His voice was audible outside of the turnstiles.

The bells of the local church announced that the five o’ clock hour had just passed and streams of people were pouring into the subway station in downtown Manhattan. Young men slipped on their sunglasses and walked confidently on the cobblestones in their shined shoes. Older men hoisted their leather bags over their shoulders and rolled up the sleeves of their pressed dress shirts. Tourists, in their sandals, backpacks on their backs, and subway maps flapping in the breeze, hustled down the concrete stairs into the station. Young women in A-line skirts and blouses that were unbuttoned just enough to show some cleavage clattered past in their high-heeled shoes.

His voice rose above the din within the station. He was singing, though the words were not English.

The trains rumbled past as people made their way around the multiple hair pin turns and through the tiled hallways that lead to the subway platforms. The labyrinthine paths of the station create excellent acoustics, something that the singer recognized.

The streams of people coalesced into one or two rivers, with the occasional eddy, as they approached the platforms. His voice became louder and more clear. The music he was producing with his warm, tenor voice sounded like it was from an opera. Were those words from a Romance language? Italian, perhaps?

The rivers of people splashed down a shallow staircase and spilled onto the humid platform. The singer was somewhere nearby. He demonstrated good pitch and his voice wavered in a pleasant manner; his vibrato was not grating to the ear. His tonal range was not extensive, though what he lacked in range he seemed to make up for with enthusiasm and energy.

At the feet of the singer was an open shoebox that contained a few loose bills. The crowds of people flowed past him, many not even looking up to acknowledge his presence, let alone his singing.

As he sang, he turned his torso and extended his arms and palms. As the notes lengthened, one arm raised higher. His gaze wandered over the people, though it periodically stopped at various points of his musical story. He courted an audience that continued to shift before him.

Because he was wearing a white A-shirt (also known as a “wifebeater”, a less palatable term), one could easily see that he was a well-built young man. His biceps and triceps flexed as his arms moved. Around his head was wrapped shiny black Lycra cloth. He was wearing denim shorts that were too large for his fit frame; they extended well past his knees. His socks were only ankle high and barely poked out of his athletic tennis shoes.

His skin was dark; he was African-American.

I slowed my pace and, while watching this young man belt out an opera, I humbly smiled.