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When all was finally said and done, it wasn't appearing on CNN in a tutu, nor appearing on CBC in a tutu, or posing in Central Park in a tutu, or watching as a limo slowed down on Fifth Avenue and the passenger leaned out the window and hollered -- at me -- hey, I saw you on TV in that tutu! -- that stood out as the most memorable moment of my week last week. Which, when you think about it, is memorable in itself: I had a week in which I appeared on CNN in a tutu and that particular experience will not be recounted here because, during that particular week, stranger things happened.
Stranger things, like the prayer circle.
I don't even know why the prayer circle was there, in the elevator bank in a remote wing of the convention floor of the Sheraton in Times Square. I was there because I had gotten lost, and, as usually happens when I get lost, I had rushed determinedly in whatever direction seemed most promising. In this case, it was toward a bank of elevators that, it turned out, was hosting a prayer circle. And my first thought was, oh. They're blocking the elevators. My second thought was, and they're praying.
My third thought was, and I'm wearing a tutu.
I considered, for a moment, turning back. But turning back meant trying to retrace my steps through the maze of the convention floor and I wasn't really sure that I could manage that and I was late and I was frazzled and I was pretty sure that if I didn't keep moving I would just collapse to the floor and cry. So what if there was a prayer circle, praying, right there? Those were the elevators that I needed.
So I walked up to the circle, holding the layers of my tutu close to my body so that I wouldn't make too much rustling sound and disturb the prayer. This shouldn't have been a concern, because they were praying really, really loudly, but still. For some reason I felt as though my tutu, with all its ruffles and tulle and bounce, might represent some kind of affront to their spirituality. I edged close to a woman on the outside of the circle.
"Excuse me," I said, in a dramatic whisper that wasn't strictly necessary, given how loudly they were praying. "Excuse me, but I really need to take the elevator." The woman turned to me, looked me up and down, and smiled. "I saw you on TV," she whispered. "You're a good woman." Then she resumed her prayer, and, continuing to pray out loud, put her hand on my back and gently guided me forward through the crowd until I was near an elevator. Someone pressed the button, and I just waited. Everyone looked at me and -- not breaking the rhythm of their prayer -- smiled.
I might have cried right then, but I was distracted by the fact that I was the only one who was a) not praying, b) white, and c) wearing a tutu. I smiled back -- it was, I think, what is usually described by unimaginative writers as a "brave smile" -- and concentrated very, very hard on willing the elevator to come. Then I noticed that their prayer had changed.
"...and Lord, give this good woman strength, and surround her in love, and take care of her nephew, and her family..."
That was when I started crying.
Last week was -- notwithstanding the hurt and the drama -- so full of love and support and generosity, and that love and support and generosity sustained me through the hurt and the drama, and that, in itself, is extraordinary. But as I said in this video interview, and in many media interviews, the only thing that surprised me about that outpouring of love and support was its volume. I already knew that this community is a loving community, a generous community, an extraordinary community. It's lovingness is one of the reasons that I've kept blogging through the most difficult times, why I've felt empowered and emboldened to share even my darkest secrets and my deepest fears in this space. Even when the trolls have come out from beneath the bridge and trampled the flowers here, I've kept going,
