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  • It’s Thursday night, and I’m standing on the F train platform in Chelsea when I hear this voice drifting through the tunnel. It’s a haunting voice, wailing opera. I walk down the long platform until I see her, a seated black woman in a fuchsia coat holding an electronic battery-powered keyboard, plunking music with one hand and singing her heart out.

    She sounds like she was once professionally trained, and this woman, who has washed up on the seat of this Chelsea subway stop, is moving me and I wonder what heartache she’s gone through to be able to touch my spirit like that, underground on a cold winter’s night in New York City.
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