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Published on: August 25, 2020

On Laura's Book

Maybe you were there, this past February (before the world ended and began again). We were at MOHAI, in a room which won't be that packed full for a long time again. I was giving a talk with a surprise perspective on my bus life– how younger generations choose (not) to communicate, and how that affects them.

So why did I suddenly interject the proceedings with the eulogy of the Alaskan Way Viaduct? A friend would tell me afterward, "I liked everything. I even liked the graphs. I loved the graphs. But I don't see how the Viaduct thing fit in at all!"

I was reminded of a reading I once did at the Phinney Neighborhood Center, for their annual Bookfest event. I went with a plan: this was the story I was going to read. The Death story. The thematic climax of my book, the heaviest story and for me and the most resonant. But I had misread the room. This was a holiday bookselling festival. You were supposed to have a good time, joking with Garth Stein and trying out the book-cover cookies. Watch me biff the situation here.

Can I help it if Loss moves me more than laughter? If my way of finding the light involves staring death down, wrestling with the heaviest of thoughts to get through them, rather than looking the other way?

I felt foolish afterwards at Phinney; I should've chosen a funny story. I've certainly written plenty, and love surfing the wave of joy with a crowd. But that's not what drives me.

As a generation– and I'm referring to all of us alive today– we are unique in being forced to contend with a level of change most epochs don't have to experience. The lion's share of human history doesn't involve moments where you can't recognize the world you lived in ten years ago, let alone thirty, let alone that of your parents. For ninety percent of human history, you couldn't tell the difference between your time and a century earlier or later. The human organism is accustomed to being outlasted by objects, ideas, and surroundings. The multitude of rug-pulling change underway these decades is not natural to our souls, and the older spirits among us don't need further explanation to agree.

The elimination of the Viaduct represents for me a symbol of all that, and more: it was the last mega-sized vestige of the city we called Seattle. That was the word we used for a century and change, and though we may live at the same addresses now, today's New Money feels nearly as dismissive and different from its predecessors as Seattle was from the natives it so unfairly wrested land from. Or, as a passenger recently told me: "I done seen Seattle. And this shooooowww' ain't it!"

The book I mentioned in my MOHAI lecture, a collection of paintings by my fellow friend and artist Laura Hamje, has finally come to fruition. I'm featured within it as part of a collection of writings about the Viaduct and what its absence means. But even if I wasn't in its pages I'd still be stumping for her book, because it's really about the paintings; don't go to her September 5th reception event because of me, but for the remarkable quality of her work. Do I need to mention every single painting she did for her 2019 show, 53 Views of the Alaskan Way Viaduct, upon which this book is based, sold? Every last one? Or that, more importantly, they contain a beauty of perspective we can all learn from: a melancholic acceptance and peace with the forward flow of existence, as spoken by her elegiac compositions and somehow strangely appropriate energy, richness, color and verve of her brushwork... with art comes the calmness of new insight.

Death is the motivating engine not of death, but of Life. It allows creation. It is all growth, it is all forward, upward, nearer to understanding. In the Viaduct is a fuller comprehension of who we are, who we'll always and ever be: Works in progress.

You've been wanting to get out of the house. Perhaps now's the time.

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Book signing event for Laura's book on September 5, 2020 from 1pm - 4pm outside Arundel Books: 212 1st Ave S, Seattle, WA 98104. Prints of the paintings will also be available.

Linda Hodges Gallery will be showing the new paintings from the book in their upstairs space, Sept 3 - 26, 2020, just one block south of Arundel Books: 316 1st Ave S Seattle WA 98104 (Gallery Hours: Tuesday - Saturday, 10:30 am to 5:00 pm).

More on the book itself here. Further details on the event here.

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Watch my February MOHAI lecture here.

Published on: July 2, 2020

One Last Story (Video)

Well, here we are. I started this blogging journey eight years ago today with this piece. On March 1 of this year I detailed why I'm changing gears, here. And today I've got this treat for you– a video explaining what you can expect next from me, along with a story of the passenger who's impacted me the most over the course of my career, and not in ways I could have anticipated.

Thank you all so much for your enthusiastic support of my enthusiasm! Through all these years and moving forward, as I continue with new projects (which I'll keep you abreast of with this blog, along with, I'm sure, the occasional story). Without your support the burgeoning art, writing and film careers of mine wouldn't be happening. Thank you. No words are adequate.

Enjoy the video!

New to the site? This blog is 1,200 plus true stories of strangers being kind to each other on city buses I've driven. Click here for an index of the final 57 stories, plus highlights from the blog's earlier years.

Published on: July 1, 2020

The Final Flurry: Index

For eight years, I posted a few times a week. But for the last two months, I wanted something appropriately climactic, and dug deep into my notes for about one new story per day. Here's the resulting final lineup. They're presented in a narrative order building to a climax; feel free to enjoy it in sequence or pick and choose. Many of these were never posted to social media and will read as new. Enjoy!

(New to the site? This blog is 1,200 plus true stories of strangers being kind to each other on city buses I've driven. For a selection of highlights from 2018, click here. For earlier highlights, click here for the "Nathan Vass 101" crash course or explore the sidebar at right.)

5/1. Bravado. Charles reveals his vulnerability, and tries to cover it up. On the conflict between masculinity and sensitivity.
5/2. Nathan Interviewed by TransitCenter. TransitCenter's Kapish Singla interviews Nathan from New York on viruses, microns, passengers, his book, and more. Audio and transcript.
5/4. Talking it Out, Together. A young black man muses on being verbally assaulted by a white woman in, oddly, his home turf of Rainier Valley.
5/5. Go Forth. A man recently released from jail is unable to hide his happiness.
5/6. Freedom From. An elderly female passenger reflects on Third and Pike. On how America can look to outsiders.
5/7. Nathan Vass: NRFF Artist of the Month (Interview). Anya Patel gives perhaps the most thoughtful, organized, and deep-researched interview I've ever had the pleasure of receiving. Complete with links and videos on me which she compiled.
5/9. Helpers in the Night. A female passenger, a sherriff, and a fancy couple all behave very differently from how we might assume.
5/11. The Wave Has Landed. Fourth-Wave feminism has landed– even in the 'hood. Here's what it sounds like.
5/12. She Strong. A man praises his mother, unknown to most of the world, for her remarkable quality.
5/13. Zen and the Art of Driving the 7. This job is above all a test of the mind. Some thoughts on how to think when driving the 7.
5/14. Slow Healer. On processing trauma, restoring confidence, and functioning on the job after receiving life's blows.
5/15. For Night Operators: Tips on Sleepers. It's a more complicated issue than it seems.
5/16. How to Drive the 7, Pt I of IV: 7S, Jackson to Henderson. Everything you'd want to know. This post includes suggestions on waiting for runners, resetting poles, and the Henderson layover.
5/17. How to Drive the 7, Pt II of IV: 7N, Henderson to Pike. This one includes material on both types of skip-stopping, including coach placement for every block of northbound Third.
5/20. How to Drive the 7, Pt III of IV: Route 49 Northbound. Includes Nathan on Ubers and lyfts, plus how to cross the University Bridge.
5/23. How to Drive the 7, Pt IV of IV: Route 49 Southbound. Includes coach positioning for every block of southbound Third.
5/24. How to Drive the 7: The Complete Care Package. Everything I can offer from my own personal experience– the driving directions above, tips on fights, sleepers, assaults, fear, morale, and more.
5/25. Eric, Fully, II: John. Quick moment with a fellow I totally thought was named Eric.
5/28. Vern One. Vern makes me happy. We discuss mortality without saying it out loud, and touch on its salve.
5/29. Name Caller: Final Edition. People call me all sorts of things. here's a list of favorites.
5/31. The United States of Floyd. Nathan on everything George Floyd.
6/3. CJ Rising. I see a young man I never thought I'd see again– and in far better shape.
6/4. Our Lady of Context. The first of three conversations with a niqab-clad friendly spirit.
6/5. The Good Neighbor. Sometimes people help out for no other reason than that it's part of who they are.
6/6. Nathan Converses With His Colleagues: VII. Nathan and Thomas being silly in the wee hours.
6/7. Friends and Strangers and Friends. It pays to be nice to everyone; you never quite know who you're talking to.
6/9. About the Gesture. A gesture of respect from two south-end teens.
6/11. Late-Night Glimpses. A collection of brief memories from late-night driving.
6/12. Sunset (Napszállta): a Reappraisal. One of the best films of 2018-9, and no one knows about it. This might be the only in-depth scholarly rave of Sunset online. With 3,800 words and 29 images.
6/14. Pacing to a New Beat. A youngster on the 5 gets invigorated.
6/15. Our Lady of Miracles. The woman from the 6/4 story shows up again with great news.
6/16. More Film, More Book! Updates on Men I Trust landing notices on the festival circuit, and The Lines That Make Us getting selected as Redmond Library's, Microsoft's, and the City of Redmond's single title for their Summer Reading Program.
6/18. Redmond Summer Reading Program: Meet the Author (Video). Nathan interviewed on why he wrote The Lines That Make Us.
6/22. In the Before. A humorous moment on the 5 inspires thoughts on time's linearity.
6/23. Nathan Converses With His Colleagues: About That 65. It's every North Base operator's least favorite route– and not because of the routing, people, neighborhood, or coach type.
6/24. Our Lady III: Lows and Highs. A final moment with our friend from 6/4 and 6/15.
6/24. To Thrive, Meanwhile. A young father and I confront his recent diabetes diagnosis.
6/24. The Righteous Hustle. John insisted on a trial, and it paid off.
6/25. The Light (Lamlam 1). This conversation is based on notes I took down in 2014. Only now have I figured out how to write about it.
6/26. MOHAI's History Cafe: Nathan Vass on Generationally Specific Behavioral Shifts in Communication (Video). My February 2020 lecture on video, with Q&A and source list.
6/27. She's on Fire. I find things to admire in a loudmouthed, angry, profane woman who tells it like it is.
6/27. The Barista. A former passenger makes my day after I tell her of my appearance in Seattle Magazine's 2018 List.
6/27. Lessons Learned on the 5. Some things I've mellowed out on.
6/28. Just the Two of Us, Gruffly. Sometimes manly men open up with each other, become vulnerable, and recognize sensitivity. Don't you love it when that happens?
6/28. Nathan Converses With His Colleagues, Part VIII. I talk with one of the happiest drivers about one of the unhappiest drivers.
6/28. It's Called Working. Bus drivers behaving badly, and what we as operators can do about it.
6/28. The Friendly 5. We make the 5 feel like a communcal living room.
6/28. Burning. There's no other film like Lee Chang-Dong's masterpiece, which ought to have taken the Palme d'or in 2018.
6/29. Why So Serious?? A hilariously harsh critique of the pimp-roll swagger, from a perhaps unexpected source.
6/29. Vern Two. Our friend from 5/28 gets a wave, and this young man doesn't laugh me out of town for it. Quite the opposite!
6/29. In Napoli. Making each other feel loved on the other side of the world.
6/29. Curae Aude. Dare to Care! On black lives in 2020, and how others doing well benefits rather than detracts from our own welfare.
6/29. Lamlam 2. Isn't she wonderful? We met her in the 6/25 post. Here she is again, six years later.
6/30. Yes, I’ve Been Assaulted. The big question is how to think about it afterwards.
6/30. Ed, Remembered. This one's for you, Patricia. The impact people can have on us.
6/30. Felt From a Distance. Being grateful for moments across a career I hope I still remember in old age.
6/30. One Final Story (VIDEO). I pour my heart and mind out in this 29-minute story of a passenger who taught me more than I ever expected.

And, from 3/1, the announcement of the blog's transition and detailed explanation for why all of this is happening: Expansion (or Why I'm "Ending" the Blog).

Published on: June 30, 2020

Felt From a Distance

This post is a thematic sister to this post.

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I will look back on these days with wonder. I will remember the texture of the everyday, the pleasing baseline of where we came from, what made a thing stand out.

What is called ordinary now, which our future selves will wish we more deeply immortalized?

I will remember the Camera Crew, two enthusiastic youngsters who remind me of myself in earlier times; I have a passion for people and cinema. They have a passion for taking pictures of unusual coach assignments. KING 5 did a piece on them and couldn’t get to the bottom of why they love taking bus photos so much. How could they? Passions need no explanation. Some may laugh at them, but I admire that they know what they like, what feeds their existence, and they simply do it. I will remember seeing them here, there, all around, cameras in hand waiting for the elusive shot, equal parts CIA surveillance and bird watcher.

I will remember running for buses, and missing them. Making them. The involuntary smile of a person who just barely makes a bus. Isn't it lovely, how they always smile?

The way the working man runs across the rainy sidewalk, artfully, holding a newspaper or book over their head from the drops above. Seeing a street fellow do the same, but with a seat cushion instead of the Times.

I will remember the things we complained about. Have you noticed how some people express their joy through complaint? Schedules, runcards, route planning. Why the express lanes are closed today but not yesterday. Grumbling sarcasm unable to stay down for too long, manifesting as exaggerated jokes, chuckles over the things we tolerate.

Looking at the ceiling of the Deca Hotel.

Looking forward in the old Bus Tunnel, using your periphery to mind the narrow gap on either side while driving your 41 through the tubes. Do you remember the platform curbs before the rail retrofit, simple and easy to pull up to as any sidewalk?

A 62 driver who’d driven me on an 8 the day before, she and I chuckling, me embarrassed I’d forgotten her name. I watch her walk down Mercer toward a comfort station from my day off, sitting in a cafe. I wonder how her day’s going, what thoughts live in her mind. How many times has someone we know seen us from afar, wishing they could say hello?

The Chinese man playing the erhu in Westlake Station’s mezzanine, echoing the timeless sounds off the marble walls. I’ve seen him since childhood. Some say he has a twin brother who plays in the International District; others insist it’s the same man just making the rounds. Wonder if I’ll ever know.

Young Gordon waving as I drive by his place, him and Bruce getting out of their car. A wave at night; you know who it is based on the block and time. I smile to myself in the dark.

Geo, a friendly passenger, reading my book in the back of my own bus. To see that volume in her hands as she sits on the back bench, which I put so much into, my baby– as I do the very thing she’s reading about! Uncanny.

Late one quiet night at the base, standing around under high ceilings. Satinder (called Bob) looks up at a few of us driver friends while filling out paperwork. He said, "I can't explain it, but I just had the strangest realization. For some reason I feel very confident that right now, today, is the halfway point of my life. I'm forty-seven years old, and I'm going to live another forty-seven years." There was a silent mystery in his tone, hovering behind the words. We believed him.

On the 7 again after a stint away, making the route’s first turn after the Rainier Beach layover. A gaggle of youngsters on the sidewalk turn as I pass by, concentrating on driving. I don’t notice, but Brittany, standing next to me, does: “They recognized you!”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I heard them say, ‘Hey, Nathan's back!’”

I have a feeling these are the sorts of flashes I’ll return to as I lay in bed, older, considering the ceiling markings and dim blue light from the windows. Life will shift in tempo, and a greater handful of thoughts will require too much energy to say aloud. I will slip away from myself, redolent with the weight of a past larger than my future, able to remember events but not their order. The last thing I will be able to do is think, and I know that in between thoughts of loved ones and the events which involved them, in between emptiness and loneliness and present solace, I will think of the masses who kept me company through these cluttered halcyon years. I spend more time with them per waking hour than anyone else, and I don't feel bad about that.

There was something we shared, that spark in your eye, something ineffable and true and good. It was there the entire time. My future self will lie in bed and take comfort, smiling alone to my closing eyes, eased by the thought: I sensed the value of these workaday nothings not after it was too late but while they were happening. I knew the good time was good and how, and I am grateful.

Published on: June 30, 2020

Ed, Remembered

I used to see these two often. Neighborhood stalwarts both, who each single-handedly elevated the community. Solomon, from Ethiopia, a fifty-something jolly fellow who wasn’t quite chubby, always with a ready smile, worked in catering, generally for high-end hotels. He had a lot of stories.

Ed was similar in age but thin, even cleaner-cut than the already put-together Solomon, slick in a working-class sort of way. He was black American, and I was pleased to see them chatting easily tonight, bridging the invisible divide that too often separates African and African-American cultures here in the Valley. They were old enough to not care about such things.

“Sometimes I get up at 4 A.M.,” I heard Solomon saying behind me. They chatted for a while about odd hours and long shifts. Ed finally got up and said, “What's your name?” Solomon responded in kind and they shook hands. To my surprise he introduced himself to me as well– “I'm Ed,” he said, flashing a movie-star caliber smile.

He then sat down and returned to the conversation. “But you know, we got to be thankful for havin’ a job. Not everybody is so lucky right now.”
“That’s true,” said Solomon. A relaxed vibe colored the air; something not unlike the after-dinner glow, or the pleasing camaraderie of a campfire when you were young, as the older folks spoke together in calming tones.

Ed said, “I'm 54, and my son is 26, great kid, and he gets up at the crack o' dawn every day to go to work. And he learned to do that by watching me get up at the crack o' dawn every day to go to work."
"That's impressive," I say, "especially for a youngster."
"It is. So it's not always what you say, but what they see–"
"Leadin' by example–"
"Yeah. I don't wanna sit here and talk bad about my father, but man, he was not a good example. The way he treated my mom, the amount of time he was ever around... but also, they say if you have bad parents you're destined to be a bad kid, but that's not always true. 'Cause you could be learnin what not to do!"
Solomon: "Yeah. Yeah, we always learn, no matter what's goin' on."
Me: "You're right, 'cause both my parents come from not exactly ideal family situations, but they're amazing people. They're incredible parents."
"Yeah."
"I never put that together before. It doesn't mean you're destined for failure."
Solomon again: "'Cause they could be learnin' just by watching."

Solomon got off, shaking hands with Ed again. Ed rode the Prentice loop with me up to his house. He told me a story, as he put it, of his father, who he'd seen only a few times in his entire life, how this father never met Ed's children or other relatives, though he lived only eight blocks away... the details are a wash. But I remember one thing:

"He came and woke me up one night, shook me awake, he's standing over me in his military uniform and everything. He says, 'I'ma see you tomorrow.' He wasn't there the next day, or the next. I didn't see him for thirty years. I never forgot that, him saying he'd see me tomorrow."
"That keeps me hitting me at the heart," I said, regarding that incident after he'd moved on to other subjects. "'Cause that's one thing I try to never do, is break promises I've made to kids. 'Cause that's a big deal. I mean it's a big deal with anyone, but especially with children. They don't forget stuff like that."
"Nathan, it was such a pleasure talkin' to you. If you're on this line I'll be seeing you again."
"I'm here all five days! It's my favorite route. I rode it a lot as a child, so it feels comfortable in a way for me now."
"Say what they may about Rainier Beach, but up here..." We marveled at the view of Lake Washington.
"Oh, it's beautiful up here!"

It pains me that this is my only story with Ed. There were others, but I’ve since misplaced the notes, and the lines we exchanged are lost to time. I’m almost certain he is dead now, because I once came upon him and asked him how he was doing. I don’t need notes to remember what he said to me, over seven years ago:

“Well, Nathan. I’ve had better days, but I’ve also had worse ones.” I asked him to elaborate, and he did. He’d just been diagnosed with a rare bone disease which was terminal, and carried a remaining lifespan best measured in months, not years. I was stunned. Ed, pillar of the community, loved by all? Ed, whose wife and daughters I’d met on the bus more than once, each joy-filled charmers as much as he was?

He’d had worse days than this?

I told him I was in awe of his fortitude and perspective. You’re a big deal in this community, I told him. I want you to know. People talk about you, and it’s only ever good stuff. I hear them all the time.

He happened to have a folder with him, perhaps from the doctor’s visit, which also contained material on his community organizing work– he proudly shared some photo printouts of him leading a rally in the Central District, among other noteworthy items.

I only remember glimpses of the conversations I had with him. How I wish I still had the notes. An evening ride up to the Prentice neighborhood as he told me of a decades-old memory seared in his mind: waking up to his father choking him in rage at night. And Ed telling me how he swore to never let his children feel any such terror, to ensure they would always feel safe and loved by their father, that he would be constant and regular as a loving presence in their lives. He had the knack for turning trauma into a learning opportunity, for stopping the tide of hate with love. People talk about doing that all the time. Most don't follow through.

A couple months after this I would have trouble recognizing him due to how slowly he moved, grimacing in pain as he bent his knees to sit down. But as ever the resilient glow, despite the physical torment. He’d tell me I brightened his day, and I’d laugh in reply: “Ed, it’s you who’s doin’ the brightening! You make my day!”

Several years later his wife got on my bus. To this day I regret I didn't ask her when I could about how Ed was doing. I was scared of hearing what likely was the answer. He gave me his number and encouraged me to stop by one of their Sunday family meals, and I cannot tell if my memory of once calling him really happened or if it's my own desperate wishful thinking. In 2013 I had no experience with Death. Maybe I would have made things worse.

After a time Patricia began deboarding through the rear doors, and I felt for her; she carried a weight too heavy for strangers to make worse by bringing in small talk. The last time we spoke she told me of a venture she was starting up concerning women’s makeup and possibly hair. I mostly remember the anguish we will all eventually feel, the restless and tiring search to rebuild ourselves in the days of After.

Oh, Patricia, if I could talk to you now. Will these words ever cross your desk? You and your daughters remain blessed to carry within you the spirit of such a great man, a man whom I know I am extremely fortunate to have known, even briefly. I hope this recollection does your husband justice. I know I'm not the only one inspired by his memory toward goodness.

As I recently told another passenger: I don’t understand this world, but I like living in it.

I hope you do too.

Published on: June 30, 2020

Yes, I’ve Been Assaulted

1. Maybe we should talk about it.

I’m aware that almost all operator assaults are fare-related, and that so many assaults can be causally traced back to an operator’s attitude, choice of words, or tone of voice. Nobody deserves to be assaulted, but you understand what I’m saying here. It generally takes two to tango.

We mirror each other, and disrespecting someone, even in a way you think is small, can beget further disrespect. People can smell when you’re condescending to them, and it stings. Doesn’t it sting? Don’t you resent squirming under the thumb of a belittling authority figure? That’s how they feel in that moment. It takes two. However.

Sometimes it only takes one to tango.

I've had moments in my past where I know my tone contributed to how things went down. Where I should’ve bit my tongue or been more patient. This wasn’t one of those times. This was absolutely and incontrovertibly not one of those times.

2. Here’s what happened.

I’m inbound at Broadway and Pine. The last passenger, a young white woman who smiles a thank you to me from the back door, deboards. As she is stepping out a young black man about her age– mid-twenties– of stocky build and, by the condition of his skin and attire, decidedly less comfortable in life– hops in. Blue hoodie sweatshirt, grey sweatpants, just barely unkempt. He waits briefly for her to step out. He enters the empty bus.

He stalks up to the front.

It’s Coronavirus season, and like all other buses in service, a velcro strap separates the front ADA seating area from the rest of the coach interior. He sits as near to the front as possible without crossing that barrier. In my head I think, interesting choice, coming all the way up here from the back door. Maybe he’s unsure of his destination and wants to sit close to the front. He hums quietly to himself.

Since there’s only one passenger, I don’t call out the stops, except to say at 7th, as we approach 5th and Pine, that the next stop is 5th and I can’t stop at 3rd and Pine because we’re turning into a 7.

He ducks under the strap and comes forward.

Again I think, interesting. I wonder what sort of headspace would think that’s the thing to do. But I don’t say anything about that. I say, gesturing to the bus stop at 5th, “D’you want this one right here?”
He says, “Yeah.”
I feel a need to break the ice. To make friends. Let him know I don’t look down on him. I say, “How’s it goin’?”
“Good.”
“Cool.”

Do you know how many thousands of times doing that has worked wonders for me? Solved problems before they even began? Do you know how many thousands of times that will continue to work for me, in the future?

Innumerable thousands, that’s how many.

Except not this time.

We get to the zone. I open the doors. I say, “Thanks, man.”
Then he changes into another person and explodes. He is spitting on my face four or five times, cursing in furious anger, now quickly exiting, stalking toward Westlake Park, looking back to see if I am following.

For myself, I was so utterly shocked I didn’t respond at all. Events like this have a duration of seconds; the only way to get good at responding to them is to experience them regularly, which I don’t. I said, “Whoa, whoa,” trying to calm him, but I couldn’t form words to speak. Maybe that was for the best. What would I say now, if anything?

I might try out Did that help? Or Tell me where you’re comin’ from. Or just Talk to me. These lines would have the effect of humanizing him, forcing him to engage emotionally. Which pissed-off dudes don’t like, because they can no longer merely be angry anymore. Why are you angry? They have to go back to being human, which means no longer spitting in people’s faces.

3. I believe this was premeditated on his part.

Why else would he come sit at the front? Duck under the strap? He wanted to get back at an authority figure. He was coming from the direction of the occupied protest zone on Capitol Hill and was likely seething with anti-authoritarian anger. He wanted to fight the world. I had nothing to do with it.

Why does someone in pain want others to feel pain? Why does someone who feels hated want to hate others? These are questions that answer themselves. He was a young black man who probably felt scared, hated by the broad spectre of an uncaring society, and who was definitely very unstable. Not a great mix. Like me, he seeks balance, and felt this would right the wrongs of society. He assumed I was part of the problem, because many people are.

This has happened to me before. I remember an operator telling me afterwards, “I told the other guys in the bullpen, and we all just sat there dumbfounded, like: If this can happen to Nathan, we’re definitely screwed! You’re fuckin’ nice!”

Don’t think that, friends. I’m grateful for the implicit compliment, but I need to reinforce that it’s still worth it to go out of your way being kind. Respectful. Loving. Patient. Compassionate, without expecting thanks, without expecting good treatment. Remember, passion, for most of the existence of the word, meant suffering. Compassion means to suffer together. Life is supposed to be a struggle, and we’re supposed to love each other. In 1871 George Eliot wrote, “What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?” Her words are still true today.

This would be easier if I had been a jerk. Because now I would know what to do next time: Don’t be a jerk. Easy. But I didn’t do a thing to invite this one. This was a solo tango par excellence, and he had no dance partner at all. What, then, do I do next time?

4. Should I let this alter my approach?

Absolutely not.

Don’t sit there devastated in the bullpen, thinking there’s no point to being nice. Your strategy doesn’t have to work all the time to be worthwhile. My strategy, conveyed in all the stories on this blog, works 999 times out of a thousand. It’s not the only way to do things, but it’s a heck of a batting average, if I may say so. I will not allow him to make me forget that.

5. I will instead allow him to be small.

A pebble in the roadway, not a roadblock. You can go through the worst hate, and survive– that means you’re More Than It. If you can thrive in spite of your traumas, you can do anything.

You’ve heard the idea in philosophy: we humans are relational beings. What does that mean? We define things by their relation to another thing. What is night? The absence of day. What is light? The opposite of darkness. Have you ever noticed how dictionary definitions only tell you what a thing is by describing another thing?

The implication is that there are opposites, contrasting degrees of existence, and that this is inextricably woven into the fabric of life. Because there is heat, there must be cold. What goes up must come down.

I exist, and therefore my opposite must also exist.

Who is my opposite? Or, more accurately and in accordance to how we think of things like day and night and hot and cold as balanced, as two sides of the same coin: Who is my equal?

I think I just met him.

6. I have met my equal.

I love people without reason. I don’t know why I’m nice. I just am. Am I crazy? Sure. So is he, who hates people with apparently the same level of fervor, and also without reason. I have met my equal, and I will force the tragedy of the encounter into a learning experience. I will gain something from this, some insight that brings me closer to peace. I will not let it dominate me with thoughts of spite and revenge.

You never need to worry about revenge.

The world does that for you. If he’s cruel to you, he’s also cruel to others and he’s going to meet someone who’s not as nice as you, who has nothing to lose by biting back. They'll do the hard work for you. Don’t worry about it. Worry instead about how to let this not take you over. How can you become stronger. Because:

7. Losing is when you learn.

You don’t learn much from winning. Suffering is when you have a chance to bind yourself to something higher. Mercy, forgiveness, empathy. How will you strengthen your worldview without resorting to bitterness? Bitterness is easy. How will you accept the existence of hate as you continue going about your life, stopping the spread of hate and giving love instead? Doing your small part, and never mind what you can't control?

You’ve been watching more news lately. We all have. Without telling you what to do, I’ll share a word from someone I trust:

Imagine a person who is totally unaware of today’s world strife. Who knows nothing of current events. This person is kind, and compassionate, in all the ways the Black Lives Matter movement highlights the lack of. This individual goes about their life quietly, humbly, lovingly, treating others with grace. Does not this invisible person represent the ultimate end goal of all our social movements, and is (s)he not better equipped to be the positive, life-affirming human (s)he is because she isn’t infected with newsmedia devastation dragging her spirits down?

Food for thought.

I went to a lot of protests in college. I have similar if more nuanced views now, but I feel my role is better cast as following the example of this hypothetical individual above. That is what I excel at. I admire those who represent similar hopes for progress in more confrontational ways, but I have drifted toward a quieter and more personal method of embodying kindness. I wonder if our friend on the bus will similarly soften with time.

We're all trying to figure it out.