My husband and I were in New York City again recently, and the motion and the madness of the city was reminiscent of a previous trip there. We had been down in the subway station at Canal Street waiting for a train to Lincoln Center, and a young man played the bucket drums while his friend danced for dollars in front of him. They are there everyday from sunup to sundown - drumming, dancing, and fighting to survive.
It reminded me of my marriage. My husband and I had just had a long discussion about the difficulty and demands of marriage, and what a struggle it is to set boundaries and be strong in the face of the world's threats and distractions. He said it's like a battle. He said we stand back-to-back on the battlefield, holding each other up with swords drawn, fighting for the right to be beholden to one another. For the freedom to love and be loved in return. They battled, in the subway that day, as we battle for our marriage everyday. And in that we are the same. The steady pace of that bucket drum rang out like a call to war. The sweat on the brow of the dancer was evidence of his commitment to the front line. It was warrior music. In my marriage, I am that dancer, and my husband beats the drum.
He slaps his wide palms against the belly of the bucket, forcing it to ring out a cry that summons the attention of passers by. His beating is slow at first, but steady. His eyes closed, his head back, becoming lost in the work. His face bears either a slight grin or a deep strain - it's not clear. But his intention is unmistakable. He will drum to save his life. He will drum to save my life. He will drum to usher in the hope and health of our future children, as I dance.
He dips low into a frightening and hurried rhythm that sends chills up your spine. Then slows his pace to a sound that awakens the truth that breaks your heart. His heart breaks too, but he drums on. Despite heartache, despite disappointment, racism, betrayal, and waning faith, he drums on. He is not above this pain, so he will move through - FIGHT THROUGH - because he longs for happiness. And he longs to see me free.
I don't want to be free. I cling to his rhythm. Jonathan Livingston Seagull can have his flight alone. I'll stay here on earth - my feet a slave to the percussion of my husband's warrior song. My dance is a charge - a forge - a storming of the battlefield, my bayonet just and swift. We fight back to back. We fight for our marriage, our freedom, our portion of happiness, our peace.
I dance. Kick-ball-chains and arabesques. Pop-lockin' and headspinnin' on a flattened cardboard box while trains full of passengers fly by, oblivious to our fight to stay alive. I shake my hips to his African rhythm, swinging my arms backward and forward, round and round - hands to my chest then flailed back behind me. My best rendition of the steps of my ancestors. I spin out in a Donna Summers disco move, then break into the wop. I tap dance out our worries and misgivings. He drums in God's grace and countenance.
He drums because he must. I dance because I must. He drums and I dance. I dance and he drums. Can you hear him? Can you see me? We're here everyday from sunup to sundown, fighting for the freedom to love and be loved in return.
