with her an indelicate perfume.  Her face was very swollen on one side disfiguring her look and her hair had not been brushed in weeks.

As I looked down, she started to sing.

I knew immediately from her voice that somewhere in time the lady had sung before – on a stage, in church, in a hall somewhere – with hopes and dreams and the kind of talent that told her she could “make it”.  But, of course, she hadn’t.  Probably the greater appeal of the drug had done her in.

She began to sing Greatest Love Of All, the song Whitney Houston made so famous, before crack also plunged her to such depths.

I believe the children are our are future
Teach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children’s laughter remind us how we used to be

I glanced up at the people on the car around me, a melting pot of NY mixtures, none of whom could watch this pitiable performance.  I sat wedged between two large African-American men with my laptop and briefcase piled high on my lap.  I considered elbowing the man on my right as I might reach for the $5 bill I knew I had in my pocket, but decided against it when he shifted uncomfortably.

She sang on.

I decided then and there, “Well, Pete, you’re not going to the trouble of reaching in your pocket for her; the least you can do is to pay her a little professional respect and watch her performance.”  I looked up into her eyes.  Her eyes caught mine.  She began to sing to me as I was the only one in the car watching.  Again, she was less than 6 feet away, so I had the best/worst seat in the house.

Everybody searching for a hero
People need someone to look up to
I never found anyone who fulfills my needs
A lonely place to be
So I learned to depend on me

I stayed with her, forcing myself not to look away from the tragic picture before me.  She sang out once again to her audience who still looked away, but returned often to my eyes.  Then she hit the chorus of the song.

Unfortunately, she did not carry with her a pitch pipe.  She had set the key about a 5^th too high and so when she got to the chorus, the song was pitched far too high for her and she couldn’t hit the notes.  Her voice cracked and failed from the strain.

But she sang on.  She was a trouper.  And I continued to watch, now fascinated at the human drama before me.

I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone’s shadows
If I fail, if I succeed
At least I’ll live as I believe
No matter what they take from me
They can’t take away my dignity
Because the greatest love of all
Is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all
Inside of me
The greatest love of all

She had slaughtered the chorus and she knew it, but she had hung in there and sung it through.  Somewhere in time someone had at least taught her that right.  Don’t stop, girl – even if you make a mistake, sing on.

She cracked out the last high notes of the song singing directly to me.  I knew that if I applauded that it would be inappropriate because she knew she had failed, but I smiled to her and nodded my deepest thank you.  I thanked her for trying, for being a trouper against magnificent odds.

She got it.

I then expected her to hit on me for money and I started to reach for my pocket, but when I looked up, she was gone.  I watched her back as she moved on down through the car.  Then she turned back again and said to me, “Oh, I forgot.  I’d like to dedicate that song to my mother.  Oh my God, how I loved my mother.”

At that, another African-American man sitting eating his lunch from a bag said to her, “Mam, are you hungry?”  She nodded sadly, shyly in the affirmative.  “Here, take my lunch.  I’ve had enough.”  She smiled and said her thank-yous and moved on – probably to sing again in the next car.

Both the man who gave lunch and I got off together at 42^nd Street.  We both hit the exit door at the platform about the same time and so I said to him, “Thanks for doing that.”  He nodded and then said back to me, “And thanks for respecting her.”

End of story.

Bottom line:  As it turns out, she was not hard to watch.  The real life drama was better than any movie, any concert.  I’ll remember it long after most of the stuff I see.  I took a chance and looked up and met her eyes – and her struggling soul.  I’ll never know what I gave her.  Perhaps she forgot all about me in the next car.

But I know what she gave me – an insight into poverty, a deep experience with the human spirit, a profound appreciation for the greatness in all mankind — and a subway ride I shall never forget.

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For more inspirational music, thoughts and ideas from Peter Link,
please visit Watchfire Music.