Posted by Bruce Sanborn on June 4, 2012 - 10:06am
She was a crazy homeless lady. You could tell she was crazy because she was wearing white before Memorial Day. At least at some point it had been white. Now it was sort of grungy brown.
How many times have you done this? When you look at a cop you see a uniform. When you look at a priest you see robes. When you look at a businessman you see a suit. A woman pushing a stroller is just a mom. Never looking beneath the surface to see who's really there. The human being beneath the outer shell. You don't have time. Put them in their box and move on. How is it that you can sum up a person, their whole history in ten seconds and you don't understand yourself, whom you have known your whole life?
We've been busking quite a bit lately, out playing in the streets of Culver City. We've got quite a show going on with a bubble wand and kazoos for the kids, tambourines and shakers for anyone who wants to play along, amps, mics, drums, guitars.
The other day we were setting up in our usual spot when she was there. Crazy homeless lady. She was sitting on the bench right next to us with her shopping cart piled to the top with everything important to her world. She was wearing the once white sweater that had seen better days back in 1992. And I was frustrated. Let me tell you why. There were tons of people out. When you're playing, you want an audience and once we started playing I knew not a single person would come over to listen or tip us as long as crazy homeless lady was there. We finished setting up and I debated with myself about telling her to move it along when I realized I had no right to do so. In my America, anyone can go anywhere and do anything. If I believe in freedom, then I have to believe in freedom for all, including the right of crazy homeless lady to sit on the bench next to us, driving all our potential audience away.
I kept my mouth shut, hiding my hypocrisy in my shoes.
Fast forward one hour. Four moms, seven kids. The kids are going to town on the instruments and the bubbles, screaming, laughing, running around like kids, while their well-heeled mommies smile all sugary on their off-spring. They're wearing those designer yoga outfits, the tight pants, the tops, the bland colors, the expensive fabric and shoes, chatting about the kinds of things women with genetically designed children and husbands with six-figure jobs chat about. And I'm loving it. Because with the bubbles and the kazoos and the instruments the kids are playing, I'm figuring we'll make a haul. Money's tight and we can use every bill that comes our way.
So after about 45 minutes of us baby-sitting their children, the moms decide it's time to move on which is good because we've played virtually every kid-friendly song we know and are running out of options. I was trying to think of some new lyrics for the Rolling Stones song, Star Star, when they started packing up. And now it's crunch time. Everyone knows the game. We entertain the kids and the parents open their wallets and give us cash.
Except they didn't. They packed their things and without a thought to how much it costs us to haul all our equipment out here, to buy the kazoos and bubbles and instruments, all four walked away, wrapped in their own world and thoughts of how important they are in it. Then one woman turned, one woman who apparently hadn't lost all sense of propriety. She opened her purse, took out her wallet and walked up to the tip jar.
She dropped some loose change. That was the value she placed on us.
Crazy homeless lady an hour earlier. We started playing. She got off the bench. She got off the bench and started dancing. Bopping along to our music. She was shouting something but we couldn't hear her. She was smiling and laughing and having a hell of a good time. No one else would come near but at least we'd found one true fan. After about 15 minutes she tuckered out. She went back to her shopping cart and started pushing herself off down the square. But she stopped. Right in front of us. She took out her purse. She took out a bill. She held it up in front of us, showing us that she was putting money in the jar, not taking money out. She smiled, a little toothlessly, as she dropped it in. It was a five.
She smiled, thanked us and wandered down the way. We finished our song and I was looking down at the set list getting ready for the next number. Suzi tapped me and pointed. I looked where she was pointing at the crazy homeless lady who had just tipped us five dollars. Crazy homeless lady was pulling someone's half-eaten lunch from out of a trash can. She started eating it as she walked away.
That was the moment. Freedom to be whomever you want in this world. A vapid, self-important pilates mom who sees people outside of your world as tools to be taken advantage of or a crazy homeless music-loving lady giving her money away to those who bring you joy and then eating dinner out of a trash can.
Who do you respect?
B
TheBruceSanbornBand.com
How many times have you done this? When you look at a cop you see a uniform. When you look at a priest you see robes. When you look at a businessman you see a suit. A woman pushing a stroller is just a mom. Never looking beneath the surface to see who's really there. The human being beneath the outer shell. You don't have time. Put them in their box and move on. How is it that you can sum up a person, their whole history in ten seconds and you don't understand yourself, whom you have known your whole life?
We've been busking quite a bit lately, out playing in the streets of Culver City. We've got quite a show going on with a bubble wand and kazoos for the kids, tambourines and shakers for anyone who wants to play along, amps, mics, drums, guitars.
The other day we were setting up in our usual spot when she was there. Crazy homeless lady. She was sitting on the bench right next to us with her shopping cart piled to the top with everything important to her world. She was wearing the once white sweater that had seen better days back in 1992. And I was frustrated. Let me tell you why. There were tons of people out. When you're playing, you want an audience and once we started playing I knew not a single person would come over to listen or tip us as long as crazy homeless lady was there. We finished setting up and I debated with myself about telling her to move it along when I realized I had no right to do so. In my America, anyone can go anywhere and do anything. If I believe in freedom, then I have to believe in freedom for all, including the right of crazy homeless lady to sit on the bench next to us, driving all our potential audience away.
I kept my mouth shut, hiding my hypocrisy in my shoes.
Fast forward one hour. Four moms, seven kids. The kids are going to town on the instruments and the bubbles, screaming, laughing, running around like kids, while their well-heeled mommies smile all sugary on their off-spring. They're wearing those designer yoga outfits, the tight pants, the tops, the bland colors, the expensive fabric and shoes, chatting about the kinds of things women with genetically designed children and husbands with six-figure jobs chat about. And I'm loving it. Because with the bubbles and the kazoos and the instruments the kids are playing, I'm figuring we'll make a haul. Money's tight and we can use every bill that comes our way.
So after about 45 minutes of us baby-sitting their children, the moms decide it's time to move on which is good because we've played virtually every kid-friendly song we know and are running out of options. I was trying to think of some new lyrics for the Rolling Stones song, Star Star, when they started packing up. And now it's crunch time. Everyone knows the game. We entertain the kids and the parents open their wallets and give us cash.
Except they didn't. They packed their things and without a thought to how much it costs us to haul all our equipment out here, to buy the kazoos and bubbles and instruments, all four walked away, wrapped in their own world and thoughts of how important they are in it. Then one woman turned, one woman who apparently hadn't lost all sense of propriety. She opened her purse, took out her wallet and walked up to the tip jar.
She dropped some loose change. That was the value she placed on us.
Crazy homeless lady an hour earlier. We started playing. She got off the bench. She got off the bench and started dancing. Bopping along to our music. She was shouting something but we couldn't hear her. She was smiling and laughing and having a hell of a good time. No one else would come near but at least we'd found one true fan. After about 15 minutes she tuckered out. She went back to her shopping cart and started pushing herself off down the square. But she stopped. Right in front of us. She took out her purse. She took out a bill. She held it up in front of us, showing us that she was putting money in the jar, not taking money out. She smiled, a little toothlessly, as she dropped it in. It was a five.
She smiled, thanked us and wandered down the way. We finished our song and I was looking down at the set list getting ready for the next number. Suzi tapped me and pointed. I looked where she was pointing at the crazy homeless lady who had just tipped us five dollars. Crazy homeless lady was pulling someone's half-eaten lunch from out of a trash can. She started eating it as she walked away.
That was the moment. Freedom to be whomever you want in this world. A vapid, self-important pilates mom who sees people outside of your world as tools to be taken advantage of or a crazy homeless music-loving lady giving her money away to those who bring you joy and then eating dinner out of a trash can.
Who do you respect?
B
TheBruceSanbornBand.com
Comments (1)