Known and Unknown: a sojourner finds community in DC

I'm at the barre in The Washington Ballet School's bright, spacious studio, taking class along with a scattering of other middle-aged students. Caught up in the moment of doing ronds de jambes, I almost don't notice the teacher walking along the students offering corrections.

As he comes to me, he slightly adjusts my arm.

"I like your practice," he says. "I've told you that before."

I don't take ballet looking for praise: I take it because I love it. Which is good, because I'm not really that good!

But to be recognized--and remembered--now that means a lot to me.

***

One of the disorienting things about temporarily living here in DC has been anonymity. When you move to a new place, nobody knows who you are. Instead of being a college professor and writer, a Sunday School teacher and "good listener," a dancer and friend and alto and cat lover, in DC I became, well, Nobody.

And that can be a bit disconcerting.

During my first few weeks--or maybe couple of months--in DC, these lines from an Emily Dickinson poem kept repeating themselves in my mind:

I’m Nobody! Who are you? 

Are you – Nobody – too? 

Without a job and without people who knew me, I was "Nobody" here, with no responsibility to anyone, no attachments, no schedule. 

OK, that can be a very good situation in some ways.  Friends at home would tell me how much they envied my unemployed, uprooted state--especially here in beautiful Washington DC. I could run around and visit museums all day (a very anonymous activity!) without having to worry about work or responsibilities.

Being Nobody, I could fly under the radar. And in those ways, I did love the freedom of being Nobody. 

But at the same time, I also felt unattached, a bit unmoored. It didn't seem to matter what I did here--which can be an odd feeling. I realized that I wanted to do things that DID matter.

It was the experience of being Nobody in DC that made me realize how much community means to me.

***

It's one of the bonding experiences of exercising in public: using locker rooms with other women and engaging in conversations while showering. Reminds me of college.

On this particular day, it's a conversation about the women who are training for a Senior Swim Meet. I see them timing themselves and following workout plans in the lap lanes. I've just mentioned that I'm impressed by their diligence.

"But you swim laps, too, don't you? I see you here a lot," says one of the women to me.

I point out that I do swim laps, but I'm not training for a race. "Too slow!" I laugh.

But inside, I'm pleased that someone has noticed and remembered me. I thought I was anonymous--Nobody--at the pool. But how could I think that? Pauline, who checks people in at the entrance, now waves me through without even looking at my I.D. I'm a regular.

***

In the rest of her poem, Emily Dickinson has some scathing words for people who think they're Somebody.

How dreary – to be – Somebody! 

How public – like a Frog – 

To tell one’s name – the livelong June – 

To an admiring Bog!

I'm not enough of an Emily Dickinson scholar to know if her poem means that she likes being Nobody. She did live a reclusive lifestyle . . . on the other hand, she carefully preserved her poems and shared them with people whose opinions mattered to her. She wanted to be Somebody to them.

How much better to be Somebody by having people remember your name without having to tell it "the livelong June."

***

"Andy's here today again," says Margot as I walk into the Capitol Hill United Methodist Church  kitchen one Tuesday morning, grabbing my dishwashing gloves and pulling an apron off the hook. It's time for community breakfast, and I'm ready to work.

"Hi Jane," calls Andy, who's already busy spraying off cutting boards and stacking them into a rack for the dishwasher.

"Hey Andy. You're already busy!" I say, putting on the apron and pulling on the gloves.

"Yeah, might as well get started. Hey, my wife, Amy, said she met you at the Zambia fundraiser."

"Yes, we were there! We sat by Amy!" I plunge a few pans into the big tub of sudsy water, scrub and then stack them on another rack. Andy and I move comfortably around each other in the dishwashing area. I have a routine; he does, too.

Later, after we've helped serve breakfast to about 40 of our "housed and unhoused neighbors," we head back into the kitchen to start washing up the plates, cups, silverware. One of the men who's often at breakfast, Nathaniel, comes by to drop off his dishes.

"Thanks Nathaniel," I say. "Did you enjoy breakfast?"

He says something, but I can never understand him. I gather he struggles with mental illness. I just listen and smile at him. Eventually, he stops talking and just stands quietly, watching me wash dishes.

Rob comes up with a big pile of plates and cups. "Hey Nathan, are you bothering Jane?"

"No, he's fine," I say, stacking more cups into a tray. "He's just keeping me company." Nathaniel stays while I continue to wash dishes.

***

Are these my communities in DC? A group of church volunteers working in a kitchen and an assortment of homeless people who struggle with mental illness? A class of middle-aged and older women, clumsily trying to become better at ballet? A racially diverse assortment of women of all shapes and sizes who exercise, encourage one another, and chat together at a public pool?

Maybe they are.

***

I'm back at church in the evening. At a gathering of the Tuesday Theology group, the five of us--Kari, Margot, Rob, James, and Dallas--have been discussing the Catholic theologian and humanitarian Jean Varnier. I've never heard of him before this evening. His theology emphasizes the importance of humility, openness, and vulnerability in community. We've been posing difficult questions and working through them together--many of the questions tie to our work at the community breakfast.

What do we do when someone in a community doesn't want to be part of the community, James wonders. We all know who he's talking about: a particular person who comes to the community breakfast who's difficult to get along with. We think aloud, ponder, ask more questions, circle back to humility, openness, vulnerability. Finally, we finish with prayer and reluctantly move toward the front door of the building: it's time to go.

"Keep an eye on your walls," says Dallas.

Before our meeting started, we'd been discussing the flooding that my husband and I had in our lower-level apartment just before the evening meeting.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The ground is saturated. If it rains again, those walls will bulge. That's what happened back in the Rapid City flood: the concrete blocks got pushed in and the walls collapsed."

"Oh no!" I exclaim. "Don't tell me that, Dallas! I won't be able to sleep!"

Everyone laughs together, including Dallas, as we head out into the quiet night, filled with theology, laughter, and community.

***

Keeping Jean Varnier's challenges to humility in mind I decide that maybe I am just Nobody. Which can be good, right? I'm not a dreary Somebody, "public--like a Frog. " I'm an Emily Dickinson-like Nobody, known to some other Nobodies: "Are you--Nobody--too?"

We're a community of Nobodies, because we are Somebody to one another. I like the idea.

As Dickinson says, "Don't tell! they'd advertise--you know."