HIGHLY COMMENDED Andréana Lefton – A Home for the Wander-Wounded
What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis,
whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wandering stars,
and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? – Hamlet
Do you like your music black or blue? Black and blue, baby. I like my music bruised.
Bruised music. Two words spoken by a rough sleeper near Holborn, near the London School of Economics, where students defy sleep in the library, their caffeinated bodies slumped over Schumpeter or Smith. Yet, come seven o’clock, when the second wind beckons, see these same students emerge, bleary-eyed, with a look of determination. You can almost see the thought passing through the prefrontal cortex to the emotional and reward centers of the brain. This is London. What shall we do?
The day of the rough sleeper was clear and sunny. Yes, those days do happen in London. I was walking, too fast as usual, the pace of London being somewhere between a trot and a jog. My ears were free from encumbrance (read: iPod), and I was able to take in the sounds of the city. I stopped glaring at my feet and looked up. Trafalgar Square. Covent Garden. The Strand. Pinch me.
Cities are notorious for mindless living. But in London, if you don’t pay attention, you’ll be run over. Literally. A friend of mine jokes that you’re not a Londoner until you’ve been nearly hit by a cab. But the key word is nearly. In London, near-misses are like echoes of the Blitz. Survivors sometimes speak of life during wartime as “heightened,” supernatural somehow. Yet fearfully mortal. London retains this paradoxical blend of headiness and caution. Step into oncoming traffic, yet mind the gap. Opera, theatre, musicals – the choice is yours. Yet the greatest risk remains: to chance a smile at a stranger on the tube.
I chanced a smile at the rough sleeper, but got little response. Life’s poetry isn’t always as neat as we’d like. Yet, again, it’s the near-misses that make life so thrilling, warning you to hold tight, stay alert. It’s the near-misses that make the sudden, blinding hits so palpable. So when you’re hit by the realization that here you are, at LSE, in a cohort of students who act as the most inspiring check on ego possible, it’s like strong coffee for the soul. You wake up, rub the grit from your eyes, stumble from your mental library. And live.
It’s tempting, when writing about this hyper-real existence, to rattle off a list of places and events; to name-drop unsubtly (“yes, I believe it was somewhere between the Andrew Motion talk and a reception for Amartya Sen that I lost my wallet”); to get all tied up in the content of days without pausing to look at their summation. Thinking about the past two terms, my mind reels from sensory overload. First, there is my walk to school, through the surging heart of “The City” (which must be written in caps), past St. Paul’s, Fleet Street, the Royal Courts of Justice. There are the sights – late October roses scaling old church walls – and also the smells – beer froth blending with sewage and cigarettes. The primeval filth of London. How to organize this gorgeous confusion? How to summarize this sensory barrage?
Let’s build a dream day, a day of unlimited hours, that begins and ends with a startling realization and spends its middle age expanding your capacity for generous living. Knowing London, the day will be a temperamental mix of sun and cloud. Crushed into the tube, imagine yourself in a time and-space machine, rocketing through the bowels of the city – not just London, but Tokyo, Mumbai, Tehran. Today you will understand the rough sleeper’s phrase of beauty within sorrow, bruising yourself on the sharp chords of life. London is not for the mere flâneur, the estranged walker who holds herself aloof among strangers. It’s for the engaged walker, one who witnesses – then acts.
We begin at LSE, which just now is filled with students raising money for earthquake struck Japan. Others are protesting Gadafi. Oh, and over there, you’ll see the Hare Krishna-mobile, providing cheap eats to cash-strapped learners. Dodge down leaflet alley, aka Houghton Street, and stop for a quick pick-me-up at the Garrick. Then it’s on to class, perhaps a seminar on moral philosophy. The professor tickles some thoughts about Kant and cosmopolitanism, which you develop over (more) coffee afterwards. And don’t be surprised if your professor shows up at the George (the campus pub) for Fright night libations. Here the student’s marginality is replaced. Not only are you accepted. You are welcomed.
LSE is a place for the young and metaphorically homeless to taste true belonging. When people ask me, Where are you from? they either get a puzzled look (could you repeat the question?), or else a catalogue of places, in no particular order, which I could potentially call home. For many people, this roving existence is somewhat alien. Not at LSE. We’re a school of imaginary creatures straight out of a Borges novel, each of us glittering with stories and selves. A hybrid bunch of multi hyphenates. Draw up a seat, take a load off.
Confusing as these shifting boundaries and identities can be, we all speak a common language, and share at least one interest: London! On our dream day, the city’s treasures spread before us, we face none of the usual time constraints and can sample at whim. Aida at the Royal Opera House. As You Like It at The Globe. A smorgasbord of options. But the student is often a solitary creature. How to make sense, then, of this strange groups of “others” chatting by your side?
Aha! The end-of-day realization – the one you’ve been waiting for – hits, right on target, no nearmisses this time. Cue the bruised music. You’ve made your own belonging, shaped it just as surely as the Thames sculpts its banks. You and your posse of nomads, your LSE rough thinkers who refuse easy answers even when truth cuts to the bone. So unplug your iPod and listen to the sounds of London. You never know what you may hear.
Come. Walk with me.