Illustration by Alex Chen
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I am a subway musician in Toronto. Two or three times a week I pack up my guitar, my busking license, my travel mug and a portable stool. I fling it all onto my back and, being blind, grab my white cane on the way out the door and venture out into the city.
Subway stations are big. I didn’t know how big they really were until I tried to fill one with my voice. By the first chorus it was clear to me that the skills required to sound acceptable in my living room were not going to carry me here. Trains, people laughing and talking, announcements on the PA; all of these, plus the sheer size of the space, made me feel like a mouse in a cathedral.
Usually, I try to contain my physical presence in this dense city. I try not to take up more than my share of space, either physically, or in social terms. This caution can get exaggerated if you have a disability. There’s often an approach to the world that’s diffident, maybe even a bit apologetic. I don’t want to be in someone’s way or take too long. This was the truth I confronted the first time I tried to fill a subway station with the sound of myself singing. Did I have the breath to do it? Did I have the guts to occupy space in such a large way? Song by song, I’ve learned how.
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When I reach my station – I like playing at Queen’s Park or Bay – I find my spot and set up, with exactly the same set of unhurried motions every time. It is a reassuring and satisfying ritual. I unfold my stool, open my case, place it at just the right distance, take out my travel mug, place it within easy reach, sit down with my guitar on my knee, check the time, then take a restorative sip of coffee. Coffee is always the taste and smell of hope to me.
In this case, you might wonder, hope for what?
As a listener, when I hear great music or a beautiful voice in a public space, it lifts me out of apathy or depression or the sulks. It gives me hope. It’s hope that the world still has transcending surprises for us, maybe just around the next corner. As a novice subway musician, when I thought about my music this way, I felt my voice get stronger. What if I could offer a transcendent moment to someone else?
In each set, there are commuters who get snagged out of the passing flow by what I am doing. Some will kindly drop money into my case without breaking stride, but some will stop and engage with me. This always means a lot because, as a blind person, a silent smile doesn’t go that far. Sometimes the interaction will be as sweet and simple as a compliment. Or it might be, “That’s my favourite song,” or “I love Stan Rogers! Do you know Northwest Passage?"
I was once at Queen’s Park Station. There are a lot of hospitals near there. A tired-sounding woman dropped some money in my case and said, “Thanks, that’s the first time I’ve smiled today.” For me, that moment was my hope fulfilled. Too often, if you have a visible disability, you’re the focus of attention for the wrong reasons. Learning to use my voice in public has been a way of turning that reality on its head, offering hope and beauty to random strangers.
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When I busk it feels like the city is flowing by me. Judging by the diverse coins left in my case, my listeners aren’t just Torontonians. Euros, pesos, coins from all around the world land at my feet.
My favourite is a Canadian penny from 1915. Oh, the story of that coin! I have a million unanswerable questions about it. When it was new and shiny, did someone hold it in their hand as a good luck talisman on their way to the trenches and back again? Did a child save it up during the Depression to buy a birthday gift for a hard-working parent? Did a draft dodger gaze at it with mixed feelings, homesick and thinking of war? Is its loss still regretted by the generous person who gave me money because I’d touched them in some way? Like every one of the people hearing my songs, it’s on its own trajectory. And songs are like that too. We don’t own them but we sing them, sending them out into the world, not knowing where they’ll land or what they’ll do.
If you want to test your courage and resolve, try singing a cappella in a public place. I can tell you it was quite daunting at first, but I persisted until it wasn’t so scary. One of my favourites is about being in motion, setting out with guts and hope. It’s called Going Down the Road by Bruce Cockburn and I enjoy singing it in the subway because it’s part of the mostly unspoken and good tension that exists between those of us in motion, those of us at rest and those of us who aren’t sure.
Christine Malec lives in Toronto.