Lessons From the Line in the Park
By Daphne Gregory-Thomas
I sling a bag over one shoulder filled with books, bug spray, and snacks, and a canvas chair over the other. I head down the winding path still shrouded in early-morning mist where I hope to find a patch of ground, perhaps under a tree. Fellow adherents of this ritual politely do the same. We stake our claims, settle in with a common purpose, and start this hallowed morning by observing those who keep coming, each year never less exciting than the last.
Shakespeare has arrived in our park, and we’ve come for tickets.
Sitting in line for these tickets fulfills the prophecy of Joe Papp’s intent from 60 years ago to provide free outdoor access to Shakespeare. Those of us who have been at this for years still consider it an act of guerilla warfare against theater becoming a commodified privilege just for the rich. We queue up, watching new generations arrive in line year after year. We veterans know “the sit” is part of the joy—equally as important as the play itself, which will reveal how the lexicon and lessons of the Bard are as important today as they were when he wrote them.
Today, the play is Richard the Third, attracting many who follow the Marvel universe—the lead is a woman known for her fierce performance in Black Panther. I notice my fellow line sitters and, given their age, assume they are probably attracted to this play for that reason alone. I ponder how to encourage line joy, something I eagerly anticipate each year. I question if it is possible given the full attention they are already paying to their phones and Instagram accounts where they are curating this experience into their online lives.
I want to help them better understand this reverential block of time, the why of all of it. Telling them won’t work—a graying woman sporting crow’s feet and sturdy shoes lamenting about how great things used to be will not be well received. I know this encounter will be a one-off with all involved getting tickets and vanishing into their lives with their randomly selected seats. My time is limited, and I have nothing to lose.
I turn right to my three tap-tap-tapping line-mates and ask: “Would anyone like to see a section of today’s newspaper? I finished the front page and Sunday Review.”
One in the group looks up, and says: “The newspaper?”
“Yes”, I say. “Lots of great articles today.”
Someone chirps, “I think I saw a newspaper in my sister’s apartment not too long ago.”
Another politely relates: “We read everything online, but thanks anyway.”
I know this encounter will be a one-off once everyone gets their tickets and vanishes into their lives with their randomly selected seats.
I cannot help myself. “I do that too, but most of that gets picked for me because of the algorithm thing. When I get the paper on the weekend, I read all the articles. It fills me in with what I would not ordinarily read. Besides, holding the paper in my hands once a week and getting my fingers inky with what’s going on in the world makes it more real.
This brings faint smiles. One politely accepts the newspaper as something quaint, an item to feign reading for a selfie, which she immediately posts. I wait for another opportunity. It comes from one of them. “Do you come here often?” he asks, as if in a trendy bar.
“To the line?” I quickly answer. “Every year for the last 35, twice each summer, once for each show,” leaving them to their calculations.
Another looks up and puts down her phone. I feel the door of conversation squeak open.
“The shows have always been great, but the lines were great, too. I got to know a lot of people from all over the place. Getting here early was always important. In previous years, there were books, tarot cards, scratchy blankets, and board games; Risk, Monopoly, Dungeons and Dragons, and chess. Pretty hands-on,” I informed them.
“Who made up the rules for all this?” one asks.
“Rules?” I question. “There were no set rules, other than what we figured out as we went along, on the fly, like when people who came late tried to cut the line. Big mistake.”
“That’s right!” another chimes in. “You guys didn’t have cell phones then. No chance to take their picture and humiliate them with a post.”
“Shouts of shame were a powerful tool,” I answer. “Line felons fled our shouts and shaking fists, scurrying to the back where they belonged with a lesson.”
Just then, a young couple on my left chimes in. I felt the curiosity quotient rising.
“How did you guys figure all this out without phones? How did you figure anything out, get anything done? No phones, no social! How did you know where to be?”
“Where to be?” I think out loud. “Well, sometimes in the newspaper or maybe on a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. A friend then told another friend. In those days, information often got passed by word-of-mouth. Whatever was happening acquired a certain energy. That is pretty much how we found out about stuff. That’s exactly how Woodstock happened.”
“What’s Woodstock?” someone asked.
“That’s where lots of hippies showed up, listened to music, and smoked pot,” another offered. “I saw pictures somewhere. Kind of like an old school Burning Man.”
At that, the conversation door cracks wide open. We spend the entire sit time talking about whatever comes to mind. No phones, no Instagram, no feed.
“Woodstock started off as a small thing with a few bands,” I answered. “Word got around and it just got bigger and bigger. More bands were invited. Someone in charge asked a farmer down the road if they could use his land since it was getting too big for the place they had. Something in the air told us all to get moving. We jumped in cars, mostly with the clothes on our backs and a few sandwiches. When the cars jammed up the highway, we just kept walking. It was the energy that brought us. A half a million people from all over the country showed up, and the music was great!”
At this, the tap-tap-tapping stops. Everyone goes quiet. Finally, one says, “That sounds pretty awesome. Nothing like Burning Man. That feels kind of fake, like a made-up version of what you are telling us. I’m a little jealous of the real thing!”
Another offers, “You didn’t even have Instagram to post it, but it feels like you really remember it! We put everything on Instagram. Sometimes we even make stuff up to post and then forget what we posted.”
“Feels sort of phony,” another admits.
“Don’t get me wrong!” I answer. “We made things up too! Sometimes we would say something that wasn’t quite true, just to look cool. The difference is we didn’t tattoo our stories on the universe with pictures and posts. Lucky for us, those things just evaporated with time. Besides, you’re being pretty honest right now, aren’t you? You’re here, ready to sit in line for five hours. Nothing phony about that!”
At that, the conversation door cracks wide open. We spend the entire sit time talking about whatever comes to mind: bad Supreme Court decisions, music, books, our jobs, where to get the best burger. No phones, no Instagram, no feed. Just strangers in the flesh, getting to know each other, riffing on the world, sharing words, language, universal truths—and snacks too.
Not once does anyone ask me my name, nor I theirs. It doesn’t matter.
When it comes time to get our tickets, we all pack up our gear and move toward the box office for the final reward: free tickets to Richard the Third. At that moment, one of them turns to me. “This was so much fun! We should plan a line reunion next year!”
“Great,” I say, “but if you put it on Instagram, I will never know.”
“No worries,” she responds. “I will put the energy out in the atmosphere. I’m sure you will find us.”
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Daphne Gregory-Thomas spent 45 years as a high school educator in New Jersey and New York. Her focus was on working with students with and without disabilities in their transition to the post-secondary world via her award-winning self-awareness, self-advocacy, and career-awareness internship programs. She believes her professional success was a direct result of everything her students taught her over many years. She was diagnosed with cancer soon after she retired, and then became a patient-to-patient volunteer at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. She is also a participant in the Memorial Sloan Kettering Visible Ink Writing Program.