Category Archives: issues

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.

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, 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?

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.

Police murdering Black folks is apparently not canceled, either

Yesterday, on Memorial Day, George Floyd was murdered by the Minneapolis Police Department. I won’t share the details because I can’t bear them. I am so sick with grief and horror and fear and rage that I can barely type this.

I don’t have anything profound to say. I don’t know what the hell to do. I can’t even bring myself to call for “justice,” because what the fuck does justice look like in a culture that does not recognize Black humanity?

I am here to bear witness. To remember that a human life was stolen. A living, breathing man was brutally murdered by a publicly funded gang—people whose salaries he helped to pay.

A man who got dressed in the morning expecting to get undressed in the evening. A man who loved and was loved. A man who was birthed and nursed and bathed and scolded and cheered for and held close. A man with gifts and talents and people who depended on him. A light in someone’s world.

Rest in power, George Floyd. I will not forget your name.

Image description: Three lighted candles on windowsill. In front of each candle is a handwritten name: Ahmaud Arbery, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor.

What I’ve learned from my transgender child

My second child, known as “Baby” Busling on this blog, is nonbinary.*

They’ve been telling us in different ways throughout their 10 years on this planet, but they told me directly—or as directly as they had language for—at age seven. The words they used were “gender neutral,” and they explained those words to mean that they didn’t feel like a boy or a girl, or maybe they felt like both a boy and a girl, or maybe, they felt like something beyond all of it, something that English does not have a word for.

When they first told me, I said all the correct, affirming things that parents are supposed to say in these situations.

But inside, I was devastated. I didn’t want a ticket for this particular ride. Even as I searched for children’s books about gender and met with teachers to discuss my child’s identity, I secretly hoped this was a “phase” they would soon outgrow.

For one thing, I simply didn’t understand.** We had raised our children to question gender expectations and norms. We had told them that their gender did not limit who they could be in this world. I wondered: If my child can be a boy and still dress and act and be however they please, why do they need a different label for it? And if they grew up understanding that boys come in all different packages, how do they know—in their bones—that they aren’t a boy?

But much stronger than the confusion, which I could live with, was the fear. I was devastated, not because I believed that there was something wrong with my child, but because I knew there was a lot wrong with the world they lived in.

Raising a Black child in this sick, violent, white supremacist culture is terrifying. I have struggled with that truth since my daughter was born in 2007. But at least a Black child can find some refuge, encouragement, and safety in the Black community. Where can a Black transgender child find refuge, encouragement, and safety?

Every time I looked to my sweet Busling’s future, all I saw was rejection and violence. In those first months (really, years), I was ruled by fear. And if I’m honest, it wasn’t just for my kid; I knew that the rejection would extend to me. My parenting would be questioned. I would be forced to reckon with bigotry in what had previously felt like circles of safety.

In other words, I could no longer simply profess solidarity with transgender people. I could no longer limit my support to sharing my pronouns or participating in the occasional march. I would have to live in the world from the other side of the divide, to actually experience the contempt, the erasure, and yes, the danger.

But fear is one thing. And love—love—is another.

I can’t make the world safe for my child. Full stop. But I can make my heart and my home safe for them. I can walk beside them with pride. I can stare down bigotry whenever (and in whomever) it arises and insist that everyone in my child’s life honor their full humanity.

I don’t understand what gender is. But the one thing I know for sure is that my child is beautiful.

They have always seen the world from a particular vantage point. For as long as they’ve been able to talk, they’ve astounded me with their astute, insightful observations. I’m constantly asking myself how it is that it took me over 40 years to unlearn nonsense that this oracle of a human sees through right away.

Busling is a gifted visual artist, writer, and dancer. They enjoy origami, welding, basketball, baking, and nurturing almost anything living. They hate bathing and practically live in torn, stained t-shirts and jeans, but they also love dressing up in fancy, sparkly outfits and gathering dropped camellia flowers to pin in their hair.

They will play any game (outside or in), with anyone, anytime. If I walk by someone on the street in need of help and neglect to stop, they always remind me. “Mom, didn’t you see? That person needs a few dollars for food.”

If this is what it means for my perfectly made, second-born child to be who they are, why would I want them to change? Why would I want them to “fit in”? I can’t take the particular beauty of this particular human and leave their gender. It’s one package.

Watching the person I had the honor to bring into this world understand, name, and embrace who they are has shown me who I am. And I don’t like what I see in that mirror.

I am a rule follower, someone who regularly chooses acceptance and approval over truth and freedom. I have spent my life tiptoeing and contorting, hoping to be liked, to be picked, to be “good.” As a child, I was such a pleaser that I rarely even knew what I wanted; I just automatically did what was expected of me. Because I didn’t know how to be true to myself, pain and confusion leaked out in other ways. It’s been a long road back to me, and to be honest, I’m still on it.

Thank god for beautiful Busling, my teacher. I watch the way they look inside for guidance, the way they walk in the world with courage, and I am convicted.

I am honored to walk beside them on this journey.

Image description: A piece of purple construction paper with the words, “I want to be brave like you” written in a child’s handwriting

***

*If you don’t know what this means, the Gender Reveal podcast has a really great Gender 101 episode.

**I’ll admit that I still don’t—at least not fully. But my child’s identity is not for me to understand. It’s for me to support and accept.

Missing the bus

Back in the Before Times (aka, two months ago), when I actually went places, I would sometimes rent a Zipcar for the day, usually to visit family and friends who live outside of reasonable busing distance. Of course, when it comes to buses, I’m not above pushing past what is reasonable, but other obligations and service limitations do occasionally constrain my ability to spend an entire day traveling 23 miles.

I digress.

On those Zipcar days, every time I found myself driving near a bus or rolling past a full bus stop, I would feel a pang, even a bit of FOMO. Seeing a bus when I’m not riding hurts my bus chick heart.

This is how I feel every day now when I go outside—usually to walk in circles around my neighborhood—and I see 3s and 4s and 8s and 27s and 48s rolling by, often completely empty. Except these days, it’s not a just a brief pang. It’s an ache, a cracking open, an interior crumbling.

It’s grief.

As a naturally anxious person who has lived through many of Metro’s ups and downs, I have rehearsed a fair number of transit disaster scenarios in my head. But never, not even in my worst anxiety spirals, did I imagine the current reality: that the bus would become a vector of a global pandemic, that anyone with the option to stay home would be asked not to ride, that loving your community would mean not riding the bus.

How can I explain what the bus means to me? I have been writing this blog for 14 years and still have not managed to put it into words.

The bus is my stability, my comfort, my assurance that the world is as it should be. It is my opportunity to be with other people I would otherwise never have the chance to meet.

On the bus, I am invisible but also seen, alone but in community, moving but sitting still.

I can participate in conversations or (my specialty) observe from the periphery, absorbing, empathizing, integrating all of it. Or I can tune it all out and look out the window to watch the world.

When I am on the bus, I know that I belong. To my city. To humanity. To the ancestors.

I know that this is bigger than my personal loss. Drivers are risking their lives to transport people who must travel. Major service cuts are limiting those people’s access to food and jobs and medical care. The economic crash caused by this disaster will make it near impossible for Metro to restore service when it’s finally safe to ride again.

But the thing about the bus is that it is both personal and collective. My loss is the community’s, and the community’s loss is mine.

And right now, it feels like a cyclone has hit, and we’ll never get back home.

A woman’s body is not public space

I started riding the bus alone at eight years old, younger than was common in 1980, and most certainly younger than is common in 2018. My initial solo bus trips were to school and involved a transfer downtown. After a few months of practice, I started branching out: riding to local stores, to my grandma’s apartment, to doctor’s appointments, even on adventures with my siblings. Even though at eight I was a bit on the shy side and pretty risk averse (OK, I still am), I never felt any reservations about taking the bus alone. I was confident in my abilities and proud that I could get around the city on my own.

Ironically, it was at around 14, an age when it is common to move through the world without the assistance of an adult, when I started feeling afraid to travel alone. This was the age when my body started to look like a woman’s body and, consequently, the age I first began to experience street harassment. My parents had prepared me well for the logistics of traveling by bus, but no one prepared me for life on the street as a woman.

Groping happened rarely, but leering and yelling were near constant. Back then, I didn’t know how to respond to the shouted comments about my body, the insults, the lewd jokes at my expense. I would cross the street to avoid encountering groups of men and hold my breath every time I passed a construction site. I would smile politely when disrespectful strangers pressed their phone numbers into my hand, because it didn’t take long to figure out that saying no to a man who feels entitled to your attention can activate rage. When men grabbed my arm, I would pull it away and keep walking (faster, and without turning back), so busy feeling scared and intimidated that it never even occurred to me to be angry.

But I’m angry now. Angry that experiencing this type of harassment so early in my womanhood changed the way I viewed myself and my right to move through the world. Angry that, when I was considering giving up my car 15 years ago, what gave me the most pause was not the logistics of how I would get where I needed to go, but the prospect of being on the street outside of normal business hours. Angry that my daughter, who will turn 11 in exactly one month, will soon face the same abuse I did as she ventures out on her own.

Even now, at several years past 40 (and mostly past the street harassment period of life), I regularly constrain my movements because of my gender. I repeat: I, a grown-ass strong, intelligent, capable, adult, regularly constrain the way I move through my city because of my gender. This is true for every woman I know, but, because I get around by bus, it’s especially true for me.

It goes without saying (but I’m gonna say it, just to be sure it’s clear) that harassment is not unique to public transportation. It’s a cultural problem that manifests itself in every corner of our society. (Ahem.) But the particular problem of street harassment happens more often to women who spend more time walking and standing outside. And yes, to women who share space with men on buses and trains.

Public transportation represents freedom. It provides mobility for everyone, regardless of age or ability or economic status. But women and girls will never be truly free to use transit until they no longer have to contend with abuse every time they walk outside.

Public transportation offers us the gift of contact with our community. But we cannot expect young women to embrace (or even tolerate) contact that is often demeaning and is sometimes threatening.

Public transportation, like any public good, is only as healthy as the culture it is a part of. If we want women and girls to embrace life on the ground, then we must pay as much attention to the misogyny that pervades our culture as we do to travel times and vehicle design.

This planet is their home

“We cannot separate our children from the ills that affect everyone, however hard we try.” – Erica Jong

People often ask me how my decision to live without a car affects my children. Usually, I respond with my standard spiel about how we’re able to do all the stuff other families do (blah, blah, blah), because for the most part, it’s true — and because what usually underlies these questions is an assumption that I am shortchanging my kids, that I have sacrificed their birthright of a middle-class lifestyle in service of some extreme and unrealistic ideology.

The thing is, in a way, I have.

I look around and see friends and acquaintances driving their kids to water parks and on camping adventures and to premiere athletic competitions and to schools that are perfectly suited to their needs and temperaments. I see them participating in kid-focused organizations we would likely join if we owned a car. And sometimes, it feels like I am shortchanging them. Certainly, our life choices limit their access to opportunities many of their peers enjoy.

And then I remember that my children are not deprived in any of the ways that matter. They are loved. They are housed. They have access to fresh food, clean water, health care, and unlimited books (thank you, Seattle Public Library). They participate in sports and study the arts and play outside safely in their own neighborhood. And they see their beloved extended family regularly, if not as often as they (or I) would like.

Yes, their lives are constrained in some ways, but all kids’ lives are constrained by their parents’ values and circumstances. (Just ask my dad, a talented athlete who was prohibited from participating in most school sports because the games conflicted with his family’s religious observances.) And far more important than the minor, parentally imposed constraints they currently deal with are the very real threats to their future — climate change, extreme inequality, political instability — which are primarily the result of the very lifestyle they have been deprived of.

At some point, we have to acknowledge that what our culture values and prioritizes isn’t actually good for our children — or, for that matter, anyone else who’s trying to survive on this planet. We can continue to participate, or we can choose a different path, however impractical or unrealistic.

Several weeks ago, I came across this beautiful essay by Nicole Bradford, a mother of three whose husband is facing years in prison for participating in direct action efforts to stop fossil fuel extraction. Nicole’s insights are a gift, because they remind us of what we truly owe our — and everyone’s — children.

The accelerating instability of our earth is clarifying. And the act of rising to the enormity of what’s in front of us magnifies the commitment I made to them, when painfully, in love and toil, I brought them to this world.

I know that to use their youth as an excuse to not engage in this struggle would be to betray their existence. Together we are fighting for something all children on earth should be entitled to: a livable planet. And for Ben and me, the work of it becomes its own love story–to each other, and to our children.

Certainly, my family’s “sacrifice” (such as it is) cannot be compared to the Bradfords’ courageous stand. It’s difficult to even argue that our transportation choices are making any kind of difference — in the health of our planet or in our culture. But while the effectiveness of our resistance might be up for debate, the need for it is not.

Working for a healthy, peaceful, just planet does not conflict with our role as parents. On the contrary, it is the most important part of our job. We don’t owe our children fancy camps, or a perfectly curated school experience, or a spot on the best premiere soccer team. We owe them a future. We owe them a life.

What will happen if I don’t?

Last Friday, on a Portland light rail train, a white supremacist verbally abused and threatened two nonwhite teenage girls (one of whom was wearing a hijab) and then stabbed three men who tried to intervene, killing two of them.

Since I first learned about this horrific incident, I haven’t been able to think of much else.

For me, public transportation is a space to feel and be a part of my community. And a crowded train in broad daylight is one of the safest places I can imagine. I am not naïve. I know that sharing space with others isn’t always easy or pleasant and that transit reflects all of who we are, including our ugliness. What happened in Portland last week was a reminder that the ugliness can surface at any time, even in broad daylight on a crowded train.

When I was in my teens and early twenties, I endured near constant harassment by grown men — on transit trips and otherwise. And, like every person of color in this country, I have experienced my share of name-calling and other forms of direct, in-your-face racism. I know that feeling of vulnerability, the stress of staying vigilant and alert for the entirety of every outing, so I can easily imagine the fear, rage, and humiliation those young women felt when an unhinged stranger loomed over them spewing hate.

I can also imagine what it felt like to be on the train when the incident happened. I understand the desire to turn away from conflict or confrontation, especially if you are personally vulnerable. Rachel Macy, a passenger on that devastating ride, described her initial fear in an interview with The Oregonian.

“I didn’t want to look. I was too afraid. It felt really tense,” said the 45-year-old Southeast Portland resident of Native American descent. “I’m a woman of color. I didn’t want him to notice me.”

She found her courage a short time later, when she rushed to the aid of one of the victims and comforted him in his last moments of life.

Of course, the perceived threat was not the same for the men who did step in. Most likely, they did not imagine that the encounter would end their lives. But certainly, it would have been easier to look away, to turn up their headphones, to wait for someone else to help.

Those men did not turn away. And their decision to act with compassion and decency did end their lives.

What happened to these brave people should not be a cautionary tale; it should be a call to action. We cannot turn away from the evil that is happening around us — in our schools or workplaces or in the adjacent aisle on the train. We must stand and face it. We must defend the dignity of our fellow humans. Standing up might risk our lives, but it will save our souls.

Thank you, Ricky John Best, Taliesin Myrddin Namkai Meche, and Micah David-Cole Fletcher.

“The question is not, ‘if stop to help this man in need, what will happen to me?’ The question is, ‘if I do not stop to help [the man] what will happen to him?’” – Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. on the Parable of the Good Samaritan

What I know — what I owe

In the mid ’90s, back when I lived in Texas, I was a teacher. I came to the profession through a rather unconventional — though sadly, not particularly uncommon — path, and I didn’t last long.

I graduated from college with a BA in English, broke, with no clear idea of what I wanted to do for a living and exactly zero job prospects. Despite numerous visits to my university’s career services office, several half-hearted applications to “consulting” firms, and the moral low of applying for an entry-level communications role at Enron, I remained unemployed months after graduation. It was during this desperate time that I learned a school district at the northernmost reaches of the Houston city limits, comprised mostly of poor students of color, was hiring teachers.

It hadn’t occurred to me to apply for a teaching position, since I had no teaching certificate or teaching experience. (I had entertained — and dismissed — the idea of a teaching career early in college.) But this district was just as desperate as I was; it was experiencing an extreme teacher shortage and was therefore offering emergency certification. All that was required to apply was a bachelor’s degree, a mediocre GPA, and a background check.

After a short interview at the district office, I was hired to teach English at one of its four high schools. I started work at the beginning of the semester, without one single minute of training, without even a substantial meeting with the principal or the other teachers in my department. I was told what subject matter I was expected to cover, issued a couple of teacher’s manuals and a rolling cart, and sent off to do a job I had no idea how to do.

The cart, I should explain, was needed because I did not have a classroom. The school was overcrowded, and because I was a newbie and therefore low on the teaching totem pole, I was expected to “float”: teach each class in a different room, using the classrooms of more fortunate teachers during their planning periods. I had no desk of my own, no way to prepare lessons on the board in advance of class, and no place to meet with students or parents outside of class time. I didn’t even have access to a closet to store my coat and purse.

My classes were huge. Some had close to 40 students. On days when everyone showed up, there weren’t enough desks, and I would scramble at the beginning of the period in search of rare extras from other classrooms. A couple of times a month, a new student would show up. At least as often, a student on my roster would disappear.

The school had recently moved to “block” scheduling and for some reason could not figure out how to implement more than one lunch period with this new schedule. So, all 3,000 students ate lunch at the same time. There was not enough room for 3,000 people to eat in the cafeteria, so students ate throughout the school building. The staff was expected to supervise the students during lunch, to ensure that they followed school rules. This exercise in futility was called “lunch duty.”

Back in the mid 90s, state tests were just starting to become a thing. Texas’s test, then called the TAAS, was a big deal for districts and was an especially big deal for our district, since our scores were quite low. In my second year at the school, I was required to teach a daily, semester-long class on this test. (In block scheduling, a semester is the equivalent of a full school year.) I repeat: I was required to teach a daily class about how to take a test. This was in addition to the math test prep that I, an English teacher, was required to do with all of my classes for the first 10 minutes of every period.

These were the conditions under which I began my short-lived teaching career. It is clear to me now (even more than it was then) that I was not set up for success. Given the circumstances, I could not have given my students what they needed and deserved no matter how hard I tried. But the thing is, I didn’t really try.

I had no idea how to be a good teacher, and I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t find a mentor, or attend trainings, or read books about best practices for classroom management or lesson preparation. Instead, I prepared lessons at the last minute and “winged” my way through almost every class. I looked forward to my students completing required readings so that I could show the movie version of the story and avoid teaching for an entire class period. Any (rare) moments that I wasn’t required to spend with students I spent in a locked classroom with a few other young teachers, talking about how much we hated our jobs.

Once, I shared a lunch duty post with a PE teacher, a man in his 50s with many years of experience. In the course of our conversation, I complained about the chaos at the school. He agreed with me about the craziness but seemed resigned and wholly unconcerned. “These kids are trash,” he told me matter-of-factly. He only worked at our school, he explained, because the district paid more than districts with more “desirable,” students. He was looking forward to retirement, but in the intervening years, he would earn his paycheck honorably, by “giv[ing] them a basketball.”

What did I say in response to this man’s disgusting comments? Absolutely nothing.

At the beginning of every semester, I received individual education plans (IEPs) for all of my students with special needs. As their teacher, I was required to adjust my teaching style to suit these students’ learning styles. I know for sure that I did not do that. I did not even know how.

I rarely called parents, in part because many of my students were from non-English-speaking families, and I lacked the necessary communication skills, but mostly because I wasn’t organized or proactive enough.

Despite these (and many other) deficiencies, both of my formal reviews were solid: in the B+ range. This fact alone tells you all you need to know about the level of expectation and the amount of oversight in that school.

It wasn’t all awful. I showed up every day, despite the terrible conditions and the depressing, prison-like atmosphere. I tried to help my students understand how their schoolwork applied to their lives and their futures. I managed a few creative and inspired lessons. And I am certain that some of my students learned something of value from me.

With my 9th graders — in someone else’s classroom (ahem). Hard to tell which of us is the teacher.

Two of my students — eating their lunches on top of a trash can

With a student on the last day of school. Loved that kid but was singing, “Hallelujah!” in my head.

After two years, I accepted that I was not cut out to be a teacher and moved on to a profession I was better suited for. (A decade later, I moved on again, but that’s a story for another time.)

Now I have children in school, and I am dependent upon teachers to care about them, to see their humanity, and to create safe and stimulating learning environments. Now I understand better than ever what my students deserved, and just how much I failed them.

There is no way to fix the mistakes I made. All I can do now is ask myself what I owe.

Certainly, I owe a commitment to the children who are enrolled in public school now. I owe support and encouragement to those teachers who take seriously their responsibility to educate our children. (This support must also manifest in the public arena, by demanding that our leaders fund reasonable working conditions and decent salaries.)

Also, I owe the truth.

The truth is, we don’t value all children equally. The truth is, we are willing to accept substandard education for poor students and students of color.

The truth is, we are throwing away human beings.

What are we going to do about it?