Tag Archives: community

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.

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.

The losses we don’t name

One thing I’ve heard repeated a lot this year is that Covid has clarified what is important. This doesn’t resonate much with me, in part because I have never really struggled with perspective—certainly not since watching my mother die prematurely from a prolonged and horrific disease—and also because I haven’t reached the same conclusion as most of the people saying it. For many, Covid has reinforced the importance of family and other close relationships. For me, it has reinforced the importance of random encounters with semi-strangers.

I’ve ridden the bus four times since March 12. This is, of course, an indication of my privilege. Every member of my household is working or schooling remotely. We bike for groceries (a practice we started three years ago, when Red Apple closed). With work, school, and food covered, we don’t have any essential trips. So, out of respect for bus drivers and other essential workers who must ride, and out of respect for load limits, we’ve been staying off the bus. Truth be told, except for daily walks around the neighborhood (and occasional work at the park where we volunteer), we spend most of our time inside.

I’m profoundly lonely, but not for the reasons you might think.

Yes, I miss my family and close friends. I haven’t held my youngest nibling, who turned one last month, since she was barely out of the newborn phase. I haven’t spent time indoors with my siblings or dad since the first statewide stay-at-home order. I haven’t hugged or shared a meal with a girlfriend in even longer.

Despite all of this, I have managed to stay connected to my people. We Zoom. We talk on the phone. We meet for walks. We email, DM, IM. I send letters (and bus stickers!) to my niblings. I text ridiculous memes to my brothers. I Marco Polo with my bestie. I communicate with nearby neighbors via group email and text. (My neighborhood even gathered for masked, distanced outdoor movie nights over the summer.)

So, while I certainly would prefer to be present with my beloveds in the ways I am used to, I am still very connected to everyone I was in a definable relationship with before the pandemic. (I am also deeply, deeply grateful that everyone in my immediate circle is still healthy.)

The people I am missing desperately are the people I never call. The people whose numbers (and sometimes, names) I don’t know, but who I am in relationship with nonetheless.

I miss the school crossing guards. The front desk folks at the library. The bus drivers. The bus regulars. (I saw Miss Ida walking down Yesler in September and almost cried with relief and joy.) The dance school receptionist. The Real Change vendor. The not-immediate neighbors I’m on waving/”How you doin’?” terms with.

These are people who bring texture and connection and beauty to my life. I have always valued these relationships, but I didn’t realize how much I relied on them until overnight, all of them were snatched away. I don’t know if these folks are OK. I have no way to check on them or offer support.

I am not a “people person.” I am a deep believer in community and a lover of humans, but I am also a shy, introverted homebody. Left to my own devices, I would live my entire life in my head. My daily travels—walking a kiddo to school, picking up a library hold, stopping for a paper and a quick chat, greeting (and then thanking) a bus driver, running into an acquaintance on a ride—are my way of connecting to my community. They help me remember I’m not alone.

So yes, I miss my loved ones, but I never really lost them. The network of humans that held me up pre-pandemic might never return.

And that loss is profound.

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.

We are all bodies with needs

A few days ago, I started my period. This was insignificant in the big picture of my life—I’m 48 (!) and have been getting my period (roughly) every 28 days for 34 years—but significant to the coming week: my periods tend to be long and heavy and accompanied by debilitating migraines.

My period is one way that I mark time (as in, “Damnit, again?!”), so when my monthly visitor returned (uninvited) in the midst of a global crisis, it somehow felt unfair. At a time when almost everything else has been canceled,* periods persist?!

Yesterday morning (day three), I listened to a podcast while preparing (read: popping migraine meds and fortifying my menstrual cup with period underwear) to teach my class. The episode topic was disability justice, and the entire discussion was instructive. But as the conversation was wrapping up, one of the guests said something that grabbed my attention. For context, this was her full comment.

“And one of the things that it makes me think about … is the reality that we’re all in bodies. You know, it’s not like we’re just abstract thinkers that are somehow leaving our existences outside the door. All of us are always in our bodies, engaging with each other. And all bodies are valuable, and all bodies have needs and strengths and desires. And oftentimes, it’s expected that our needs get kind of left at the door somehow, which is impossible. And all of us have a variety of needs.”

Patty Berne on Irresistible podcast, “Organizing in a Pandemic: Disability Justice Wisdom“

What I heard was this: We are all (all of us, not just those society defines as disabled) bodies with needs. We cannot separate ourselves from our bodies’ needs.

Soon after absorbing this wisdom, I logged in to Zoom and managed my 90 minute class—including the logistics of connecting a guest speaker—while bleeding heavily and fighting a headache.

This was hardly remarkable. Some variation of that scenario has been my reality (and, likely, the reality of untold numbers of people who menstruate) through hundreds of periods. But for the first time, I saw it differently. I realized that I was ignoring my body and its pressing needs in order to get stuff done.

Throughout my life, I have ignored (or hidden) my body’s needs again and again. Some examples:

  • Struggling through school and work in an achy, sleep-deprived fog in the early years of my period, when excruciating cramps kept me awake all night
  • Ruining numerous pairs of pants when I taught high school, because–period or not–I couldn’t find time to use the bathroom between classes
  • Commuting 15 miles (two buses plus lots of walking) to work and working full days during my first pregnancy, despite being exhausted and nauseous every moment of every day
  • Busing to Mercer Island on weekday evenings for Regional Transit Task Force meetings when my youngest was still a newborn, struggling to participate in the three-hour discussions while my breasts filled with milk and my arms ached for my baby
  • Lying under my desk in the shared workspace at the nonprofit I worked for, hoping my migraine would subside before my next appointment (usually a donor I was supposed to ask for money) arrived

I realize now that I have always carried shame about my body’s inconvenient needs, especially when those needs were related to menstruation or reproduction. It never occurred to me that I was actually pretty freaking amazing to manage work and life despite significant physical discomfort and logistical challenges. It certainly never occurred to me that it was OK to miss school or work for my period, or to cancel a meeting because of morning sickness or a migraine.

When my youngest was a week old, my spouse returned to work. I was fortunate to be able to stay home with the baby while I continued with regular life: writing my column, caring for our two-year old, and managing the household.

One day, when I was out and about with my newborn strapped to my chest and my toddler in a stroller, I ran into an elder friend who had raised her children in her home country of Eritrea. My friend told me that in her culture, when a woman has a baby, mother and baby “go to bed,” as she put it, for some months.** The mother’s extended community handles everything, and her only jobs are to rest and feed and nurture her new baby.

I remember aching with longing as she described this way of being, wishing for all the world that I could take my exhausted, sleep-deprived self “to bed” with my baby.

There are so many reasons this wouldn’t happen in the U.S. (one being that few of us have an extended community that would—or could—support us in that way), but one of the most important is capitalism. Our culture doesn’t value wellness, or bonding, or rest, because those things aren’t profitable. And because we live in a patriarchal society, we don’t value work that is traditionally performed by women.

I wish I could nurture my previous selves, tell them it’s OK to rest, that there’s nothing shameful about having a body with needs, that you don’t have to push, to deny, to “keep up” with everyone who seems to be managing it all better than you.***

Since I can’t do that, I will do my best to nurture my current self and to change the culture I’m a part of. I will rest when I am tired or sick. I will honor the rhythms of my body. I will remind myself and my children that there is nothing shameful about needing care, or medication, or accommodation, or extra time. And there is nothing abnormal or embarrassing about having a body that bleeds every month.

I will focus on others’ humanity instead of their output. I will encourage students and colleagues and community partners to listen to their bodies instead of sacrificing them to the religion of “productivity.” I will stand in the gap when I am able, trusting that others will do the same for me when I am not.

May all of us embody the care, peace, and rest that this moment demands.

Ase.

“Our bodies are a site of liberation.” – The Nap Ministry

* And speaking of … One day soon, I’ll write about how much I’m missing the bus in this new reality, but I’m not ready yet.

** I don’t remember anymore how long she said this period of time was. I think it was three months, but it could have been one.

*** Except you sort of do, if you want to pay your freaking rent. But whatever.

Shelter and safety for everyone

I met my friend Lawrence* because he lives in my neighborhood, and I know—at least by sight—most people who live in my neighborhood. Lawrence and I frequent the same bus stops and walk many of the same routes. After crossing paths numerous times, we officially introduced ourselves. Eventually, we became friends.

Lawrence has lived in Seattle for his entire life. Because he can no longer afford housing, he now lives in his van, which, as far as I can tell, isn’t running. The front windshield is smashed, and at least one of the tires is flat. Lawrence often needs money for propane, so he can keep warm at night. Like me, he suffers from a condition called Raynaud’s Syndrome, which causes pain and numbness in the hands and feet during even mildly cold weather. He also has arthritis.

I worry about everyone in our city who is unhoused. I especially worry for those people whose faces and names I know, people I have formed bonds with. Every single night, I worry about Lawrence.

Shortly before the COVID-19 pandemic hit, Lawrence and I exchanged numbers. I told him to call me in case of emergency, like if he was out of propane, or just needed someone to help him problem-solve. About a week later (around the same time our region was beginning to understand the seriousness of coronavirus), I decided I could no longer live with the idea of him suffering on the floor of his van night after night. I texted to ask if he’d like to spend a few days in a hotel. He said yes.

I chose the Best Western Pioneer Square because I know someone who has stayed there several times and liked it. It is a fairly short bus ride from our neighborhood, is clean and comfortable, and includes a hearty breakfast. I called to make a reservation, then took the 27 to the hotel to provide my credit card and give them Lawrence’s information.

As I waited in line, the hotel staff were very busy, answering calls from people canceling reservations and helping guests check out early. It occurred to me that the fallout from this pandemic had created an opportunity for an emergent strategy of sorts. Hotels were losing business and would soon be empty. Unhoused people are particularly vulnerable to COVID-19. What if we, concerned citizens of Seattle (and every city), pooled our resources to rent newly cheap hotel rooms for our homeless neighbors?

When it was my turn to register, I attempted to provide the hotel with some information about Lawrence, who, not surprisingly, isn’t as clean or neatly dressed as someone with access to shelter. I struggled with whether I should say something; I didn’t want to violate his privacy. On the other hand, as a person of color, I know for sure that disparate treatment happens. Lawrence is both homeless and a person of color, so I wanted to make sure that he didn’t experience any hassles when he arrived to check in.

I said, “This room is for my neighbor. He’s fallen on some hard times and is living in his van, and I just want to ensure that he will be treated with dignity.”

The person who was helping me leaned forward and widened her eyes. “Are you saying that he’s HOMELESS?”

I said, yes, that’s what I was saying. She said that the hotel doesn’t “do” homeless.

I should have left immediately, but I felt pressed. I had already given Lawrence the hotel’s information, and it wasn’t always easy to reach him. I had to help another neighbor with childcare (back when we were still allowed to do that) in less than an hour.

So, I pushed back. I said the room was paid for, Lawrence was a human being, and the hotel’s policy amounted to discrimination. She doubled down on the discrimination and asked me to assure her that there wouldn’t be any drug use.

Finally, after conferring with a coworker, she agreed to let Lawrence stay. I reserved the room for three nights.

On the third night, I decided that I could probably swing at least one more. Nighttime lows were still in the 30s, and I hated to imagine Lawrence back in his van under those conditions. I called the hotel to extend. The person who answered the phone cheerfully looked up my reservation. But as soon as her computer retrieved it, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m not going to be able to extend this reservation.”

I asked if I needed to come in and present my credit card again. She put me on hold. A moment later, a manager picked up. “We’re not going to extend this reservation,” he snapped. “If the guest can’t afford the room, then he shouldn’t be staying here.”

Lawrence is now back in his van. Everything is closed—libraries, community centers, coffee shops, every public space—so his van is the only place for him to be. I don’t see him very often these days, because I rarely leave my home. But sometimes, when I am out for fresh air, I see him walking to the store to buy water; he has no access to plumbing. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about how likely it is that he’s able to wash his hands at all—let alone frequently.

Even though we had a bad experience with the Best Western Pioneer Square, I’m still convinced that the idea—to provide guests for empty hotels and safe housing for those in our community who are most vulnerable right now—is a good one. Certainly, there are independently owned hotels that are on the verge of closing completely that would welcome a steady source of income.

All of us are threatened by this virus, and all of us are suffering from the havoc it has wreaked on our communities. Think about how you’re feeling right now—how lonely, fearful, and uncertain. Imagine spending every hour of every day uncomfortable, with no distractions, no people out on the street to help you with a few dollars, feeling abandoned and desperate AND scared of getting sick.

As we do everything we can to keep ourselves healthy and financially afloat, we can’t forget our unhoused neighbors. We as a community need to offer them more than “socially distanced” mass shelters. One obvious, short-term solution is for the city to rent rooms in empty hotels (owned by compassionate, openminded people) so that everyone, especially the most vulnerable among us, can stay safe—and as comfortable as possible—during this challenging time.

Can we find the will and focus to make this happen?

Image description: people holding a sign that says, “Housing is a human right.”


*Not his real name, which is much more awesome

Remember, Episode 8 – Elmer Dixon: All Power to the People

This month marks the 50th anniversary of the founding of the Seattle Chapter of the Black Panther Party. I recently interviewed Elmer Dixon, one of the founding members of the Seattle Panthers, about the party’s work in the community and as a community — and about how his experience as a Black Panther continues to inform his life today. I hope you enjoy our conversation, and if you’re in Seattle, I hope you attend one (or more) of the many commemorative events happening this week.

All power to the people!

Remember, Episode 4 – Estela Ortega: Housing by the People, for the People

Happy holiday, everyone! As I’ve mentioned many times, Martin Luther King Day is my absolute favorite holiday, because it’s all about celebrating justice and equality and community. So today is the perfect day for me to share my interview with Estela Ortega, a woman who has spent her life fighting for justice and building community. Estela is the executive director of El Centro de la Raza (“the center for people of all races”), a revered institution that has been serving the Latinx community — and many others — in Seattle for over 45 years.


There are many things I could have talked to Estela about, but the focus of this interview was El Centro’s recent success building affordable housing — across the street from a light rail station — in a city that is rapidly becoming the exclusive domain of the rich. Without access to housing, there can be no community. And, in the absence of a government response our city’s housing crisis, we will need more organizations to learn from El Centro’s example and extend their service to the community by providing quality, affordable homes in every neighborhood.

***

To learn more about El Centro’s founding, listen to Episode 2 of Remember, my interview with Larry Gossett.

Remember, Episode 2 – Larry Gossett: Progress is a Community Effort

King County Councilmember Larry Gossett is one of my great heroes. He is a true man of the people who has served his community in a number of capacities for over 50 years, and I was honored to interview him for Remember.*

The biggest challenge with this interview was that there was too much to talk about. So, this episode will be the first of a series with Councilmember Gossett. If you want to learn more about his incredible contributions to our community, read Gang of Four: Four Leaders, Four Communities, One Friendship, by Bob Santos and Gary Iwamoto.

CM Gossett at a community dinner for tiny house village residents, with a member of the hosting congregation

***

* Remember is a podcast about building community. Host Carla Saulter (me!) talks to guests about ways we can build connected, resilient, inclusive, interdependent communities to help us tackle our nation’s — and our world’s — most pressing problems.

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