Monthly Archives: July 2021

Small is all

A few years ago, the Climate Accountability Institute published a study that said 100 companies are responsible for 71% of global emissions. Since then, there’s been a growing chorus of voices insisting that our individual environmental choices (climate-related and otherwise) are meaningless—that we should redirect our focus from regulating individual behaviors and instead regulate major polluters. In other words, stop asking individuals to take shorter showers while allowing Nestle to drain aquifers at the rate of 400 gallons per minute.

I call BS.

It’s not that I disagree with the premise. Of course major polluters must be regulated (or better yet, eliminated). Of course individual choices cannot counteract the destructive impact of multinational corporations. But anytime we try to simplify or externalize a cultural problem, we’ve limited our ability to address it.

First of all, we don’t have to choose. We can stop Nestle from destroying wetlands and take shorter showers. And pretending that there is no connection between our individual actions and the health of our planet is both disingenuous and spiritually dangerous.

Quote: "You cannot change any society unless you take responsibility for it, unless you see yourself as belonging to it and responsible for changing it."  - Grace Boggs
Wisdom from my shero, Grace Lee Boggs

Last year, during the uprisings for racial justice, the internet and airwaves were filled with people talking and writing about systemic racism. This was (and still is) important and necessary. But what was almost completely missing from that collective conversation was self-reflection. Very few of the people pointing at the problem were asking, “How does the racism in our culture show up in me? How am I influenced by it? How do I perpetuate it? What practices must I adopt to identify and address it?”

Grace Boggs says we must transform ourselves to transform the world. Racism is a systemic problem, and systems are upheld by people. If we see racism as a problem “out there,” we will never eliminate it, no matter how many institutions we topple.

Just as racism will persist as long as it continues to live in individual humans, environmental harm will persist unless and until we change the way we relate to the ecosystems we are part of. On a basic level, we must acknowledge that many of the corporations doing damage to the planet are—directly or indirectly—supported by our individual choices. But this is deeper than counting damage or assigning blame.

One of the many lessons I learned from my time as a foster parent is that acts of care build love. My love for Baby S was the result of the daily work of caring for him: brushing his teeth, preparing his meals, cleaning his messes, comforting him when he woke in the night. My choice to love him despite the certain knowledge he would not be in my life forever might or might not have benefitted him, but I know for sure that it transformed me.

Prioritizing the planet in our big and small choices is important, even if the impact of those choices is “meaningless.” Concrete acts of care can help give us a sense of control and purpose in a scary, out-of-control time. And those acts will help us build a relationship with the land that sustains us.

It might be true that my own small choices don’t change anything in the material sense. (It also might not be true, since we can never know the impact of our actions, and because small actions can and do spread.) But what I know for sure is that every time I make a decision that is rooted in love for the earth (and in particular, for this land), it deepens my understanding of and appreciation for the living world. Humans who appreciate the living world will build cultures that prioritize its flourishing.

This doesn’t mean that we should ignore the big picture in favor of personal purity. We can still vote and protest and pressure and boycott and protect. But the impulse to protect stems from love. And I am willing to bet that any person putting their body on the line to stop a pipeline or preserve an old-growth forest has a relationship with the living world.

I’ve spent these past several years feeling slightly ashamed for the energy I put into small decisions. But I’m beginning to see that care and intention as part of the cultural transformation that is necessary to move us to the world we dream of. This transformation requires us to tell a different story about who we are and who we want to be; a different story about success, health, wealth, prosperity, and a good life; and a different story about self-interest. It requires us to slow down and pay closer attention to every engagement, every outing, every moment.

We can take our time and be intentional, instead of rushing through everything. We can prioritize care over convenience and do less, with love. We might not be able to measure the impact, but we will feel it.

A bus shelter mural made by students. Text says, "Together we are stronger than corporations."

On dignity

Last Saturday, after a day spent with family, the Bus Fam found ourselves on a late-night 4 ride. I was exhausted and anxious to get the kids home ASAP, so I was grateful that the handful of other passengers on the bus were quietly minding their business.

At 17th, the driver stopped, rather abruptly, several feet beyond the bus stop sign. Through the window, I saw an older woman, somewhere between 55 and 70, hurrying from the area where she had been waiting to the front door of the bus. On the way, she paused and bent to pick up something from the ground.

When the woman finally boarded, she glared at the driver and said, “You knocked my phone out of my hand.”

This was a curious statement. It’s possible that she didn’t have a tight grip on the phone, and the air current from the bus caused her to drop it. But certainly, it is unlikely that the driver had done anything to cause this woman to drop her phone.

I assumed that he would either ignore her accusation or apologize and keep it moving. Instead, he responded, immediately and aggressively.

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes,” she said, louder this time, “you did.”

The driver pulled away from the stop.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

They went back and forth like this, voices escalating, while the woman held tightly to the pole diagonal to the driver’s seat, and the bus careened down Jefferson.

At 18th, the driver stopped at a red light.

“You need to sit down!” he shouted. “You’re crazy! SIT DOWN.”

By this time, it was clear that the woman was struggling to maintain her balance. Her back was hunched significantly, either from pain or a more permanent condition.

“You need to sit down,” he repeated.

She responded, quietly this time, “Now that you stopped, I can.”

The woman turned, with effort, and sat down in the reserved section. Then, she began making the kinds of sounds someone makes when they are in pain: whimpers, moans, yelps, gasps.  

I noticed that she held a bunched up hospital gown in her lap. I remembered that she had boarded in front of Swedish. And I wondered.

I wondered what it must feel like to be released from the hospital after 10 p.m. on Saturday night. To be expected to make it to the bus stop under your own power. To have no one to wheel you or hold your arm or wait with you or just be happy that you’re out. To be suffering mightily, maybe because the painkillers they gave you (if they gave you any) are wearing off. To be barely holding it together while you wait for the bus in the dark, and then to have that bus pass you as you stand there—alone—at the stop. To drop your phone as you hurry to catch it, terrified that it will pass the stop altogether. To exacerbate your already excruciating pain as you bend to find that phone in the dark, knowing that the next bus won’t come for (at least) 20 minutes. To have the driver who passed you dismiss your righteous anger, dismiss you with his eyes and the tone of his voice and with that word—crazy—on this already humiliating night.

It hurts to talk, but you won’t be silent.

You won’t be silenced.

Westbound 3: bus drivers, basketball, and brotherhood

I come from a family of tall, attractive athletes. I have three siblings, and all of them are over six feet. (My sister Carey, the shortest of the three, is 6’1”.) All the other Saulter siblings played sports at a high level. And all of them have head-turning looks.

Unfortunately, those genes missed me. I am barely 5’5”. I suck at pretty much every sport (and TBH, don’t particularly enjoy playing). And the looks … well, let’s just say that no one will ever mistake me for a model. Then again, I did spend a year as a model bus rider back in the day.

I digress.

The only trait I share with my sporty-looker siblings is that I love watching sports. Basketball is by far my favorite, and the team I loved my whole life—starting before I could have imagined the existence of a WNBA—was the Sonics (RIP). I am tempted to spend several paragraphs ranting about the evils of the NBA and professional sports in general, but I will refrain for now and try to stay focused(ish).

This year, for my birthday, my brother Jeremy gave me a gorgeous classic Sonics jacket. It’s far too cool for someone like me, but you don’t have to ask me twice to represent my city. The jacket is lightweight, so I wore it a lot in late spring, before the burning fires of hell descended.

The Sonics jacket, on the day my brother gave it to me
Isn’t she lovely?

I was wearing the jacket when I boarded the 3 early last month, on my way to get a tattoo. (More on that in a future post.) The driver—who, happened to be tall, attractive,* and athletic—was wearing a Sonics mask. We shared the raised eyebrow of recognition and then exchanged compliments.

“Nice mask.”
“I like your jacket.”

It was midday and somewhat early in the route, so for a few stops, I was the only passenger on the bus. I paused at the front to answer a few of his questions—where I had gotten the jacket, who was my all-time favorite player—thinking we would exchange a few pleasantries before I made my way to a seat near the back door. But he was so friendly and curious and interesting that we kept talking, and I eventually settled into the BDP seat for a real conversation—at least, as real of a conversation as you can have from several feet away, through masks and a plexiglass barrier.

We started with the Sonics, then moved quickly to my current love, the Storm, who were (are) having a great season. By the time he asked me which sports I played, there were several other passengers on the bus to hear my loud (though muffled) cackle.

I asked him how long he had been driving for Metro and whether he liked it. Four years** and yes. Mostly, anyway. We talked about our kids. He has an eight-year old who is kind and loves football and video games and wants to be just like his dad. Finally, as we headed down the hill from Harborview, I asked his name. Robert.***

At Third and James, a wheelchair passenger was waiting to board. I recognized this man from well over a decade of seeing him on buses and at stops. Robert recognized him, too. They greeted each other like old friends while Robert lowered the ramp, and I moved back to make room for the chair.

For the rest of the ride, I had a front row seat to their conversation. I listened as this elderly man, whose life beyond the bus I had never considered, talked of his younger days, of decisions he wished he had (or hadn’t) made, of relationships that had ended badly. I had never, before that day, seen this man smile or laugh. I watched in amazement as he called Robert by his name, gave him advice, and told him that his “friendly personality” made a difference.

“You’re a really good guy, man,” he said, just as I stood to exit.

Robert paused to look in his rear-view mirror before responding to the compliment.

“Bye, Carla,” he said. “It was really nice talking to you.”

________
* He even favored my brother a bit.
** To be honest, I don’t remember what he said, but I’m pretty sure it was less than five.
***It’s not his real name, but I’m not trying to share all the man’s business on the internet.