Bus-riding reflection

Recently I've become acutely aware of a rather in-congruent habit of people who ride the public transportation in the City of Erie: they talk to strangers without inhibition.

Often times my days are spent sitting behind a desk tapping away on a keyboard into oblivion with the subconscious realization that my grant-writing skills aren't worth a damn: due to the fact that my comprehension of mathematical concepts encompasses only a cursory knowledge of all elementary arithmetic, my grants are shot down before the review committee due to a very shoddily-written budget report that--by some unaccountable reason--makes money disappear by the hundreds. I don't really interact with anyone besides my fellow coworkers--a whole three of them--whose conversations, although much-appreciated, end in some futile bantering and complaining, and my young, strong body full of pulsating blood not yet slowed by the encroachment of cholesterol is left to rot like a lump of meat with my lumbar pushed up against the back of my desk chair. Is this how I'm spending my youth? Lonely, sedentary, and with no real excitement to break the monotony of my day?

I jump on bus numbers 22 and 25 that traverse Erie city from West to East, as they follow pot-holed filled roads out towards the po-dunk town of Wesleyville, full of its 60's-era shopping malls and fast food joints. The most enjoyable of my fellow passengers are the modern-day stoic philosophers who have traded in their marble steps outside the courthouse, for a dirty, plastic chair in the midst of an Erie bus. I lend them my ear when I hear them speak, and I am enthralled at their brashness and their flawless ability to spark up a conversation with nearly just about everyone, even (more often than not) with themselves. Speaking in tones that fluctuate in crescendo and power like that of Baptist preachers, my philosopher friends of the bus, pose questions for all of us to ponder--often times looking us directly in the face in hopes of an answer. Even when an answer is not forthcoming, they break into a monologue that is at points boundless in scope and accurate in observation; however, usually ending in an abrupt distraction brought on by the sight of a nubile woman, or a beer-lathered belch.

Yet, I'm never uncomfortable with those more verbose fellow riders, as I find their ways more authentic than the public domain of today's social arena, which is often dominated by people continually texting and listening to ipods. Insular. Uninterested. Closed-off.

Upon exiting the bus, I make my way to Erie's local institution of scholarship and higher learning, Gannon University, where I proceed to make my way into their gym facility. And, as I stretch to engage in the upcoming run, I notice that out of all the 15 runners on the track, it is only I who does not carry within my palm an ipod. It is only I who can hear the repetitive click of my bracelets smacking together with the swinging of my arms, or the deep breathing originating in the straining of my lungs. And, with no one to talk to, with no one seemingly interested in communicating, I am lost in a world of my own thoughts--running, in circles, for the next thirty minutes. There is no one there to ask questions. No young scholars brash enough to engage those around them. That kind of experience is only found through daily meetings with the toothless alcoholic carrying a plastic bag and a life-long list of grievances and stories.

Martin Luther King Day Commemorative Service

Upon walking up the concrete steps and into the pallid, bare catholic cathedral, I came into the situation of seeing a large, rather obese man giving some kind of generic "we-still-have-a-long-way-to-go" type of speech, which then led into a song that I did not want to sing, as I was too concerned with getting my jacket off so I could cool off; hoping to impede the uncomfortable sweat from dripping down my shoulder blades and into the small of back. I sat down at the conclusion of the tune, and again broke into my usual scanning of the people, places situations around me. In front of me about three rows sat five people with mental and physical handicaps. They were brought to the ceremony probably by a local worker at one of the homes. The knew not the significance, nor the importance of the situation; I could tell it from their jerky head movements and roving eyes that seemed to be peering off into the ceiling into a state of serene inattentiveness. Behind me sat a white woman, bouncing a small toddler on her lap. She sang the chorus of the hymn loudly, and wore a perpetual smile upon her face as if she was genuinely happy all of the time. I assumed that she probably came from a well-to-do liberal family, and was educated and well-articulated in speaking of issues of poverty and 'social justice'. She sat like a bird, proud and beautiful and sure of her ability to sing and flutter about above the reality. I liked her, though, I have to admit. Across the aisle, my eyes came upon two elderly men and a group of black Americans, congregated towards the front. They were all trimly and nicely dressed, and the women had sparkling gold glasses frames that looked as if they were polished. They broke out into emotional exultation's along the lines of 'Yeah!' "Bring it home!" "That's RIGHT!" Aside from the fact that I began to notice the milk and oil split in the arrangement of where we sat--black in front, white in back--I was more shocked at the amount of empty seats that took up large swaths of space within the sanctuary. In front of me there was a formidable ocean of chair backs that gave me a great sight-line all the way to the pulpit, even though I had positioned myself in the second row from the back of the room. I found myself feeling ashamed for the speaker when she made reference to the 'turn-out' as if it was an impressive sight, seeing all those chairs, each representing the indifference of a person who probably had something better to do or work on their hands. It's too bad, too, because she spoke about remembering our history and knowing where we want to go as a people, yet the more common collective act of forgetting our own past left the most indelible mark on me. After all, most of us don't even get the morning off on this 'National' holiday; I guess it's not important enough to take time to reflect. After all, time is money and Dr. King is dead.

At the conclusion of our march that spanned about a mile in distance, the crowd of around 200 people began to make their way into the center doors in hopes of snatching a seat, seeing a friend and, most importantly, grabbing a donut while supplies lasted. People were generally in a polite mood, on this day of all days to be civil and non-violent to each other. That was, until of course, they opened a second entrance to alleviate the lines, which perpetuated a shameless stampede of peace marchers who were pushing shoving and cutting to get into the gymnasium. I was quietly behind a woman who was sitting in a wheelchair, who had the great misfortune of not being tall enough to be 'seen' by those impatient miscreants who thought more about glazed sugar than about the fact that the second entrance had been opened to let HER through in the first place. After watching wave after wave of ignorant person go around her, I finally had had enough and thrust my arm into the chest of a young black boy about the age of 14. I informed him that he would NOT take one step further into the gymnasium until the helpless, nearly-forgotten woman in the wheelchair was able to go in. He looked at me with a stupor full of youthful arrogance at the fact that someone had actually told him no to move. Under his breath he mumbled, "Well, just move her out of the way." Ignoring this offensive statement, I implored the usher to let the women take her leave into the gymnasium above the rush and echo of people. And, as I crossed through the two heavy steel doors, I heard the young boy and a women who looked to be about 25 say, "fuck them." I guess justice and the fight for civil rights is only afforded to those who lived forty years ago, and only comes to those who can physically STAND UP and show it up front. I guess we really do have, to quote today's most choicest of phrases, "a long way to go."

Breakfast with Grandma.

I stood outside in the chilly hallway listening to the static ringing of the telephone through the intercom. Normally, grandma picks up the phone by the third ring, as she anticipates these calls like all lonely, 87-year old women do. I'm used to hearing the spirited pep in her half-paralized voice, full of wrinkles and notches like that of old skin, and of the inevitable fumbling around of the receiver as she attempts to push the number 6 button with fingers too stiff and stubborn to hit exact; initiating a call back. Yet, this time, I heard the phone ring and ring and ring into oblivion. I hung up. I dialed again. I Listened to the answering machine, the one with my aunt's voice on it, because my grandma's is now to weak to record her own message. I dialed again. Futile.

'I hope nothing is wrong with Grandma." I thought. "How will I ever get in to know for sure?"

After about ten minutes of dialing, a delivery man opened the door and held it for me. I squeezed by him and hastily made my way up the elevator and to her room on the fifth floor. I was nervous as I approached the door knob. I knocked, and felt the static shock release from the steel into my fingertips, exacerbating the already cold nervousness that ironcially made my palms sweaty.

I cracked the door open and took a lunge inward, expecting to see her on the couch watching T.V. or reading. Instead, the couch was bare, and her recliner was tipped forward, as if she had recently left the spot. I glanced to the kitchen only to find a dripping tap and a few soft bananas, getting ripe on a plate. I peeked around the corner of the wall and looked into her bedroom. I had a straight-shot to where her bed would be, and I saw an almost ghost-like body laying, with her head tilted to the side. Eyes were closed. Lips were thin. Hands were folded. Cheeks were white. Feet and legs were inperceptiable. She looked as if she was already at the viewing. My heart raced. I dropped my yogurt and made a b-line for her bedside. "Hey! Grandma!" I said trying to mask the fear with a shallow veneer of cheer. "Jamie and I are going to eat breakfast with you." I didn't notice a movement, except for the opening of eyes. "Alive!" I reassured myself.

Grandma's voice sounded strong that day, and I was happy to help her out of bed, even though I was aware that her head hurts in the temple if she walks for too long. She wanted to sit with us out in the light that came in through the sliding doors, as the sun was exceptionally bright on this second day after New Years. My wife and I opened up our yogurt containers and put on a bowl of oatmeal. We recounted to grandma our travels to Tennessee and the party the night previous at Jon's place. She seemed happy to hear it. Jared and Abby showed up, joining the fun. We visited, reminised, heard stories, and did our best to reroute grandma when she would veer into a rut of repitition. She smiled at our friendliness amongst each other, and of course gave some stern advice that was mixed in with her Irish stubborness. A thrity minute visit went to two and half hours-- we all cherished the time.

Upon leaving, I remember standing up and thinking to myself, "Grandma is surprisingly strong today; her speaking isn't labored and her movements are fluid. Her memory leaves a little left to be desired, but her humor is still intact."

Needless to say, I was shocked when I found out she was in the emergency room the next morning. A second heart attack in six months. If I went there today and rang the phone to be let in, she wouldn't be picking up, and I would be left to wonder about the health of a women so fragile, and about the fleeting nature of time coming short, even after 87 years., Thankfully, fate had it wait for one day.