NEW YORK—I was in a low mood, so I decided to drastically change locale. I left my office in Manhattan and took the subway train to Coney Island, a beach area one hour away from Manhattan, site of a thriving Russian community and wonderful shops. I hoped this move would change my spirits.
Midway to my destination, a thin, shabbily dressed man with a sports cap came into the car. On one hand he was holding a cane, and on the other, two shopping bags full of groceries. As soon as he got in, he started singing old songs in Spanish.
He wasn’t singing their complete versions but just snippets of them, which he arbitrarily mixed. Interspersed, he made some comments about how beautiful his native Puerto Rico was. Although slightly out of tune, his singing was still appealing.
One of the songs he was singing was just “Cuidado con el tiburón, mamita, cuidado con el tiburón!” (Be careful of the shark, honey, be careful of the shark!), which has a nice melody when sung in its original Spanish.
This man’s singing totally altered the otherwise quiet atmosphere in the subway car. An older Chinese man sitting quietly opposite me looked disconcerted at this unusual interruption, and a woman sitting next to me sighed and said, “Well, at least he is happy.”
The man walked back and forth in the car asking for help, saying that he had had an accident, had just been released from the hospital and needed some money to get by. He wasn’t successful in eliciting a response from the few people in the car, so he sat down and continued singing, unperturbed. The woman next to me grew tired of listening to him and looked at me as if to say, “When is he going to shut up?”
I compared our situations. I am a relatively accomplished professional, healthy, without big worries but feeling miserable for no major reason. And there is this man, older than I, sick, unable to walk properly, but singing heartily and feeling happy. There is something wrong in this picture, I told myself.
When we reached the Coney Island station, I waited for him to come out of the car. He was walking with difficulty and was unable to look at me properly, and apparently had the blurred vision characteristic of people with cataracts. I asked him in Spanish what his secret for being happy was.
“When I am in a low mood, I just sing and my worries go magically away,” he told me. “I also make some money in the process.” And he explained, “Some time ago, I saw a guy—his voice wasn’t better than mine—singing in the train, and I thought that I could do the same. You only have to be careful of the police. As soon as I see a policeman, I move three or four cars away so as not to be bothered by him.”
I asked him what he had in his shopping bags. He told me that it was food that had been given to him at the hospital before he was discharged. “They gave me rice, beans, tomato sauce, flour, cereals, milk, and cold cuts. All this food will allow me to invite a couple of friends, and I will still have food for the rest of the week,” he said.
I was envious of him, evidently so happy despite his dire circumstances. I gave him some change and said good-bye to him. As I was leaving, he started singing the verses of the traditional Mexican song “Cielito Lindo”: “Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones” (Ay, ay, ay, ay, sing and don’t cry because by singing, my lovely one, all hearts become happy.)
César Chelala is a writer on human rights issues.
