Written by Dalma Roman
17/09/2023
As the dimly lit entrance of the jazz bar door closed behind me, my world felt as though it had sunken deeper and deeper into infinite darkness. The frigid wind blew with passion across my face while simultaneously carrying an aroma of burning tobacco and aged whiskey. The flickering neon signs lit the city that never slept, giving it the type of brightness that enchanted one’s eyes to open slightly wider to embrace the vivid essence that the city provided. Splendid blue and purple hues glistened across the taxi windows, almost as if they complemented the yellow representing the iconic New York taxi. The bold, bubbly letters of renowned jazz clubs adorned every billboard that blocked out the city’s monochrome, lifeless grey buildings.
As each of my footprints soaked into the uneven cobblestone streets, the sound of laughter and banter that seamlessly blended with the live jazz music followed behind me, and my current thoughts began to fade into a distant memory. I recalled myself on the stage, a microphone close to my lips and my heart pounding in my chest. The dimmed stage light glistened upon me, bathing me in warmth and causing beads of sweat to drip down my temples. Despite my growing nervousness, my father’s voice rang within me. He always reminded me that my voice filled with emotion and beauty when I sang the words of Billie Holiday’s song Strange Fruit. So I took a deep breath and sang my quintessential audition song amongst the numerous jazz club patrons. The audience looked at me captivated, as if they were mesmerized by the song’s message, but the silence after the final note proved otherwise. A song my father once sang to me, which carried a message of injustice in the world, consistently left me an outcast on every stage I performed.
My thoughts returned to the present as the sound of the rush-hour traffic rang within my ears. Horse-drawn carriages clanked against the cobbled streets, and the conversations among street vendors and pedestrians were a lively reminder of the urban life of the 1920s. The wind greeted me again, and I placed my hands in my pocket, hoping to shield myself from the cold. But instead of a feeling of warmth, I felt the dozens of wrinkled subway tickets that represented my journey to countless auditions. As my fingers grazed against the grooved edges of the tickers, they became a chilling reminder of the failure my voice held and rejection from every club owner. While every owner’s phrasing was different, their bourbon breath and message, “I’m afraid we won’t be able to offer you a regular slot here,” were always the same. Finding the nearest trash can, I took out the tickets and threw them alongside the cigarette butts and pizza-stained paper plates that filled the overflowing bin. The tickets blew alongside the wind, becoming another distant reminder of a painful memory—representing a symbol of nothingness.
As the street lights flickered to life and the echos of rush hour traffic grew faint, I frantically raced down the streets of New York, trying to catch one of the last subways heading to my apartment. As I ran, I was stuck in a daze, running unattentive, seeing muted shadows of flappers with bobbed hair and gentlemen with pinstriped suits and fedora hats. The malodorous smell of the station’s stale air was strong enough to bring me back to reality. For a city that never slept, the subway station was unexpectedly still. The quiet was eerie. The platform was like a murder scene before a crime struck. The blinking lights of the train flashed in my eyes, and I held my hands out as the train door opened slowly, allowing me to enter the subway car. Once again, it was empty, just like the station. The seemingly repeating pattern sent chills down my spine. However, the quiet was calming after a while, almost like a gentle hum that lets ideas roam throughout one’s mind.
My father’s voice echoed in my mind in the stillness of the subway. He always told me that “music, like life, was a song of struggle and resilience. It’s filled with notes of rejections and melodies of highs and low.” As the subway rattled along the tracks, it became clear to me that the rejection I faced wasn’t a reflection of my talent but a reminder that it took courage to challenge the status quo. By straying away from comfort, I had the power to shed light on the stories of others and the injustices in the world.
Each gentle chime on the subway reminded me of the history and change forming amongst me. As the subway car doors opened in each neighborhood of New York City, they became reminders of how society was challenging the status quo. From stops like Harlem, where African American writers and artists allowed for the flourishing of the Harlem Renaissance, to Greenwich Village, where Bohemian intellects of all races and genders gathered in dimly lit cafes and jazz clubs to discuss literature, philosophy, and politics. With every subway stop, I saw neighborhoods that were once filled with judgment grow into hubs of creativity and activism. So, as I stepped off the subway and into the streets of New York City, my father’s words, like Billy Holiday’s timeless jazz melody, played in my mind.
Retrospect Journal 