Union Square Log - Tai Chi and Spongebob

The fountain is not running but I grab a cup of hot cider and sit with my bags at the fountain. I watch for a minute a group of men huddled, talking. After a moment they return to their stands where they are selling Obama paraphernalia and buttons with a sort of choose-your-rebellious-cause aesthetic. There are Rasta colors, large pot leaves, Ché images, and et cetera. I realize that I’ll be much warmer in the sun (it’s one of the first sunny days in a while) so I migrate over to the South side, the main gathering place.

A man with tiny iPod speakers and a large suitcase is standing, talking…to himself? He’s wearing black and white military fatigues and a sweater vest, moving around in a slightly spastic but also intentional way. I watch him with some difficulty – the light glistening on sheets of ice that are slowly turning into pools of water is blinding. Birds sing. I can pick up a little of what he says, “I like to wear black everyday…or eat chicken everyday…BELCH.” His mumbling mixes with birds singing and the harmonious vaguely Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon music that waves out of his speakers. Curious, I look around at the other people sunning themselves; whereas in the Greenmarket, people seem to have a magnetic attraction to the red, green, and orangey-pink apples, as well as the apple cider donuts, the change in focus in the south side of the plaza is striking - every face and body is turned toward the sun. As the man gets going in his routine though, people watch with curiosity. Is it a show? Is he insane? Does he want money?

A dog barks. He answers back “Wooowooowooof!” and continues his practice, which I now begin to recognize as Tai Chi, although his pelvis is shifted forward instead of being grounded and his movements are jerky rather than the smoothness I would expect. He warms up his head, his neck, and then begins to talk about the powerful Chi center in his belly.

“Pretty interesting, huh?” says a man next to me.
“Yeah.” I reply.
“Are you taking notes?!”
“Yeah.” (sheepishly)

I sense that I’m part of a small group watching…but not entirely sure what it is we’re witnessing. To me, it seems like a lesson for the benefit of the people in Union Square…if they only cared to participate.

One man finally does approach him. He’s wearing a red shirt with a larger-than-life portrait of Tupac under his black jacket, baggy jeans, a leather had, and a bunch of necklaces. One is a crucifix and the others look like ilekes, the beaded necklaces worn by practicers of santería for protection and connection to their orishas - cultural and spiritual mash-ups are taking place on the two bodies of these men. They begin to speak in Spanish and although I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying, I hear the second man calling the first “maestro.”

Next, two young boys leave their friends playing on the promotional lifeguard chair a few feet away to join the man - they are the first participants in his practice. I suddenly feel worried that they will ridicule him…why am I feeling protective? Somehow in watching I have become implicated, and perhaps egotistically feel like I see the performance in a way other people don’t. Not so. The boys stretch and shake and answer his questions genuinely and with smiles.

“Where to you live?”
“Brooklyn!”
“Ooh! I used to live in ---- but now I live in -----. Do you watch TV? Who do you like?”
“Spongebob!” one of them shouts, and lifts up his shirt to display his yellow spongey boxers. Then he throws himself on the ground with his legs over his head, butt in the air, Spongebob pride manifest.

After a while the kids rejoin their friends and the man continues moving, stretching, and talking about the importance of cultivating one’s Chi. Another dog passes, this time a tiny one on a leash held by a well-dressed woman. He barks at her too (the dog), but in an appropriately higher register.

“No drugs! Don’t do drugs!” he shouts at the kids, and then begins to slowly pack up his stuff, painstakingly putting on his jacket, straightening his sleeves, tucking in his shirt. He addresses all of us and no one in particular:

“I love everybody. I love New York…for at least…you know…not kicking me out.”

[I want to cry.]

He shakes his rattle a couple of times as if to bless the space he was using and the rest of us, and I shift my attention to a group of people a little younger than me talking about MySpace, STD’s, and how Rap is dead.