A few weeks ago, I stopped by the Occupy Wall Street protest at Zucotti Park. The protestors had been dwelling there since September. Across the street, the Freedom Tower, the reincarnated World Trade Center, rises in strange, shiny contrast to the earthy, clamor of the protestors below. Much of it is relentless street theater, loud and raucous performance in drag, a gathering, lecturing, drumming, chanting, crowding and parading crowd of all stripes. It's typical New York City, grimy, claustophobic and in-your-face. Among the many cardboard signs and banners, percussion instruments and assorted freaks and geeks of our community, there stood this fellow with the sign, "Aloha," simple, direct, resonant, contradictory.
I didn't ask him what his intentions were. But I didn't need to. As a hula dancer, I think I know what aloha stands for. It's what hula dancers dance for. And what we should live for. Aloha, not the soft, gushy, earnest love or the impetuous infatuation. Tough love: a deep care for humanity and nature, a generous yet tenacious respect for history, community and family; a transcendent and transformative love. The guy behind the shades looks like he could hurt you, but he seems warm and generous.
No comments:
Post a Comment