Busline

My post today is going to be slightly different from the last two. I want to move away from my internship to tell a story about my encounters of DC as a city and not just as a workplace. Truth be told, I've lived in California's suburbs for the majority of my life. I suppose I lived in an urban setting during the very early years of my youth in Armenia, but I don't remember too much of city life itself. But I do remember my favorite homeless man with his bearded face and kind eyes. As a 4 year old, I made it a daily priority to give money to the handicapped veteran of a recent war. To my disappointment, the first time I went back to Armenia after coming to the States, he was not longer there. Sometimes I still wonder where he went or even if he's still alive... but his tangent is really quite unnecessary. The original point I was trying to make was that my suburban background in the world famous Silicon Valley has left me in a somewhat euphoric mindset about the real world.

Coming to DC, however, has quickly jolted me awake and reminded me that some of the things I've witnessed each day aren't just things I hear about or see rarely on visits to San Francisco. Alongside the pencil skirts and suits, the corporate hussle, and the political chitchat, there are drug dealers not older than fourteen, there are homeless people trapped in the blistering summer heat immediately outside luxuriously air condiditioned buildings, and there are impoverished families on the same buses as well to do tourists. On my way to watch a World Cup match at a local bar this past Saturday, I shared a bus with one of those families. This family consisted of a grandmother with young grandchildren. The eldest, Malcolm, was eight. The youngest, whose name I did not learn through my observations, was clinging to her grandmother's chest with a diaper poking out of her shorts. The children were all dressed in tattered and obviously handed down clothing. The grandmother was tired, weary, and irritable. The bus was crowded and the children were misbehaving. For the entire ride, I listened to the grandmother scold the children in her thick Caribbean accent as they scurried around the moving bus. I caught one of them, Maya, as she toppled over when the bust came to a sudden stop. Maybe it's because there are young children in my life who are very close to my heart, or maybe it's because I have a soft spot for children in general, but I didn't want to leave the bus when it came time for me to get off. With one last glance at the grandmother's struggle the keep the children safe and in one place, I left.

Honestly, it didn't take me long in the mixture of 100 degree weather and humidity to forget about the five little ones and focus on my own problem of making it to the bar without passing out. After trekking about 8 blocks in the sun, I pushed them to the back of my mind. So I enjoyed the soccer game, watched Argentina beat out Mexico to advance to the quarterfinal, took a stroll to the White House, and went returned to the bus stop to catch a ride home. Perhaps it is by some strange instance of fate or by sheer coincidence, but as I stepped on to the bus, I recognized Malcom's little bike, which he took so much pride in. Then I saw the grandmother, pinching Maurice on the backside to encourage him to stop harassing his younger sister.

The family from the earlier bus ride and I had met again. The bus was less crowded this time, and the grandmother was too exhausted to follow the children if they moved about. They were disciplined only if they were within arm's length. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched them, played peek-a-boo with one of the girls, and battled myself in my mind. I felt sorry for them, but I had no right to. Perhaps they were a perfectly happy family. I was wrong to let my prejudices facilitate pity. But I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know what kind of adults those children would grow up to be. I wondered how quickly their innocence would be shed only to be replaced with chronic feelings of resentment, stress, and prejudice - much like the feelings so deeply ingrained within myself. Since the grandmother had recognized me from earlier and greeted me happily, I bade them farewell as they stepped off the bus and watched them walk away. Malcolm on his bike, Maurice (I noticed all the names I learned started with the letter M) chasing him, and the other three in line with their grandmother. Looking back on it now, I wish I had pulled out my camera and captured them. But I felt it would be slightly creepy to do so at the time. In any case, this story has no resolution, or underlying point really. In a way, I'm just glad I got acquainted with these five munchkins. They made me happy and sad all at the same time.