Common Ground

Midway through my shift, a woman I know from folk music circles came by and said hello. Very much a free spirit, she wears her gray hair long and goes by the colourful name she adopted in the Sixties. Right now she’s between jobs and taking a retraining course.

She was sorry to see me in my current role.

"So, you’re busking…" she said. "That’s too bad."

("That's too bad". It was the first time anyone had said it so directly. In a funny way, I had to admire her forthrightness.)

"No, it’s great," I assured her quite honestly. "It's a way for me to work regularly without travelling a lot while my kids are young. And besides, it pays."

She looked skeptically at my case.

"But it doesn’t look like you make, y'know, very much."

I explained that I had just scooped out some change so it doesn't pile up and discourage donations.

She still didn’t seem convinced. For her, busking was obviously a sign of failure.

At that point, I started to play a little instrumental loop to keep the passers-by entertained and to end the conversation. (Speaking of which, I’ve been discovering that without much extra effort, I can add these little instrumental bridges between songs to keep the flow happening. I’m improvising more and feeling a lot more confident on the guitar...which is no surprise, considering I'm now playing about ten times as much as I used to.)

Meanwhile, my acquaintance and I had run out of things to say to each other. When she said goodbye, I was relieved to not have to justify myself any more. Even though I feel good about busking—I love the challenge, the opportunity to reach people, the steady pay—I know that many people simply can’t get over that it looks like begging.

They’re different activities, obviously. But reluctantly, I must admit there is some common ground.

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This afternoon, a man selling the Outreach newspaper was further along the corridor from me. He’s not supposed to be selling the paper (which benefits the homeless) on TTC property. When he saw me, he verified that I had a license and seemed worried that I was going to report him. He anxiously asked if he could stay for a few more minutes and I said that was fine by me.

In fact, I often buy the Outreach paper, which is actually a pretty good read. I’ve gotten to know the man who sells them outside our local LCBO store. When I told him that I'd gotten my subway musician's license, he was interested and encouraging.

Obviously, there are huge differences in our lives. I don’t know if the man at the LCBO is actually homeless. I tend to assume he’s not because he’s clearly a smart, nice man—how’s that for stereotyping? Meanwhile, I’m a middle-class, reasonably financially secure woman with a house, a husband and two small kids. I can’t claim to have experienced anything close to the level of adversity a homeless person encounters on the streets each day.

Now, though, I do share the experience—however cushioned by my circumstances—of being looked down upon.

I now know what it feels like to receive a glance of disdain and annoyance from a well-dressed passer-by. I know what it feels like to be laughed at (twice, by teenagers). I know what it’s like to have other people think I have no choice, that I am down and out, that perhaps I am insane.

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Meanwhile, a female photographer came up to me this afternoon and eagerly asked if she could take my picture.

She’s working on a project about the face of working women in Toronto.

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