Circumstances we can neither name nor control

Wednesday afternoon, I rode the Rapid Line D bus from North Seattle to downtown with a friend. Crowded as usual, the bus took on more passengers than it let off. A democratic means of transportation, it welcomed all riders. Maybe some people paid and some didn’t. Certainly people paid different fares. As we rode, my friend and I talked about how much we loved the bus.

Downtown, the driver helped a woman he called Judy off the bus. As he lowered the ramp for her to disembark, she pushed her walker in front of her. She navigated the aisle, and I admired her purple silk pants. “You may have time for a cigarette before the 4 gets here,” the driver said to her as she was leaving. 

I love this place of being known and being anonymous. 

A few years ago, a friend’s neighbor at a wine tasting and I were talking about riding the bus. She curled her lip in distaste as she said, “I hate the bus. All that unwashed humanity.” Then she sipped her wine, her hand curled in a caress around the wine glass.

“I love all that unwashed humanity!” I enthused. It seemed clear she and I wouldn’t be friends.

I thought of all these people when I read the news later that that same day, on another bus in another part of the city, a man shot into the bus from the middle of the street. The driver, miraculously, backed the bus to safety. A man driving his car was shot and killed. 

What to make of this? Judy with her purple silk pants, the driver who knew Judy’s name and habits, unwashed humanity and those who love or don’t love them, the bus driver who was shot, the car driver who was killed, the shooter, the bus I rode and the bus I didn’t…

So much depends on circumstances we can neither name nor control. 

The thought takes me back to the film Run, Lola, Run.The film re-shows the same event maybe six times, each with slightly different circumstances (for example, in one a car backing out of an alley slows Lola’s running). The slightly differing circumstances lead to dramatically different endings. The film seemed to argue small changes make huge differences we can neither name nor control.

Last night, Ann and I watched the film If Beale Street Could Talk, based on a James Baldwin novel. The film shows a young black couple whose lives are torn by the false accusation by a woman who was raped. In the film, the circumstances can be named as systemic racism but cannot be controlled. 

I went to bed thinking of my own life, at the accidents of race, gender, economics, nation, citizenship, and time that have defined my life. 

Of course, my brain tumors, gender, disabilities, and homosexuality have situated me outside of those who hold the most power in this country, but I have been mostly privileged in my life. I wish everyone were. I don’t how to help that become a reality. The inequity feels out of my control. And out of control.