Tag Archives: chicklet

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 7^th 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.

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.

10 things I’ve learned in my first 10 years as a bus parent

Today Chicklet turns 10 years old. My tiny little bus buddy is now a fourth grader, a self-described “horse crazy girl” who loves Prince, PAWS, books, trees, her baby cousins, and politics. Seriously, politics. She is the kid who insists on helping me fill out my ballot (which reminds me: gotta get on that), who enjoys watching debates and could easily name every elected official who represents her, from the senate to the city council. Despite her introverted nature, Chicklet wants to be one of those elected officials someday — and not just to make the world a better place. She has admitted (more than once) that she wants to “be in charge of people” just for the sake of it.

I digress.

Having a decade-old daughter means I’m 10 in bus mom years. I’ve learned a lot of lessons in 3,653 days of life on the ground — schlepping stuff and managing disasters (mostly minor) by bus. Here are 10 of them.

1. Creativity and flexibility are a bus parent’s most important tools. There are plenty of parenting practices — and even some products — that will make busing with kids easier. But the key to a successful bus parenting experience is an ability and willingness to adapt to whatever circumstances you are presented with.

Long bus wait? Play Connect Four. Heading to the beach? Pack tiny buckets. Struggling to keep up with youth ORCA cards? Get a lanyard (and a label). Toddler throws up on the 8? Use everything in your bus bag.

2. A plastic bag can solve almost any problem. A plastic bag is an essential item for most bus riders but especially essential for parents. Plastic bags are (unfortunately) abundant, free, easy to carry, and incredibly versatile. They can be used for on-the-way shopping (though these days, I carry an actual shopping bag, too), trash collection (for those random snack wrappers, banana peels, dirty tissues, diapers, etc., etc.); laundry (remind me to tell you about the time Chicklet sat on a mysterious brown substance at a bus shelter downtown), seating (to cover wet benches or ledges), and even, in a pinch, vomit (expelled by sick kiddos or those unfortunate individuals who are busing while pregnant).

Even if you’re not great at packing, it’s easy to keep at least one plastic bag in your backpack, purse, or pocket. And it’s worth it. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

3. Busing prepares kids for life. Several years back, I wrote a post about how busing makes kids smarter. It might have been a bit of a stretch (and it definitely scored high on the smug scale), but I am convinced that bus kids are more ready for the world than kids who are driven everywhere.

Busing involves waiting. In the early years, this can be challenging, but kids do get used to it. They learn how watch the world, or daydream, or make conversation, or read a book when they’re bored. This comes in handy when they’re in line at the grocery store, in the dentist’s office, at a restaurant, or pretty much anywhere kids are expected to keep their bodies calm and minds occupied for more than 30 seconds.

Bus kids build physical stamina from all the walking they do. Kids who walk a lot are healthy, ready for almost any outdoor adventure, and able to keep up with parents on shopping excursions and other walk-intensive outings.

A Monday walk to school

Bus kids learn to navigate at an early age and develop an intimate, on-the-ground knowledge of their community. This prepares them to get around on their own long before they are old enough to drive.

Bus kids learn to interact safely with people they don’t know. They practice setting and respecting boundaries, and they are exposed to people of all different ages, colors, orientations, incomes, temperaments, and abilities. This helps them understand that everyone belongs. And the way I see it, there’s nothing more important to learn.

4. Policies matter. Back in the dark ages, when my kids were still portable, Metro’s stroller policy required parents to remove children from strollers and collapse the strollers before boarding the bus. This made some sense from a safety and space use perspective but absolutely no sense from a parent’s perspective.

Long before I became a bus mama, I knew I would never bring a stroller onto the bus if I could possibly help it. And when I did have kids, I wore them in a carrier as often — and for as long — as possible. When they started getting too big to be carried in a pack, I struggled. There was a good six-month stretch when I was willing to walk very long distances in bad weather to avoid the bus, because the stroller hassle was just too much.

The benefit of this excruciating period was that I was very motivated to get my kids walking on their own. Both of them started their “walk training” before they turned two and were full-time walkers by two and a half. To this day, they have incredible stamina and patience and can out-walk most adults.

Again, I digress.

These days, Metro has a sane stroller policy. Parents can leave their child (and stuff) in the stroller and can use the lift and wheelchair area if it is not being used by a wheelchair passenger. It’s not a perfect solution, since parents sometimes must unhook, unpack, and fold in the middle of a ride, but it’s impossible to perfectly balance the needs of a diverse group of riders in a vehicle with limited capacity. And certainly, the current policy is significantly better than what I dealt with — so much better that I sometimes wish I had another baby just so I could take advantage of it.

OK, no I don’t.

There are so many examples of the positive impacts that thoughtful, people-focused agency policies have on riders. (There are also plenty of examples of the negative impacts of poor policies.) I hope Metro continues to incorporate feedback from folks on the ground into all of their decision-making processes.

5. Bus drivers are the best people. I’ve always been a bit in awe of bus drivers, so it’s beautiful to see that my kids feel the same way. I’ve written so much about the ways drivers have cared for and entertained our family over the years, I don’t have much more to say on the subject. Except this:

6. Seattle needs more public bathrooms. One of the most common challenges we deal with on our bus adventures is the restroom emergency. (The fact that the emergency is mine as often as it is one of my children’s is a minor detail.) Being stranded at a bus stop with a potty training kid who has to go (or a diapered kid who already did) is a not awesome aspect of busing with babies.

If the world were as it should be, there would be clean, safe restrooms at Link stations and all major bus stops. The world is not as it should be (so very not), so bus riders (and everyone else) must fend for themselves. I make it my business to know all the restroom options in the neighborhoods I visit frequently. My preferred restroom hierarchy: public (library, community center, government building, park [except YUCK]), private but accessible (hotel lobby, large restaurant), private but inaccessible (small restaurant or coffee shop with a key or code).

In case you’re not a restroom savant, there’s — obviously — an app for that.

7. Bus parents don’t “run errands.” When Chicklet was a baby, I was desperate to prove that our family could live like everyone else. Or, at least, that we could do everything other middle-class families did. This was in part because I was still in my “bus booster” phase (Who am I kidding? I will always be in my bus booster phase.) and was therefore more interested in proving that carfree living was possible than I was in analyzing its limitations.

Yes (thanks mostly to our proximity and access), my kids get to dance classes and sports practices and birthday parties and doctor’s appointments. Yes, we have food in our refrigerator and clothes in our closets and all the essential hygiene products in our bathroom. Yes, we go on fun outings. But the effort, time, and physical and mental energy that is expended to make all that happen can sometimes feel overwhelming. (Carrying capacity has always been, and as far as I can tell will remain, a huge challenge for me.)

And even with the basics covered, there are plenty of things we choose not to do, or do less often than we would like, because we don’t have a car. There are other things that we only do when we decide to rent a car.

What I have learned over these years is that we aren’t, in fact, trying to “live like everyone else” by bus. Instead, we are building and modeling a different way to live. And really, that’s always been the point.

8. The journey is the adventure. Sorry to resort to a cliché in an already cliché’ “10 things I learned” listicle, but folks, we’re talking transit here. Schlepping kids across town on the bus for an everyday errand like shoe shopping when you’re tired and pressed for time can be a hassle. But riding transit to go on an adventure is, well, an adventure.

When we take the bus (or train) to an event, or to a beach or park we rarely visit, we try new routes, walk in new neighborhoods, and enjoy new scenery. We spend our travel time focusing on each other instead of the road. These transit adventures have made some of our best memories as a family, and they’re a beautiful reminder of why we ride.

9. Our “sacrifice” is a privilege. While it’s true that our decision to live without a car requires determination and some amount of sacrifice, it’s also true that it wouldn’t be possible at all without a number of privileges lots of people don’t have. Living the way we do is possible for us because we have work that is flexible and accessible by transit, reliable internet access, and sufficient income. We are able-bodied and live in a centrally located neighborhood with sidewalks, pretty good transit, and nearby services. Because we are fortunate enough to own a home, our housing costs are stable, and, barring some unforeseen disaster, we can count on the access we need to keep doing this.

Back when I started my carfree adventure almost 15 years ago, Seattle was already an expensive city. But, it was possible (if challenging) for many carfree families to save enough on transportation costs to afford to live in a small space in the city. Now, city living is inaccessible to almost everyone. It is no longer a matter of tradeoffs or determination; it’s a matter of not having enough money to make it work, no matter how you get around.

And it’s not just about access. If any number of circumstances in our lives were to change, we wouldn’t be able to live this way anymore. If, for example, someone in our family developed a medical condition that required regular appointments or procedures or that made it difficult for them to walk long distances, we would need a car. If we decided to foster another child, who might attend a different school than our other kids and would almost certainly have family visits and other appointments outside our neighborhood (not to mention his or her own share of middle-of-the-night illnesses), we would need a car. If one of us started a job that involved a non-bus-friendly commute or that required us to travel around the region during the day, we would need a car.

For a few years now, I’ve been wondering about the point of it all. Why make a choice that constrains our lives in so many ways if it’s not a choice most others can emulate? Is there value in doing something so outside of the norm if it has little to no real impact, especially if we could be of more service to our community and extended family if we drove?

All I’ve got is this: You have to start somewhere. Sure, lots of people can’t get by without a car. But some of people can. And those people should. If they don’t, we cannot expect to see change in our lifetimes. Or ever.

So, the way I see it, our family needs to make the tradeoffs and feel the occasional discomfort and keep living this way for as long as we are able. We also need to fight like hell to make sure the privileges we have are available to more people. We must insist on affordable housing, so that working people can live in the city. We must insist on sidewalks in every community. We must advocate for more and better transit and safe bicycle infrastructure.

We must do this because living without a car should not be a choice only for the desperate or dedicated. It should be an option available to everyone.

10. Holding hands is awesome. The challenges of bus parenting change over time. You go from the physically exhausting infant period, to the squirmy, bathroom centric (and also physically exhausting) toddler phase, to the payment logistics and window-seat battles of the early school years, to the scheduling struggles of the older kid years, to … Lord only knows.

But the joys of bus parenting? Those remain constant. Playing “telephone” while waiting for the 8 on a rainy night. Reading books — together or separately — on the way to visit cousins. Running into school friends or church members or neighbors on almost every ride. Holding hands, sitting close, telling jokes.

I will continue to be grateful that we can do this, even on days when I’m exhausted and resentful and over it already. Because the truth is, busing with babies is beautiful. And we are so fortunate.

Back at it

First and third grades, here they come!

Context

My Chicklet is a woman’s woman. Almost as soon as she could talk, she was proudly asserting her gender identity – and allegiance. Now she’s eight and a half, and for the last few months, she’s been talking about feminism and women’s rights in ways I hadn’t even thought to introduce to her yet. Her delivery is a bit on the self-righteous and unforgiving side – she comes by that naturally (ahem) – but she’s not wrong about any of it.

Chicklet’s newfound feminism has caused some sibling tension. Whenever she makes an assertion about men’s role in women’s oppression, or asks to participate in something that is for girls only, her little brother gets upset. Really upset.

In their most recent exchange, he burst into tears as soon as the subject came up. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he sobbed. “You’re making me feel bad about my gender!”

Some background:

Sweet Busling is one of the most open-hearted, fair, and inclusive people I have ever known. In his world, the power balance is clearly tilted in favor of his older sister, whom he adores and looks up to. And, though his dad and I have been proactive about teaching the historical roots of racism, we have kept most of our discussions about gender to general concepts of equality, which Busling has taken to heart. He simply doesn’t see sexism as something that hurts women. Instead, he sees any attempt to single out or exclude someone based on their gender as wrong. And, he is personally offended by any suggestion that there is something wrong with being male.

For months, I have struggled with how to handle Busling’s reactions to his sister’s gender-related complaints and assertions. My instinct has been to comfort him, to push aside my daughter’s very valid critiques in the interest of protecting his feelings. After all, he has no context for understanding women’s oppression. And he certainly didn’t have anything to do with it. Plus, he’s my baby! Every time I look at his sweet face, I want to reassure him that everything is OK.

But here’s the thing: Everything is not OK. Sexism and misogyny pervade our culture. If I avoid or dismiss or sugar coat the truth so that my child can feel good, I have done him – and all of the girls and women he will interact with in the future – a disservice. And really, we’ve had enough recent examples of self-absorbed, entitled young men who see their feelings as more important than someone else’s freedom or safety.

My son’s perspective about women’s equality is my responsibility. (Actually, it’s mine and his father’s, but you get the idea.) He doesn’t have any context about women’s oppression because he is new to the world, so it’s my job to provide it. This doesn’t mean I should teach him to feel bad or guilty about being a boy. Instead, I must teach him that oppressive, hierarchical systems hurt everyone, that his freedom is bound up with everyone else’s, and that it is his responsibility to challenge systems that harm people.

Experiencing my own child’s inability to recognize sexism has helped clarify many things for me, including the refusal of many seemingly sane white people to acknowledge the existence of racism. In the past, I assumed that such people feigned ignorance to mask their hostility or indifference to black and brown pain. But now, I am starting to understand that they simply have no context.

Racism, anti-blackness, and white supremacy are facts of life in the United States — part of the very foundation of our country. And yet, it is possible for white children to make it to adulthood without ever being forced to deal with this reality. Schools do not teach the truth, and parents – even those who consider themselves anti-racist – often exacerbate the problem by avoiding difficult conversations or substituting platitudes like “skin color doesn’t matter” for substantive dialog.

Of course we want our children to feel good and have a pleasant life, but our children’s comfort cannot come at the expense of justice. Parents of white children must educate their families (starting with themselves) about racism. They must teach the truth about our nation’s history. They must point out examples of racism and give their children the tools to recognize and resist it in their own lives.

We are all born into systems of oppression we had no hand in creating. Sometimes, they benefit us (in an immediate, individual sense, though certainly not in a long-term collective one); often, they don’t. Either way, it’s our responsibility to help dismantle them. Even if it’s uncomfortable.

How to make a bus mama proud

Parenting is really hard. It’s harder than I ever imagined, and I imagined that it was going to be hard. My baby whispering skills are legendary, but with actual children, I have no idea what I’m doing. Most days, I feel like I’m messing up motherhood — and maybe even my kids.

Then yesterday, at the 8 stop, I looked over at my progeny and saw them doing this.

It wasn’t a surprise — they read every time we wait at a bus stop (or anywhere else, for that matter) — but in that moment, after a morning of whining, arguing, and selective hearing, it was a gift.

It looks like I’ve managed to get at least one thing right.

A driver holiday by any other name…

Today is the seventh year that Bus Driver Appreciation Day has been a thing. In the last couple of years, it has really picked up steam, with transit agencies from across the country–including King County Metro–promoting the day. Along with the agency involvement has come a minor, seemingly innocuous change to the name of the celebration–to Transit Driver Appreciation Day.

No.

Of course all transit drivers are fantastic and important and blahblahblah, but the purpose of this day, March 18th, is to honor BUS drivers. A good bus driver is like a superhero. Maneuvering a gigantic vehicle in traffic while managing passenger needs, trying to keep a schedule, not kill anyone, and deal with occasional (or not-so-occasional) drama has got to be ridiculously difficult—especially if you never get to go to the bathroom.

As for me and mine: We’ll stick with the original name.

On busing and bad language (or, the “s” word, according to Chicklet)

As I’ve mentioned on numerous occasions (here and here and here and here), my fellow bus riders are a creative bunch. One of the many areas through which they express their creative energy is cursing. If there were a world cursing competition, it would be held in the back of a bus. Or at a stop.

As I’ve also mentioned, the two mini bus riders with whom I travel most frequently are big talkers. And imitators.

I think you see where I’m going with this.

I am prepared to (and in fact regularly do) talk to my children about what we witness, experience, and overhear on our travels. I think of it as their opportunity to learn about the world they live in and my opportunity to teach compassion and reinforce our family’s values. Still, I have a hang-up about bad language–especially certain words–and have always been slightly fearful that my kids would join the ranks of advanced potty mouths before they even had any middle-school friends to impress.

As it turns out, it has (so far) not been an issue. Oddly, neither one of them has ever uttered a bad word—nor seemed even the slightest bit interested in those that are hurled past them with infrequent regularity. In our six and a half years of bus parenting, curse words have never come up.

Until last weekend, that is.

On Saturday, as Chicklet was sitting on the couch, obsessively reading a My Little Pony comic book, she suddenly gasped.

“Mommy, Mommy come here! Come here! This book has a BAD WORD!”

I hustled over, almost excited for an excuse to finally ban this bane from my household for good. (I have no idea why I allowed my children to be introduced to these insidious, equine, purveyors of platitudes, but I rue the day.) Looking simultaneously embarrassed, outraged, and horrified, she pointed out the offensive language:

“shut up”