Because, among the various subjects I taught over 38 years on both the middle and high school grades in Regular and Special Education classes around the country Shakespeare was a frequent subject, I was very familiar with Marc Antony, having as a student myself been required to memorize the “Friends, Romans, and Countrymen” speech for a grade.
Then, whenever I taught sophomore English wherever it was on the curriculum for that grade level, there would be Marc Antony and on my train trip I returned to the place where 50 years ago, I first taught Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare.
One of the positives about living in places away from your nest, whether in various locations in this country or, more broadly, living in other countries, is the exposure to cultures outside of your experiences up to that point.
During World War II, people whose families had lived in small communities made up of people very much like themselves, many recently immigrating, soldiers were suddenly thrust into a potpourri of races and ethnic groups, except Black which is a whole other story, for the first time and found Irish eat more than potatoes and Italians understood there were more ‘vegetables” than the tomato.
Gay men finally got to meet other Gay men, a rarity if from a rural location, and, as women were needed to come to cities that had factories and hold the jobs the men overseas had held and would be given back, Lesbians met other Lesbians and realized they too were not alone in the world.
Language, food, clothing, from other ethnic groups and races, or just meeting people you might never have before and learning the truth about them which did not often jibe with preconceptions began to cross lines.
In the area of music as a White middle class Boomer, my music came from the radio, and although there was a surprising amount of racially mixed music played on local stations, it all seemed the same in style. This gave way to Folk songs in high school and college, and then the music most likely to be played where I grew up, by the people I knew and had known.
When I decided to be my self and fully Gay, I was introduced to music that had not been my usual. In my time in Southern California, exposure to Hispanic music was not of the East Coast variety and it was a usual Saturday occurrence to walk down a neighborhood street with the men of some degree of Mexican ancestry sporting their Wrangler Jeans, everyday cowboy boots, subdued colored plaid shirt, and cowboy hat, felt or straw depending on the season, as they washed their trucks in the driveways, but very uncommon that the radios in all the driveways were tuned to the same station. Saturday was Mexican Music Day back then.
When my neighbor’s family were over, I had my friends over too and my windows open so we could enjoy the music without the DJ fee.
My room in which I lived for five years at what was once the Habana Inn in Oklahoma City was over the Country-Western bar, so, although I was not a fan of Country originally, I grew to appreciate it especially as one song played last each night had a bass line that made my toilet seat bunch and tap unless I left the seat up, and the rest of the night would be quiet.
I do not remember the name of the song and I rarely hear it nowadays, but when I do, it is not just the last song of the night now. It is memories of people still here and those gone. That song can wreck a simple trip to Dollar Tree.
I live in New Bedford now a city of immigrants, their descendants, and all the spice that brings to one location. There is a large Hispanic/Latino community, but also a huge Portuguese and Cape Verdean population, too, that seems to fall in cracks between the racial and ethnic groups, so what they get they have to constantly work at getting. In checking off the racial box on forms, they are “other”.
Before the pandemic, I would go to the city’s only Gay bay on a Saturday night and have drinks with the older patrons and learn local Gay History while the younger ones did the younger-ones thing which seemed to involve a night in Providence, which is not too far away and has a vibrant Gay club life, and, when returning from there stopping in the New Bedford bar for a night cap and a few final dances. Because of the more mixed racial and ethnic make-up of the last-minute, last-drink crowd, the rhythm of the music changed.
One song came on without fail and, hearing it for the first time after moving to New Bedford, it became synonymous in my mind with the city. Adding to this layer of meaning was the fact that an older gentleman, but younger than myself, would dance to it with his husband with such grace and fluidity, it was a pas de deux, not just a couple dancing. Even after the passing of his husband he would dance to this song when it came on with that same grace and rhythm whether by himself or with someone who cut into his memories.
I was walking down Market Street in San Francisco heading toward the Castro after having made a few of those “connections” that kept happening and because they were both joyful and sad but overall good to have made on my retrospective train trip, the last having been at the LGBT Community Center that had closed a huge circle with a simple hug, and after a quick run into the Apothecarium, when this song came on my headset a continent away from the city with which my sentimental self had connected it to.
I had a bit of a walk to go and, between dodging various rails along the main and cross streets calling for lightness of foot, I found myself dancing to the music as I encountered each rail, but was not aware that while my movements were artistic yet discrete as i moved up the street to the music with only slightly fancier steps added at each encountered rail line in my mind, when the song ended just after I caught my reflection in a diner window as I ended in a physical flourish that did not match the simple one that was in my mind, a small, imperceptible imitation of the man in the bar back home, and my performance was actually greeted with applause because the street had been my stage, I realized I had apparently danced like no one was watching down the few blocks of Market when in reality everyone was, and I had done well.
I knew the song but not the name or who the artist was until I ran into the smooth dancer at the bar after my trip and told him I had thought of him during my public dancing, and he named the song and artist.
That song, Vivir Mi Vida, now has added meaning.
It is no longer just a connection to a city. It is now the song I danced free and unfettered to down Market street while thinking of that city and that one man in it making it part of the closing of the circle that enveloped 50 years of people and life experiences.
Me and Marc Antony dancing down Market Street. Different Marc Antony, but I am a different person now too.
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