Bus rides and Italians.

Thoughts while riding the Metro

On the regular occasion that I ride the bus, those 40-50 minute rides on the 76 line to and fro downtown Los Angeles, I often find myself staring at the people I ride alongside with.

Though I never muster the brave or awkward courage to give them any words of a greeting, I think about them. I watch the way they sit, their body language and the possible places they may be going to. I think about the old people, who share the likeness of my own recluse of a grandfather in age and fragility, yet who go and travel with independence and dignity. I think about the young kids who ride the bus because their parents cannot afford the time or transport to pick them up from school. They sit or stand with a sort of grown-up poise, perhaps because they have to and perhaps because they are proud to.

Riding the bus and using public transportation have become a part of who I am. I get to come across and be forced to share space with all kinds of people - strange, rude, disabled, old, young, loud, smelly, poor. I get to see and be with a part of society that is daily ignored by their own partners, by their children, by the bus they must depend on that leaves them, disregards them. I have seen on countless occasions old people who run with all the strength they have in their dying legs only for the bus driver to see them but reject them. All because they were a few seconds too late.

The choice to not drive means I get to be part of this world that many are scared of. I get to be with the marginalized. The young single mom who juggles her little child, the crappy stroller and groceries as she gets on to load her bus fare. The homeless man in the wheelchair who rides everyday, faithfully waiting at the same stop, at the same hour, only to have no destination. A constant stirring awareness of finality lingers amongst his immobility as he anticipates the day that death takes him.

These stories have been uncomfortable but challenging for me. And now I am even more a part of this world because I depend on the bus to get me to my job for which I work for minimal pay. For a wealthy, upper-class Italian-American family who do not understand this world of marginalization that fill the streets of Los Angeles. In working for them, I always remember our differences.

Wrestling with new dynamics

Working at this coffee shop means that a new part of my identity now exists in a new place with a new diverse group of people. They have already responded well to me. Though I am grateful for how positive it has already been, I cannot help but think, here it goes again.

It is easy for me to be charming, to naturally exude a sort of social grace that is immediately noticed. Every time I have gone to a new school, every new social situation, every place I have worked in, I have easily made friends. I have been easily liked. But I always move. I always have to say goodbye. I always have to remember that it doesn't last. I think perhaps because it always happens so quickly, I am easily afraid of it. This is something I am working on. Something I continually explore within myself. I have learned to accept the affirmation, to believe in it and to let it be whatever it is, for whatever the time or space it is in.

Along the way, by divine grace, I have always made those friendships that you know are valued for a lifetime.