Author Archives: bus chick

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.

On reaching bus milestones (and living with fear)

 “Baby” Busling, who will be 12 in January, recently graduated to solo bus riding. You would think—given that I started riding solo at eight, and my kids have been bus riders since (quite literally) day one—that this would be a triumphant transition for me.

You would be wrong.

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but B’s first solo trip (to school, in September) was the first time either of my children rode the bus alone. And it was really, really hard for me.

Of course there was the feeling of loss, which I expected. Many of my best memories with my kids are our travels together—certainly the bus adventures, but mostly the day-to-day stuff, like walking to and from school.

I walked my kids to and from school every day for six years—longer if you count Chicklet’s preschool years. Those commutes provided a beautiful structure and rhythm to my days. Even in the midst of it — morning chaos, afternoon arguments, and all — I knew how precious those times were. We learned how to be in conversation with each other (and with the many people we passed regularly), to notice the small details of our neighborhood, to experience (ahem) the seasons.

Then Chicklet moved on to middle school and started walking with her friends. We missed our threesome, but I still had precious one-on-one time with my baby. (Until Covid hit, and we were all basically grounded.) Now, that baby is in middle school—a different one than their sister attends—two very short bus rides away. And here we are.

So yes, taking my kids to and from school is something I loved and will miss. But we still walk together almost every day—to the pharmacy, to the grocery store, to the post office, or just to get out. And to be honest, I love the freedom that comes with their increased independence. I love that I no longer have to plan my days—or schedule my work—around school start and end times.

The real issue is not that I’m grieving my children’s growth. It’s that I’m scared as hell to let them go places alone.

Here’s the thing: I’m a bit of a “nervous” mom.

My first pregnancy was not planned, and I wasn’t initially thrilled at the prospect of becoming a parent. But even in those first months of ambivalence (with a side of constant nausea), I felt a protective urge—a new level of vulnerability.

If I could just make it past the first twelve weeks, I told myself, I wouldn’t be at risk of a miscarriage. If I could just make it to viability, so that my child could survive even if she was born early. If I could just make it to full term. If I could just make it to the other side of labor and delivery with a living, breathing child in my arms.

But after she was finally in my arms—ambivalence fully obliterated from the second we met—the “if-justs” didn’t stop. If we could just make it past her birth weight. If we could just make it through the SIDS danger months. If we could just avoid the swine flu.

Then one day it dawned on me: I was never, not ever, going to stop worrying about this child.

I carried that realization like a weight. The words that kept repeating in my head in those early months were, I don’t think I can stand loving someone this much.

I assumed (or at least hoped) that I would eventually get a grip. I haven’t.

Fourteen years later, I still worry as much as I did in those first months of parenthood—except now, I have three* humans to worry about, and every day, I have less control over their safety. I worry about “small” things like hurt feelings and fevers. I worry about big things, like climate change and inequality and whether they’ll have access to housing, employment, or even clean water in the future.

But mostly, I worry about the specific threats that our patriarchal, white supremacist, misogynist, homophobic society poses to my specific children.

I am the mother of Black children. I am the mother of a Black girl. I am the mother of a gender expansive Black child who was assigned male at birth but fully embodies both masculine and feminine energy.

I’ve experienced—and repeatedly witnessed—the harassment that young girls and women endure when walking on the street, or waiting for or riding on the bus. I have witnessed—and (poorly) attempted to interrupt—violent and demeaning trans/homophobia on buses, even very recently. I also know Black, queer kids who have experienced homophobic bullying on their travels to and from school.

How can I send my kids out there, knowing what they will face? How can I send my little one out there, knowing that the world is not ready for their beauty? Knowing that at any moment, they might come across a grown man who is insecure about his masculinity, or a group of other kids with something to prove?

Busling is a remarkable human being, and I’m not just saying that because I’m their mama. I have never met anyone, of any age, as wise as my 11-year-old child. They are mature, capable, responsible, and absolutely ready for more independence and autonomy.

But every day, I fight myself to allow it. Maybe we should wait until 7th grade, I think. Or at least until they turn 12. I think, Why rush things? Why not ride with my kid for as long as they want to ride with me? (They still do love to ride with me. We’re a pretty codepend— I mean, close, you see.)

But the thing is, next year, and the year after, and the year after that, my child will still be Black and trans, and our culture will still be anti-Black and transphobic.

The problem is not whether my kid is old enough to ride the bus without me. The problem is that this world isn’t safe for them. And no matter what I do, I can’t change the fact that they will—sooner or later—have to face it without me.

It is terrible and heartbreaking. And it is the truth.

An image of the side of a King County Metro bus. Through the window, you can see a young person alone in a forward facing seat, wearing a pink mask.
My baby, heading into the world without me
The image is of the back of a King County Metro bus as it drives away down the street.

*In 2014/15, Bus Nerd and I were foster parents to a beautiful toddler, known on this blog as HBE. I still worry about my HBE from afar.

Addendum (or, Everyday possible)

Southbound 48, 4 p.m.:

Busling and I board with a middle-aged man who had pulled his mask onto his chin to smoke a cigarette at the stop. He does not replace the mask as he enters the bus, nor after he is settled into his seat in the front section, directly behind the driver.

The driver, like most of the drivers we ride with in the Covid era (and very unlike the 27 driver from my previous post), lets it slide. He activates the automated announcement about masks—“Federal law requires that all passengers…”—and keeps driving.

The man, oblivious to the announcement, scrolls through his phone.

Another, younger man, whose seat is facing the maskless passenger, speaks up.

“Hey! Hey man! Ain’t you supposed to have your mask on?”

The maskless man looks up from his phone, takes a moment to register the comment.

Then he says, “Thank you,” and pulls his mask over his face.

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.

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.

It’s very hot, but I’m frozen

It’s 5:40 a.m. and 79 degrees outside. I’m up early, so I can go on a walk with my kids before it gets too hot to be out. At around 6 p.m. yesterday evening—otherwise known as 98 degrees Fahrenheit—I left the living room where my family was gathered, went to my bedroom, and closed the door. Then I sat on my bed and wept.

The best way to describe how I’m feeling right now is like the other shoe is dropping. I have known this was coming—not just intellectually, but in a deeper part of me. I could feel it. For decades, but especially since 2009, summers have been … different. Warmer. Drier. Longer. Other people’s comments—“Strange weather we’re having, huh?” or “Wow, what a great summer!”—would confuse me. Weren’t they feeling what I was feeling? Wasn’t it obvious that this was ominous rather than amazing?

As the intensity of the crisis has increased, my motivation—or rather, my ability—to respond has decreased. I can’t face the deeply disturbing changes or the misery they are causing, so I turn away. I retreat into my escapes—basketball and books—and obsess to the point of paralysis about my personal choices. I wash and reuse disposable plastic bags and then wonder if using the extra water is better or worse than throwing away plastic. I wander the grocery aisles searching for food items that aren’t wrapped in plastic, don’t contain palm oil, weren’t shipped from thousands of miles away, and on and on, until I can’t settle on a single food. Yesterday, I found myself arguing with my spouse over the carbon impact of buying a fan.

Meanwhile, our state continues to build highways, and corporations continue to destroy our shared planet with impunity.

I don’t have control over that. So I channel my energy into things I can control, like planning my family’s entire Saturday around four hours of bus travel, so we can attend my nibling’s birthday party in Tacoma without renting a Zipcar.

I don’t know what to do about the fact that our rivers are overheating, killing salmon and starving Orcas—or the incredible reality that the Olympic rainforest now has dry spells. So, I haul buckets of water to young trees my family has planted at various planting events around our neighborhood. One summer, during a particularly long dry spell, my kids and I spent hours, day after day, hauling water from the faucet in front of their elementary school to the mini-forest where we had planted trees a couple of years earlier—a good quarter mile each way. (We eventually figured out a more effective—and less strenuous—guerrilla watering strategy, but, much like Smooth Jazz‘s identity, it shall remain forever secret.)

These days, we are “forest stewards” (a bit of an inflated title, to be sure) at a park about five blocks from our home. On Thursday, in an attempt to repeat our previous baby-tree-preservation strategy, I used our hose to fill two buckets and carried them over to the park. My plan was to water a couple of the newer trees. But when I got to the planted area and saw how dry everything was, it felt stupid and pointless to be standing there with two not-quite-full buckets. What was a few gallons of water going to do against 110-degree heat? Who was I to pick and choose which of these distressed plants deserved a drink? What was even the point?

I told myself that it was better to do something than nothing as I dumped a bucket on sweet Shirley, the grand fir we named for my friend C’s mother.

Shirley the grand fir
Shirley the grand fir, after her Thursday drink

The next day, I returned with two more buckets, repeating, like a mantra, “It’s better to do something than nothing,” during the difficult walk to the park, and again as I walked by all of the dry, desperate plants I was not watering.

But is it? Was what I chose to do helpful, or did it just make me feel better? (To be honest, I’m becoming skeptical about the effectiveness of tree-planting efforts in general. But that’s a post for another time.) Did the watering just give me something to focus on, in the same way not driving gives me something to focus on—something other than what I know to be true: I am part of a culture that is making survival impossible for many of the species we share the planet with, including our own.

All over the world, humans are dying because of climate change. In my own city, people are working in dangerous conditions and suffocating in overheated apartments—if they are fortunate enough to have an apartment. Thousands are living without shelter, exposed to the extreme temperatures with few options for relief. The smoke will be here soon, and those of us who are able will again find ourselves hiding inside while others suffer and even die.

I don’t know what to do about any of it. I make donations to resistance efforts and mutual aid funds, invite neighbors to cool off in our downstairs.

Much more is required of me. But what?

Time travel on the 48

Whenever I ride the 48 past Massachusetts, I pass the Century House Apartments, where my Grandma Bernice lived for several years during my childhood. This means that roughly 10 times each week, I have a visceral memory of being with a person who loved me well.

I don’t come from a “close” family. The only relatives I spent significant time with growing up were my dad’s parents, who separated when I was very young. Grandpa Marcellus was fun. He taught us to play poker and dominoes, to saddle a horse and bait a hook. He let us ride in the back of his truck and fed us strange treats like horehound candy.

But my grandma, she knew how to love.

Grandma Bernice stayed with our family often. She slept in the basement, on a bed with a sky-blue spread, and we kids always, always slept with her. She played with us—catch and dress-up and paper dolls she made herself—baked with us, listened to us. She had an ability to be present, to treat us like fellow humans instead of “children,” that felt like magic. No matter how long she visited, whenever she announced that she was ready to go home, we would beg her to stay “just one more night.”

Even better than Grandma’s visits were those times—maybe once a month or so—when she would invite one of the older kids to stay at her apartment. For me, there was nothing more coveted, more sacred, than an invitation to spend the night with Grandma.

I don’t remember much about that apartment at 23rd and Massachusetts, other than the rough texture of the cheap carpet and the rather institutional smell of the hallways. I have only snapshots of the time we spent together there. I remember “sewing” on her magical sewing machine. Listening to stories of her childhood with the six sisters she missed so desperately. Brushing my teeth with salt and soda. Watching her remove her wig and re-braid her white hair into two scrawny plaits before climbing into bed next to me. The feeling of her cool fingers as she scratched my back until I fell asleep.

And I remember our walks.

Grandma Bernice didn’t drive. For most of her life, a car was out of the question, an impossible expense. When her own children were young, she transported them on Seattle’s then-trolleys or on foot. Many years later, my dad tried to teach her in his own car, but she found the experience terrifying and abruptly discontinued the lesson.

For my entire childhood, my grandma bused and walked everywhere she went. When I was with her, I bused and walked, too.

Sometimes, on those one-on-one visits, Grandma and I would walk to the store. She would buy ingredients for dinner and maybe a copy of the Enquirer, which she considered evidence that we were living in the End Times. Sometimes, we would walk all the way to Douglass-Truth for story time. Sometimes, we would walk just to walk.

Grandma Bernice was the only adult I knew who really noticed things. As a country girl living in an apartment with no outdoor access, she missed dirt. When she walked, she would gather leaf skeletons and flower petals, which she sometimes used to make art. She would ooh and ahh at people’s gardens—and sometimes sneak a flower or two. (Later, she would press those stolen beauties between the pages of her Bible to preserve them.) Sometimes, she would walk up to a tree and wrap her arms around it in a true embrace. If I listened closely, I could hear her whisper, “Thank you.”

This practice of walking just to walk continued far beyond my grandma’s time at Century House. She walked no matter who she was visiting or where she was living, no matter the conditions. Nothing deterred her—not stormy weather, not heavy traffic, not even repeated purse snatchings.

Even though I cherished my time with Grandma Bernice, I didn’t always cherish those walks. When we walked to get somewhere, I couldn’t match her pace. I’d find myself blocks behind, exhausted and miserable. When we walked just to walk, I quickly grew bored. When could we go back inside and do something?

But somehow, over time, I have become my grandma. Of course I love the bus, but walking is my favorite way to travel. I walk to get places, yes, but I also walk just to walk. To clear my head. To experience the seasons. To notice. Sometimes, I even stop to thank a tree.

Century House Apartments
The Century House apartments, a site of love

On interdependence

In the US, we are trained to believe that we can be self-sufficient—that if we just work hard enough, save enough money, buy enough insurance, hoard enough toilet paper, or build tall enough fences, we can insulate ourselves from what is going on “out there.”

This has always been an illusion.

The truth is, most of us eat because other humans grew and harvested food, then processed, packaged, shipped, stocked, and sold it to us.

The truth is, even the most “self-made” among us were brought into this world and then kept alive by other humans (not to mention the ecosystems that sustain us).

The truth is, if someone drops a cigarette in a drought-stricken forest, the smoke will affect our lungs, too.

The truth is, if one of us is sick, none of us is well.

These are the lessons that the pandemic has taught us—and that have always been available on the bus.

On a cold morning last January, when Covid cases were still rising in King County, and every bus ride felt like both a gift and a risk, Busling and I watched a not-uncommon scene unfold at a stop. While we waited for the 48, an 8 pulled up and parked. The driver turned on the hazards and opened all the doors, then walked to a seat near the back, to a sleeping passenger whose mask was on the floor near his feet.

The driver tapped on the seat until the passenger opened his eyes.

“Sir! Sir! I need you to put a mask on.”

The passenger looked blankly at the driver for a moment before his chin drooped to his chest and his eyes closed again.

The driver tapped on the seat again. As he tapped, he repeated, “Sir … sir! I need you to put a mask on.” The passenger—60-ish, clearly intoxicated, and very likely unhoused— continued to open, then close, his eyes. He never spoke or moved to retrieve his mask.  

Finally, after several minutes, the driver gave up. He left the passenger and mask where he had found them, returned to his seat, closed the doors, and drove away.

I have seen versions of this scenario play out many times on my Covid-era transit rides. And we have to talk about it.

What I love most about the bus is that everyone belongs. The world I’m trying to build is one in which public transportation is free, safe, and accessible to all. This means that I support any and all efforts to decriminalize transit infractions. It means that I don’t have a problem with someone riding the bus to stay warm (or cool). AND it means that no one should be exposed to a contagious, deadly disease while riding—or driving—a bus.

Every time something happens on transit that feels threatening to me or my children, I do a gut check. Do I want to keep doing this? Do I want to keep doing this in a pandemic? Usually, my initial response is a reflexive, almost visceral urge to turn away. I want to stop riding the bus, stop being exposed to risk. What I really want is to stop being exposed to reality.

But then I return to myself. I remember.

It’s true that there’s nothing inherently unsafe about transit. (Cars are far more dangerous, especially to children.) But the bus requires us to experience our fellow humans directly, to share the ride with the people we share the world with. If one of my fellow passengers is hateful, or harmful, or in distress, I will experience their suffering in real time.

Because here’s the thing: We can’t create safe communities without first ensuring that everyone’s needs are met. A society that leaves thousands of human beings without shelter from the elements harms everyone, including those who are comfortably housed. Including those whose jobs require them to serve the public.

The driver and passengers on that early morning 8 were faced with unnecessary risk and few safe (or satisfying) options for addressing it. This fact should galvanize us—not to create more rules or more enforcement mechanisms, but to end the conditions that created the situation. The problem isn’t what we should do about a passed-out passenger on the bus without a mask. The problem is, we haven’t figured out that our well-being is connected to his.

We cannot look around at the misery in our city and decide that the answer is to isolate and insulate ourselves—or to turn on those who are suffering. We must see our neighbors in distress as a sign that we are all sick. Then we must do what’s necessary to heal.