The dressing room in the wake of the African dance classes I take in Harlem continues to be an interesting zone to negotiate. I'm usually one of two white women there. With my Puritan heritage, dressing rooms have never been particularly comfortable spaces for me, and even though the class's body-positive attitude is the main reason I keep coming back, I can't help but feel I stick out.

Today, following a particularly vigorous rehearsal for our Thursday performance, a little girl who couldn't be more than five years old marched up to me, more boldly than the kids in the class usually do. Right as I was struggling out of my tank top.

"I remember you!" she declared, brightly. Her tone smacked of class reunion greetings. I looked down at her, trying to ignore the fact that this meant sighting over the point of my sweaty, naked boob.

"I remember you too," I replied. She is actually memorable -- she stood out among the tiniest members of the kids' section for an energetic, accurate solo. Her mama dresses her in a bright, well-ironed mudcloth two-piece, and she's a positively cherubic kid, round face, huge eyes. These were attentively tuned in to mine. "You did a really good job out there today," I told her, making polite conversation as I reoriented my bra.

"She's got a great memory," chimed in a woman behind me. "Better than mine; I always forget my moves." And she remembered me. Remembered what? Had I triggered some memory of previous sightings of my unusually pale nipples? Or was it just the usual way I stuck out? Kids say the dangedest...

* * *

Heading back up towards the subway, I noticed someone sprawled on the ground by the curb kitty-corner for me. The guy had a cane thrust out in front of him. It looked as if he'd fallen and was having trouble standing up. Mindful of that episode of Michael Moore's TV show where he had posted a "dead guy" on the subway to see if passerby would demonstrate any concern whatsoever, I headed over as soon as traffic cleared. I offered my arm. The man took it and pulled himself up. When he lifted his face to me, it was not as old as I'd expected, but it was deeply troubled. His nose was streaming clear snot down over his chin.

"Are you going to be all right?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Can you spare a quarter for coffee?" I searched my pockets and said no. He headed to the other side of the street. "Take care of yourself," I called after him. I'm pretty sure there's a crackhouse down the street from the gym where we dance, but I've never seen anyone so hard up before.