MARLBORO — I recently volunteered as a host. Was that what it was called? No, that wasn't it. Ambassador? Yes! I was an Ambassador at the May Gallery Walk - “The Art Party”!
I had a clipboard and a three-quarter-length-sleeve baseball tee that read, “I Love Brattleboro.” I felt like I was on a team.
I was positioned with my husband at Pliny Park beside the Friday night justice seekers on the corner of High and Main. It was loud and overwhelming at the intersection, but I had a role. I like roles, particularly in large settings. They're like small, confined, pre-determined spaces.
With clipboard and a masked smile at the ready, I foisted myself on people who had just come out from under the rock of their own seclusion, scurrying down the hill seeking safety into the bright light of community, into Friday night traffic and motorcycle engines revving.
“Hi!! Welcome to Gallery Walk!!” I said. “Can I help orient you?!!”
Their masked faces looked back at me stunned as if waking from a dream.
“What?” they said, blinking.
Maybe I was a little too over the top, an attempt to roll off the boulder under which I had been living, or maybe I was simply overjoyed to be of service again.
“I volunteered tonight to help show people around,” I said. “Can I practice with you?”
* * *
Many succumbed to my helpfulness. More than I'd like to admit had to explain that they actually worked for the Downtown Brattleboro Alliance - which organized the relaunch of the monthly tradition - or were on the board or were volunteers themselves. Others had read the article in The Commons and knew more than I knew.
One person lingered around for a bit and then asked if he could ask me a question.
“Yes!” I said, thinking him shy. “That's what I'm here for. Thank you!!!"
He had something in his hands. A camera, maybe, with something furry connected to it. He seemed to be keeping it from view.
“Can I ask you what Gallery Walk means to you?” he said, “And then videotape your response?"
“No!” I said, disappointed that he had turned the tables on me. I pointed him toward my husband. “I bet he'll do it,” I said.
The cameraman didn't give up, but he wasn't over the top like me - his tack was much more subtle. I succumbed to his persistence.
“I like how Gallery Walk reinvigorates our connections,” I said to the camera.
* * *
Some people welcomed my help. Some went on to admit that they'd never been to Gallery Walk before. Some had never been to Brattleboro. Some had just moved to Vermont during quarantine. These couples were my favorite - so in need of orientation and integration.
“Welcome!” I said, “Let me tell you what's going on.”
To these deer-eyed young folk, I explained the overarching theme of this month's Gallery Walk, pointed toward the pop-up art-making stations, told them about the dozen-plus galleries that were open, showed them how to get to the maker market in Harmony Park, and recommended the closed-off street with the live music.
“You have to see Molly,” I said. “She's great.”
“Can't you tell we're not from here?” said a transplant from Chicago and her friend from California. She looked down at her outfit. “We don't fit in."
“Oh, you don't have to worry about that in Brattleboro,” I said, “Look around. Anything goes.”
They smiled with their eyes, and I smiled with mine, and I sent them on their way. They headed for the music.
* * *
After my two-hour shift at the art pop-up in Pliny Park was complete, I joined the masked and dancing throngs on Elliot Street. In the absence of my role, I was immediately overwhelmed, but not the kind of mental overwhelm in the first crowd in town after winter - not to mention the first crowd in more than 14 months.
I was overwhelmed by bliss. By the unmasked faces on the stage, by Molly on drums, smiling and singing. “Let's stay together...loving you forever....”
My hand flew to my heart with the warm familiarity of the scene, the sweet sounds of live music and the throb of community.
* * *
I spied the couple from Chicago/California and the couple from New York City, and they spied me. They waved and I waved, and later, when I passed them on the curb or in the crowd, they thanked me for pointing them to Elliot Street.
“She's great,” they said.
“This is great,” they said.
“Thank you,” they said.
Others whom I helped from my post at Pliny Park didn't need any help at all. They just wanted someone to whom they could say, “Thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for Gallery Walk again. For all of this.”
Their thank yous seemed almost broken, like prayer.
I couldn't take any of the credit, but I joined them in their thankfulness for what the Downtown Brattleboro Alliance wove together with the artists and the makers and musicians and the restaurants and the community.
“It's amazing, right?” I said.
“It is,” they'd respond.
Sometimes I witnessed tears, particularly among those my age or older. Elderly men seemed the most relieved, as if they weren't sure they'd live to see another year. I'd watch them wobble toward me and when I greeted them, they would blink the longest, seemingly stunned to be spoken to, to be among humanity again.
“I'm just so happy to be here,” one said.
The youngers, by which I mean the teenagers, indulged me with my hellos and welcomes and directions, but once they spotted friends, they were off before I could finish.
A handful of people were leaving town, heading back up the hill, already overcome by sensory overload.
“You can make word art in there,” I said to one such woman passing by. “With an artist from NYC."
“I can make art?” she said, and her countenance, which had seemed heavy as she passed, lit up.
She turned right back around and headed into Pliny Park and joined the art makers.
“Thank you!” she said, her eyes sparkling.
It was in the eyes of friends and acquaintances and old colleagues, that I saw the most at play, all of that which occurred in the year-plus since we last saw one another. It still lingers inside me this morning.
The grief and sadness and heartache and weariness and most of all... the hope.
I felt it, too. All of us, masked ambassadors, of hope.