The bus is my favorite place for people-watching. Yesterday, an African-American man with white hair and no front teeth boarded the bus talking, and he never stopped. He was one of those talkers who invites others into his stream of words and creates an immediate community. That's a gift. I think of him as the bus social director
When he got on, he said, "Yesterday I went downtown on the bus. The whole trip took two hours, and in that time, it rained and snowed. The sun came out. It hailed. Spring in Seattle is crazy." I nodded in agreement. I got caught out in all of that weather.
The social director said to the young man across from him, "I've been riding buses for twenty years. When there are beeps, the driver waits for the third beep before pushing the gas. The driver can't push on the second beep. The bus will cut off. At the turn from John onto Madison, the driver has to slow way down because there's a dip. If the driver doesn't take it real easy, the front end of the bus will hit the ground. Isn't that right, driver?"
An older African-American woman boarded the bus with a cart full of groceries. "Here you are," said the social director, indicating his seat with a generous sweep of his arm, "You'll have room in this seat. I knew that was you. I'll give my seat for you every day." She nodded and said thank you.
The bus driver was training another woman who was in the front disabled seat, and the social director said to the man across from him, "This driver's a trainer. See her sheets right there?" He pointed to a pile of charts hanging from the driver's seat, and the young man said, "Yeah, I see 'em." The social director continued with his lesson, "That means this driver's been driving for at least ten years. Look at the way she holds the steering wheel. She knows how to drive this bus." Then he said, "Hey driver, how long you been drivin'?" The response: "Thirteen years." To the young man he was schooling, the social director said, "See. I knew it was more than 10 years."
He continued, "Once I got on a bus, and the driver told me he was an atheist. I said, 'Thank you, Sir, I'll be getting off right here. An hour later, that bus went off a bridge. Remember that in the news? That driver was an atheist. You don't mess with God."
"Hey, Driver, how many excuses you heard in those thirteen years?"
The driver didn't answer, but the social director, his friend, and another man starting listing excuses: "I lost my pass....My dog ate it.....My pass melted in the rain....I left my pass at church." That one got the biggest laugh.
A Photograph of me without me in it
A photograph of me without me in it
Showing posts with label bus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bus. Show all posts
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
March 13, 1964
On the day I was born, Mom’s forty-five minute public bus ride to Grady Hospital in Atlanta must have been uncomfortable as she rode to give me birth. (She was nine months pregnant and thought she was having intestinal distress.)
I hear the hours of labor were no luxury cruise either. (Carol Burnett once compared giving birth to blowing a bowling ball out of a nostril.)
I was born on the thirteenth floor of Grady hospital’s White wing on Friday, March 13, 1964, so I have always considered thirteen my lucky number. For me, being born was lucky.
My parents, because they were White, took the front entrance while African-Americans took a back entrance into the hospital. President Johnson signed “The Civil Rights Act of 1964” that June, and though racial integration comes slowly in the South, I’m pretty sure that little White babies and little Black babies can now lie in cribs next to one another. How strange the separation of the babies seems now.
I am the first child of two first children, so in my first years, my parents and I are a young family of type-A personalities: perfectionists, anxious about success, planners committed to a plan. We control our destinies. It is our responsibility to be good and to do good in the world.
When I was born, Dad was a 27 year-old pediatric intern in the Air Force, and Mom was 22 years old, an army nurse released from her duties because she was pregnant.
The first thing my dad said when he saw me was, "She's a beautiful girl. With a big nose." You will be relieved to know that I have grown into my nose over the last 47 years. In fact, now my nose is remarkably small.
Lots of other things have changed over the years, too. I'm taller and wider than I was then. I have a larger vocabulary. Though we didn't know it, I had a brain tumor then. I don't now.
Here's to this lucky life!
Mary
I hear the hours of labor were no luxury cruise either. (Carol Burnett once compared giving birth to blowing a bowling ball out of a nostril.)
I was born on the thirteenth floor of Grady hospital’s White wing on Friday, March 13, 1964, so I have always considered thirteen my lucky number. For me, being born was lucky.
My parents, because they were White, took the front entrance while African-Americans took a back entrance into the hospital. President Johnson signed “The Civil Rights Act of 1964” that June, and though racial integration comes slowly in the South, I’m pretty sure that little White babies and little Black babies can now lie in cribs next to one another. How strange the separation of the babies seems now.
I am the first child of two first children, so in my first years, my parents and I are a young family of type-A personalities: perfectionists, anxious about success, planners committed to a plan. We control our destinies. It is our responsibility to be good and to do good in the world.
When I was born, Dad was a 27 year-old pediatric intern in the Air Force, and Mom was 22 years old, an army nurse released from her duties because she was pregnant.
The first thing my dad said when he saw me was, "She's a beautiful girl. With a big nose." You will be relieved to know that I have grown into my nose over the last 47 years. In fact, now my nose is remarkably small.
Lots of other things have changed over the years, too. I'm taller and wider than I was then. I have a larger vocabulary. Though we didn't know it, I had a brain tumor then. I don't now.
Here's to this lucky life!
Mary
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Gang aft a-gley
Odysseus planned to go to war, win, and come home a war hero. Instead, he took ten years to wander his way home. He was blown about the seas by Poseidon's wrath and ended up between a classical rock and a hard place. He had to outwit a one-eyed man eating monster, and tear himself away from the island where a beautiful sorceress held him love-slave for eight years.
Before heading home at last, he and his hungry fellas landed on an island where the beef mooed mournfully on the barbeque. I don't know if he went home a vegetarian, but he probably did.
Today, like Odysseus, I planned a simple trip that turned into an odyssey. I went to lunch with my previous student Brett (who was fourteen years old when I met him and is now thirty years old). After lunch, Brett would drop me off at my masseus on his way home. After a healing massage, I would walk a short distance to catch a bus to Virginia Mason Hospital for a Brain Tumor Support Group. I planned to catch the bus home right out front.
My massage was on 12th Avenue, and I needed to catch the bus on 10th Avenue. I had a good fifteen minutes to walk the two blocks it took to get there. Unfortunately, however, there are about six blocks with names instead of numbers between 10th Avenue and 12th Avenue. Still, it looked like I would make it in time.
I hobbled my way to Broadway Avenue, also known as 10th Avenue. Oh, wait, no. Tenth Avenue does seem to merge with Broadway, but this far north, Tenth Avenue is its own street. I watched the bus go by as I made my way to Broadway.
I still had forty minutes, and I remembered that the hospital was on 9th Avenue--just one more block--so I headed down to 9th. Only 9th Avenue didn't exist this far north, so I wanded my way through the streets until, now too late for this support group, I found a bus that would take me home.
I was exhausted. I have blisters on my feet from walking so far and a blister on my hand from gripping my cane as I traversed those broken sidewalks. I boarded the bus and sat in the front seat for people with disabilities.
When we stopped near Group Health Hospital, the driver hollered to a blind woman on the sidewalk, "Ma'am, do you want the 8?" A guy standing at the stop yelled up, "No, she doesn't want the 8," and the driver yelled back, "Yes, she does."
This woman boarded the bus, and I slipped to the next seat barely in time not to be sat upon. This woman could not see, and her speech sounded more like moans than words. She was clearly anxious that this was not the right bus, and rocked and shouted, "The eight?" Each time, the driver affirmed, "Yes. This is the eight."
As we turned right to go around the hospital, she stood up and shouted. She was clearly upset. A delivery truck was parked illegally in front of the hospital, making it tricky for the bus driver to make it by. As we squeezed by, the woman yelled very clearly, "Baaaad."
When at last we turned onto Martin Luther King, Jr. Blvd, she nodded with her whole body. This turn she recognized. It was going to be okay. We both relaxed.
When I got home, there were no suitors trying to win Ann's hand in marriage. Usually there would be, but Ann is on a camping trip, so I didn't have to shoot arrows at an obnoxious mob. I just took a nap.
Homer doesn't mention the inevitable truth that Odysseus took a nap at the end of his journey. Homer really should have mentioned that part.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Riding the Bus
When I was in sixth grade, I loved riding the school bus to our sixth center, where all of Raleigh's thirteen year olds, went to school. My friends Cybil and Susan and our boyfriends Jeff, David and John, liked to ride at the back of the bus. When the bus driver turned a corner, we all yelled, "Bad turn!" and leapt into a seat on the side of the bus that leaned with the turn.
In high school, I hated riding the school bus, but Dad had seen all of those cars parked beside buses in the school parking lot and declared the waste. I would not squander the opportunity the ride the bus. I was shy, tall, awkward and cautious. The bus made me feel my loneliness and made me feel afraid.
Other kids smoked pot to and from school, so even though I didn't smoke, my thick red hair always smelled like pot. Our bus drivers were high school kids themselves. My last bus driver had curly brown hair, a face covered in acne, and a very pretty girlfirend. She sat in the front seat, and he twisted around for much of the ride so that the two could make-out much of the way home. Usually, they waited until we were at a stoplight. Once, to impress his pretty girlfriend, the driver sped up and raced towards a parked car, swerving just in time.
Now I love riding the public bus--in any country. I get to be a witness to unfamiliar cultures as I listen to the conversations and watch the interactions.
When Ann and I took the six-hour ride from Ethiopia's capital, Addis Ababa, to Awasa, a university town further south, an elderly woman nodded and smiled at us from her seat just in front of us. "Gwabez!" she commended us. "Gwabez" was on the short list of my Amharic vocabulary. She was lauding us as clever and brave.
A Guatemalan bus dumped me and the rest of the passengers onto the side of a dusty roadway when it started breaking down. When the next bus came, I was pushed aside as travellers forced their way onto the bus. When the second bus came, I was again polite, but when the third bus slowed down (I'm not sure it stopped), I forced my gigantic American self onto the bus with my backpack. I don't think I knocked anyone down. I didn't want to be pushy. I was just following the rules of this place, and I didn't want to spend the night by the road.
On another Ethiopian bus, this one in Nazret, we took a bus down a long street of red dust from a small town that reminded me of movie towns in the Wild West: men drank beers in the morning sun. Teenagers played ping pong on public tables. Two men got into a fight, one wielding a machete and the other a pistol. With lots of ruckus, peacemakers, drunk themselves, separted the two fighters and wrested the pistol from the one.
We had help getting onto the bus, which was overfull with hot, sweaty passengers. On the way down the road, one man who had paid full fare complained loudly that another man was in his space. A lively argument among many of the passengers broke out. When we saw policemen on the side of the road, the bus driver pulled over, and everyone except Ann and me got off the bus. The group formed a circle around the fighting men and the policeman. The policeman seemed to facilitate, hearing everyone's complaint. Since I don't speak Amharic, I don't know what they were saying, but at the end, the policeman had the two men hug and everyone got happily back on the bus.
I like riding the bus in my neighborhood, too. Before I had disabilities, I rode the bus when riding my bike was impractical. Now, riding my bike is always impractical, so I often ride the bus to get around town. Today, returning home from my massage on the number eight, I sat up front with three friends who seemed to be in the early twenties. One, an African-American woman named Tanisha with two small children, rode across from me. Next to me sat another African-American woman, Sondra, with her child, and a hispanic-looking man, Gerardo, with the stroller.
Tanisha and her children were on their way to pick up Tanisha's older daughter from her first day of school, and Sondra and Gerardo were accompanying her. Tanisha's youngest son started to cry, and she threatened him with the whip. The three adults talked about their beatings as children. Tanisha said, "I had to kneel in dry beans and rice. When I stood up, the indentations hurt." Sonda said her dad had used a whip.
Gerardo said, "My dad used electrical cords and wires."
"Oooo," said Tanisha, "You had a mean daddy. My daddy hardly ever used the cords."
By way of explanation, Sondra said, "His daddy was white."
Tanisha, "I didn't know that."
Gerardo, "He was a red neck."
Then they all piled off the bus and I rode home, thinking of how different our lives can be.
In high school, I hated riding the school bus, but Dad had seen all of those cars parked beside buses in the school parking lot and declared the waste. I would not squander the opportunity the ride the bus. I was shy, tall, awkward and cautious. The bus made me feel my loneliness and made me feel afraid.
Other kids smoked pot to and from school, so even though I didn't smoke, my thick red hair always smelled like pot. Our bus drivers were high school kids themselves. My last bus driver had curly brown hair, a face covered in acne, and a very pretty girlfirend. She sat in the front seat, and he twisted around for much of the ride so that the two could make-out much of the way home. Usually, they waited until we were at a stoplight. Once, to impress his pretty girlfriend, the driver sped up and raced towards a parked car, swerving just in time.
Now I love riding the public bus--in any country. I get to be a witness to unfamiliar cultures as I listen to the conversations and watch the interactions.
When Ann and I took the six-hour ride from Ethiopia's capital, Addis Ababa, to Awasa, a university town further south, an elderly woman nodded and smiled at us from her seat just in front of us. "Gwabez!" she commended us. "Gwabez" was on the short list of my Amharic vocabulary. She was lauding us as clever and brave.
A Guatemalan bus dumped me and the rest of the passengers onto the side of a dusty roadway when it started breaking down. When the next bus came, I was pushed aside as travellers forced their way onto the bus. When the second bus came, I was again polite, but when the third bus slowed down (I'm not sure it stopped), I forced my gigantic American self onto the bus with my backpack. I don't think I knocked anyone down. I didn't want to be pushy. I was just following the rules of this place, and I didn't want to spend the night by the road.
On another Ethiopian bus, this one in Nazret, we took a bus down a long street of red dust from a small town that reminded me of movie towns in the Wild West: men drank beers in the morning sun. Teenagers played ping pong on public tables. Two men got into a fight, one wielding a machete and the other a pistol. With lots of ruckus, peacemakers, drunk themselves, separted the two fighters and wrested the pistol from the one.
We had help getting onto the bus, which was overfull with hot, sweaty passengers. On the way down the road, one man who had paid full fare complained loudly that another man was in his space. A lively argument among many of the passengers broke out. When we saw policemen on the side of the road, the bus driver pulled over, and everyone except Ann and me got off the bus. The group formed a circle around the fighting men and the policeman. The policeman seemed to facilitate, hearing everyone's complaint. Since I don't speak Amharic, I don't know what they were saying, but at the end, the policeman had the two men hug and everyone got happily back on the bus.
I like riding the bus in my neighborhood, too. Before I had disabilities, I rode the bus when riding my bike was impractical. Now, riding my bike is always impractical, so I often ride the bus to get around town. Today, returning home from my massage on the number eight, I sat up front with three friends who seemed to be in the early twenties. One, an African-American woman named Tanisha with two small children, rode across from me. Next to me sat another African-American woman, Sondra, with her child, and a hispanic-looking man, Gerardo, with the stroller.
Tanisha and her children were on their way to pick up Tanisha's older daughter from her first day of school, and Sondra and Gerardo were accompanying her. Tanisha's youngest son started to cry, and she threatened him with the whip. The three adults talked about their beatings as children. Tanisha said, "I had to kneel in dry beans and rice. When I stood up, the indentations hurt." Sonda said her dad had used a whip.
Gerardo said, "My dad used electrical cords and wires."
"Oooo," said Tanisha, "You had a mean daddy. My daddy hardly ever used the cords."
By way of explanation, Sondra said, "His daddy was white."
Tanisha, "I didn't know that."
Gerardo, "He was a red neck."
Then they all piled off the bus and I rode home, thinking of how different our lives can be.
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