Tag Archives: 27

On busing and boundaries

I realize that this is a bit of a cliché, but I’m going to say it because it’s the truth: My greatest spiritual teachers are my children. I don’t know if I believe all the woo-woo talk about our children choosing us or whatever, but I know for sure that mine have brought me the exact lessons I needed to learn. HBE taught me, first and most importantly, that love is a verb. He also taught me how to be flexible. Busling teaches me what freedom looks like. And Chicklet, my firstborn, teaches me how take care of myself.

I have never been good at boundaries. I struggle to understand where I end and other people begin. If someone near me is in pain, I can’t feel comfortable. If a friend tells me they have a problem, I immediately feel responsible for it. I worry and fret and strategize as if the problem were my own. I will give money to anyone who asks, for pretty much any reason and regardless of that person’s financial track record, because the idea of not sharing seems selfish to me.

When loved ones tell me that this might not be the healthiest approach to life, I nod and agree. I say things like, “Yes, I need to get better at saying no.” But secretly, I think my approach is right. After all, the problem in our so-called society is not too much concern about others; it’s too little concern about others. In American culture, there is so much emphasis on what we deserve—on “property rights” and self-care and finding your bliss and standing your ground—and so little emphasis on what we owe. This excessive focus on self has wrought the misery, violence, disharmony, and sickness that surrounds us.

Where do I end? It’s hard to say. Because we all live on the same planet. Because suffering is not contained. Because we are an interdependent species that relies on interdependent ecosystems to survive.

The problem is, my lack of boundaries feels less like interdependence and more like giving myself away. It makes me anxious and exhausted and resentful. Can an anxious, exhausted, resentful person build a beautiful, whole family, community, or world?

What I’m beginning to learn is that the world needs balance. I can’t create harmony by giving myself away any more than my neighbor can by taking more than she needs. Some of us must learn to say yes more, and some of us must learn to say no more. Right now, on my personal spiritual journey, I need to learn to say no more.

Enter my 14-year-old daughter, namesake of the woman who uttered one of the loudest NOs in the history of this nation.

Chicklet was born with boundaries. She wasn’t one of those “good” babies everybody cooed over. She wasn’t friendly to strangers. She wouldn’t let just anyone—or actually, anyone other than her parents—hold her. If I left her with a caregiver or family member, she would cry—loudly and indignantly—until I returned.

For years, Chicklet hated school, for a lot of valid reasons. (Tbh, she still low-key hates it.) When adults at church or in our social circles would ask her how school was going, instead of following the standard, polite script and saying, “great!” (or at the very least, “fine”), she would tell the truth: bullying was rampant, the curriculum was dull and repetitive, recess was too short and too limited, the cafeteria was too loud, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I used to think that Chicklet’s refusal to play nice was something that needed to be corrected. Why wasn’t she friendlier? More pleasant? More agreeable? Why wasn’t she easy?

Over these 14 years, I have come to understand my kid’s lack of pretense as a gift. For one thing, she is a lot better than I am at being honest. It’s not that I lie. At least, I don’t deliberately deceive people. But I am not exactly truthful, either.

My personality has been built around making other people comfortable. This shows up in every area of my life, including—maybe even especially—my life on the bus. I wonder how many times I have smiled at a man who has disrespected me on the street or engaged in conversation with someone who made me uncomfortable. I wonder how many times I’ve dutifully answered intrusive questions about my ethnicity, just to put an end to the awkwardness of the interrogation. I wonder how many times I’ve said “not at all” when someone asks if I mind if they open the window, even though I very much do mind. I believe in the beauty of sharing space with other people, but I haven’t learned to do it authentically, without diminishing myself.

This is what my daughter has to teach me. Chicklet understands that we don’t build the beloved community by being “pleasant.” We do it by being honest about our needs. She shows me this again and again.

Once, a few years ago, we were visiting my friend Kelley and her kids, and Kelley offered us something to drink.

I have known Kelley since we were six years old. My kids call her auntie. She is family. And yet, without even considering whether either I or my child might be thirsty, I responded, reflexively, “Oh no, we’re fine.”

When Kelley left the room to put away our coats, Chicklet looked at me reproachfully and asked, “Mom, why do you always say I don’t want something without even asking me?”

Another time, when Chicklet was just six years old, a young man approached our family as we were walking home from the 27 stop. The man was clearly intoxicated but not—at least in my adult estimation—threatening. After saying hello to all of us, he put his fist out, at Chicklet’s level, and asked for a pound. I waited for her to play along, to give this man what he was asking for so that we could all smile and laugh (Kids, amirite?), and then the four of us could continue on our way.

Chicklet looked at the man’s hand but did not move. She knew, even at her young age, what was expected of her. Be polite to adults. Don’t be disrespectful. And for God’s sake, don’t be inconvenient. But she also knew that she didn’t want to comply with a stranger’s demand for physical contact. So, she she maneuvered that narrow space of agency as well as she could.

With her eye still on the man’s fist, she said, matter-of-factly, “My knuckles are hurting.”

The man shrugged off the slight and tried again, this time with an open hand.

“How about a high five then?”

By this time, I was feeling the awkwardness. The man was embarrassing himself and by extension, me. My lofty—and loudly proclaimed—beliefs about bodily autonomy and girls claiming their power evaporated in that moment, and all I could think was, Can she just give him a freaking high five already so this can be over with?

My child looked from the man’s hand to her own and then directly into his eyes.

Then she said, “I think my hand is hurting, too.”

That moment will be seared in my memory for all eternity. It was the moment my daughter showed me a mirror, and it reflected my cowardice and dishonesty.

Chicklet doesn’t give herself away to make other people comfortable, not even when her own mother subtly (and not-so-subtly) encourages her to. She is responsible to herself and her truth. She is not responsible for your feelings.

This is how we keep our spirits intact when we share space with other humans—on buses, in the street, and everywhere else. We be kind. And we hold the fucking line.

Everyday impossible

Late last month, at around 4-ish on a Wednesday afternoon, Chicklet and I found ourselves on a 27 heading home from downtown. Seats were scarce when we boarded, but we found two together in the back row—a safe distance from other passengers—and spent the ride discussing my longtime riding partner‘s expectations and hopes for her final year of middle school (!!!).

When we arrived at 23rd and Yesler, per usual, the bus cleared out, leaving only Chicklet and me, who planned to exit at the next stop, and a young white woman, who was engrossed in her laptop at the other end of the back row.

After the mass exodus, a sixty-ish Black woman boarded, carrying a shopping bag in each hand. She was wearing a teal, v-neck halter top; fitted floral pants; and a black, bobbed wig. As she stepped aboard, she nodded to the driver and, in a melodious voice tinged with an accent I couldn’t place, and said matter-of-factly, “I don’t have a card.”

She looked fabulous—attractive, stylish, and somehow simultaneously seasoned and youthful—so I watched her walk all the way to her seat.

It wasn’t until she was settled—in a window seat on the right side of the bus, about midway down the aisle—that I noticed she wasn’t wearing a mask. The driver, a stocky white man in his mid to late thirties, apparently noticed too. His voice, muffled by his own mask, drifted toward the back of the bus.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, ma’am?”

The woman did not reply or indicate that she had heard him.

With the bus still parked at the stop, the driver shifted in his seat and turned his body in the direction of the woman. He got louder—“EXCUSE ME???”—then started rapping his knuckles on the plexiglass (Covid) safety barrier that separated his seat from the rest of the bus.

Still, there was no response.

Assuming that the woman wasn’t aware that the driver was talking to her, and anxious to get moving, I hustled down the aisle to her seat. She had her phone to her ear but was staring straight ahead and not actually talking. I leaned toward her and said, “I think he’s trying to get your attention.”

She did not turn her head or even move her eyes in my direction. I repeated myself and waited for a few more seconds, then eventually returned to Chicklet, who was widening her eyes and cocking her head in the universal gesture for “WTF?”

The driver continued to call to the woman, banging on the plexiglass barrier, then eventually standing up. She continued to sit serenely, almost frozen in place, with her phone to her ear.

Finally, the driver slipped past the barrier, grabbed a mask from the dispenser, and waved it in front of her.

“Hellloooooo?” he said, his tone reflecting his now high level of exasperation. “Can you put one of these on?

She said, “No.”

The driver paused for a beat, then blurted out something about masks being required on the bus.

The woman said, “You’re being violent with me.”

The driver tried to justify his behavior, saying he’d raised his voice because he wasn’t sure she’d heard him.

The woman remained silent.

“Well, we’re not going anywhere until you put this on,” he said, dropping the mask on the seat in front of her.

She said, “That’s fine.”

The driver returned to his seat. After a moment, he turned off the bus and opened the doors, then stepped outside to make a call. He explained to the person on the other end—his shift coordinator? the transit police?—that he had a passenger who was refusing to wear a mask and that he wasn’t going to leave the stop until she did.

While he was talking, the woman pulled out a book.

After the driver finished his call, he returned to the woman’s seat and told her that someone was coming to escort her off the bus if she didn’t put on a mask.

“It’s your choice,” he said.

She said, for the second time, “That’s fine,” and continued to calmly read her book.

I could feel the tension rising in my body as I anticipated the inevitable confrontation. We could have easily walked home from the stop where the bus was parked, but I knew I had to stay put, if only as a witness to whatever happened next.

The woman’s extreme calm intrigued me. Was she as unbothered as she seemed? Was she terrified but determined to stand her ground? And why wouldn’t she put on a mask?

Part of me was pissed at her. From my perception of the interaction, she was being ridiculous and unreasonable, not to mention selfish. As the mama of an unvaccinated 11-year old who has been hospitalized twice with asthma exacerbations, I don’t have patience for people who believe that their personal preferences are more important that the lives and health of the people they share the world with.

But part of me felt protective. I thought of the many reasons (historical and otherwise) she was justified to insist on being treated with dignity. And I knew for sure that I didn’t want to see her manhandled or forcibly removed from the bus.

As we waited, the three of us in the back row whispered to each other, wondering what would happen, sympathizing with bus drivers and everyone else tasked with enforcing mask mandates.

Within a couple of minutes, the driver returned to the woman’s seat.

“Can I ask you something? Why won’t you wear a mask?” His tone was curious, even conciliatory.

Hers was as firm and resolved as ever. “I’m not going to discuss it with you.”

I often say that drivers need extra emotional and spiritual support to do their jobs well. Of course this is true. But they also need emotional and spiritual support to cope with the impossible situations that prevent them from doing their jobs well. Because really, what was this driver supposed to do?

What he did was turn to the three of us in the back, arms raised in helplessness and frustration.

“Sorry, guys,” he said.

Then he stepped outside again to wait.

Chicklet announced that she had to go to the bathroom. I asked if she could hold it (hilarious, coming from someone whose life revolves around restroom access). She rolled her eyes.

“Mom, how long are we going to sit here?”

As it turned out, not long. Moments after her question, the driver abruptly returned to his seat, sighed loudly, started up the bus, sighed again, and pulled away from the stop. Chicklet pulled the bell, and four blocks later, we stepped away from the whatever the hell had just happened.

As we walked the rest of the way home, I wondered—for perhaps the millionth time—how we can share space with other humans in a way that holds people accountable and honors their dignity? How can we be together in a way that keeps everyone safe? I used to think that, in order to justify my love of the bus, in order to justify my ramblings on this blog, I needed to have an answer to that question. The truth is, after all these years of riding, I have no effing idea.

All I have is hope. Not the kind that overlooks challenges, but the kind born of discipline and a determination to continue to practice being in community, even—especially—when the urge to turn away is strong. Because if we don’t keep trying, our only purpose is to survive our time here. I want more.

An art piece depicting the night sky, with the words, "Hope is a discipline," written in the stars.
“Hope is a discipline.” – Monica Trinidad

And so I lift up that bus driver, that he might know the inherent dignity and beauty in his work. May he understand that he did the best he could under the circumstances, and that sometimes there is no good response to an impossible situation. May this experience deepen his compassion and empathy—for himself, and for his most challenging passengers. May he find the vision and grace to imagine a different response to the impossible situations he encounters in the future.

I lift up that determined woman. May she continue to prioritize her dignity, which she maintained throughout a very tense, public interaction. May this experience encourage her to consider the dignity and well-being of others in her future actions. May she come to understand that her preferences don’t supersede others’ right to live. May she heal from those times when people have treated her in a less-than-dignified manner, and may she be treated with dignity in all her future encounters.

Ase.

Two of the reasons I stayed sane in 2017

I’m just going to say it: 2017 was trash. Black women — both my own loved ones and those courageous souls who stood up to evil in the public sphere — were primarily responsible for keeping me sane this year. Other than that, it was bus drivers.*

As you probably already know, bus drivers are my version of superheroes. I am consistently awed by their kindness and humor and professionalism. (And yeah, I have had more than a few bus crushes on drivers.) Here are a couple of recent examples of the goodness they add to my life.

Thursday before last, Chicklet had a restroom emergency on the 48. By the time we reached our stop, she was approaching panic mode, and we hustled off the bus in a bit of a distracted state. Somehow, in the commotion, my phone fell out of my coat pocket. I realized I had dropped it just as the bus was driving away.

WOMP.

After we made it home, I tried calling the phone a few times in case there was someone sitting near it, but no one answered. I kicked myself for my mistake, filed a lost item report on Metro’s website, and let it go.

When Bus Nerd arrived home, I filled him in on our (mis)adventure. Ever the problem solver, he texted my phone with a message for whomever found it to please call his number. I wasn’t optimistic that this would work, since, like most people, I have a password on my phone. Miraculously, about 20 minutes later, Bus Nerd got a call. The 48 driver had found the phone! He let Bus Nerd know when he would pass through our neighborhood again so that someone could meet the bus and get it. Like the last time I lost something important on the 48, my beloved was kind enough to handle the retrieval.

I still have no idea how the driver saw the text (was he holding the phone at the exact right moment?); there was no time to ask during the quick exchange. But superheroes can do anything, right?

A few days after the miraculous phone recovery, this delightful human drove the 27 I rode home from a Saturday morning appointment.

She had left a sweet surprise on every seat.

On the way off the bus, I complimented her on her decorations — and her kindness. She said, “I figured, if I have to work the holiday, I might as well bring it with me.”

You guys. BUS DRIVERS ARE THE BEST PEOPLE.

***

* Quadruple bonus points for black women bus drivers!

Westbound 27, 12:15 PM

A sixtysomething woman stands near the front door looking for her fare. Her purse-digging delays the driver long enough that a forty-ish man running at full speed is able to make it to the stop before the bus pulls away. He walks past the woman on his way to his seat, breathing hard but still looking sharp in a black Kangol and blue silk shirt.

The woman raises her eyebrows.

“You didn’t have to do all that.” she mutters. “You look too good for all that running.”

Dear Danielle

Around midday today, I boarded the 27 behind a young woman wearing white pants, a gorgeous green and blue blouse, a Seahawks cap, and a long, light-blue wig. Her magnificent outfit alone is reason for sharing, but there’s more.

As I passed the woman to sit down, she said hello as if she knew me and then asked about my kids. I couldn’t place her at all, so I assumed she was someone I see when I’m out and about walking. But this woman interacted with me as though I must know her as well, announcing almost immediately that she was a mother now, too, and walking over to my seat to show me the adorable baby photos on her phone.

I am ashamed to say that I pretended to know her, which made our interaction somewhat awkward. (Of course, bonding over babies can take the edge off of almost anything.) Finally, our conversation revealed who she was: “Miss Danielle,” a young woman who had interned at Chicklet’s preschool one summer. Chicklet, who has always been a tough customer, adored Danielle, because she was patient and compassionate and a good listener.

Back in those days, Danielle was a student at Garfield. After her internship ended, the kids and I would sometimes see her on the bus or around the neighborhood. She always made a point to say hi to Chicklet.

On the bus ride today, I learned that Danielle lives in Puyallup now, and that she has started a job at a sandwich chain all the way downtown. She lives near the transit center, so we spent a good long time talking Sounder versus 578. Sounder is more expensive and doesn’t run often enough, but it has bathrooms, great views, and predictable travel times. Plus, she was given an free unlimited ORCA card through a school program, so for now, cost isn’t an issue.

After she got off the bus, I thought about the Danielle I had known when Chicklet was in preschool, so different in appearance from the young woman I had met today. I thought about the fact that neither of us could have pictured the future she had walked into, one choice and changing circumstance at a time.

This is not an idealization of the past, nor is it a self-righteous hand-wringing about the perils of young motherhood. It is, at least in part, a rage against the unfairness that pushes a young mother searching for housing to the distant exurbs. But mostly, it is a meditation on change.

In the few years since Danielle left our neighborhood, it has become a place she might not recognize. (The preschool where we met her, which has been serving children in the same location for over 50 years, is one of the few institutions that endures.) In those same few years, she became a person I did not recognize. I wonder what changes she saw in me.

Dear Danielle, tenderhearted preschool helper, mama of beautiful babies, hot mama wearing the heck out of her blue hair and white jeans: I hope to meet you again on your journey.

Westbound 27 stop, Yesler & 3rd, 8:15 AM

Moments after the kids and I step off the bus (on our way to the Water Taxi for a summer adventure), a 50-ish Latino man approaches and hands me a business card for his wife’s hair shop, which has recently opened somewhere nearby.

“My wife is black,” he explains, “so she’s specializes in black hair. Braids, barber services…” He stops to look at us more closely, then hesitates. “Also Middle Eastern hair. Erm. All kinds of hair.”

Eastbound 27 stop, Yesler & 3rd, noon

A young black woman with a beautiful, medium length, natural hairstyle exits a building near the stop and walks to it. Two middle-aged white men exit shortly after her and pause to chat on their way down the hill. Seconds into the conversation, one of them says, “[Rachel], your hair is the talk of the office.”

She smiles uncomfortably. “Really? Hopefully, my performance is as well.”

Thanks for the ride

It is hard to put into words how much our bus family appreciates the hard-working men and women who get us where we’re going safely, day after day. Our prayers are with Mr. Deloy Dupuis, the 64 year-old 27 driver who was shot in the face while doing his job yesterday morning. We also pray for the family of the shooter, Martin Duckworth, who was killed by police shortly after the incident—and for an end to the senseless gun violence that plagues our nation.

On busing and baby sharing

Yesterday, after tiring of the wait for my six-, then eight-, then ten-, then twelve-minute late 27, I resorted to the 4. I was immediately glad I did, despite the fact that the bus was (per usual) extra crowded, and I ended up standing in the no man’s land with poor pole access.

You see, Smooth Jazz was at the wheel.

Riding on Smooth Jazz’s bus always feels a bit like a celebrity sighting for me. (Not surprisingly, many of the people I consider “celebrities” are bus drivers.) As soon as we finished our excruciating creep up James, he turned on his trademark mellow music. (One of these days, I’m going to start making requests.) By then, I had a seat, and a view of all the goodness that was taking place around me: Small talk. Flirtations. Coworker gossip. Laughter.

A man got on a few stops past Harborview with a box of various goodies, including fruit and some Easter-related toys. Across from him was a woman with infant twins and an older girl, who was probably around eight. The mother was holding one of the babies on her lap while her daughter struggled with the other. The double stroller was stowed awkwardly nearby in the wheelchair area.

Before Box Man had been on a full block, he offered some of the toys to the girl, gesturing to the babies to indicate that the gifts were to be shared. The girl looked to her mother for approval before accepting, then held the toys at arms’ length, either out of amazement at her good fortune or healthy suspicion.

A few minutes later, the mother rang the bell for my stop, so I offered my assistance getting everything–stroller, babies, big kid, bag, and new toys–off the bus. She matter-of-factly handed me a chubby, sweet-smelling baby and proceeded to gather her things. Together–each of us balancing a little one on a hip–we maneuvered the double stroller contraption down the bus steps and set it on the sidewalk, stowed the new toys, and strapped everyone in. Then, we headed in our respective directions.

It is likely that I will never see that woman or her children again. It is even more likely that in two months, or a year, or five years, I will forget the beautiful surprise (the gift!) of being handed a stranger’s precious baby, of cooperating with her to overcome a challenge I know well. Of smelling that sweet chubby cheek for a few moments at the end of a challenging day, on my way to see my own precious (not so) babies. (Chicklet’s about to be in Kindergarten, people!)

But whether these experiences are remembered consciously is not particularly important. (This is a good thing, since my memory has been basically shot since I was busing while pregnant the first time.) It is these daily interactions that inform who I am and how I view my community. Sometimes, they change my perspective. Often, they deepen my compassion or my gratitude. Always, they make an impression.

Despite all the drama-filled, funky rides I’ve endured (Woman on the 14, I feel you!), despite all the annoyances, despite even the looming cuts, I cannot imagine life any other way.