 This post is a thematic sister to this post.
--- 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.
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 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.   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.  I remember being secretly excited, the two of us talking together on a midnight 41. Who started it? Probably him, but I was only too happy to oblige.
I was in the first forward-facing pair of seats and he was three rows behind me, on the bench over the middle wheels. Not at all conducive for conversation, this arrangement, but somehow it turned into the perfect setup. People want to reach each other. We wish for feel connection, belonging. He was a black man a decade older than me, but otherwise not so different– another skinny man in urban America, apparently prone to smiling, similarly getting more pleasure out of talking to someone than not. We talk to each other because deep down the void of mortality and the necessary loneliness of death scare us, and we wish to sit closer to the light. To feel something besides the solitude of impending death. --- I said, “That looks like a pretty warm coat though. You got the fur up there.” “Yeah, that's pretty much it though. All I got’s a T-shirt under here. I dunno how these guys do it, lyin’ on the sidewalk like that. With the wind comin’ in, I feel it cuttin’ right through me.” “Especially how it comes in between the buildings!” “Yeah between the buildings! And here’s dudes just everywhere just layin’ around sleepin’. I’m from Florida. All these folks would be in jail if it was Florida.” I raised my eyebrows. “Really?” “Yeah," he replied, building with the enthusiasm of sharing. "They give you a citation the first time, tell you to pack everything up. They book you three times it’s a felony.” “Whoa. A felony! Then you can’t get a job!” “Tell me about it!” “Man, here people can throw up a tent on the sidewalk and leave it there for weeks!” “All these folks would be gone. The streets would be so clean. If it was Florida they build a big huge prison to put all these people in. As soon as they come out, they put ‘em back in again.” I couldn’t divine his opinion on the situation. We’re so accustomed to truth being wrapped up in editorializing these days. For myself, I couldn’t help but think such draconian efforts toward a clean sidewalk weren’t worth the damage it caused those downtrodden lives, and said so. “That’s kinda scary. The way it sticks with you, on your record, and limits your future prospects.” “It is,” he said. “What I don’t get is, there is so much opportunity here. Why’re these people just layin’ around? This ain’t like Florida.” “Seems like more job opportunities here for sure.” “Not just job opportunities, jobs period. Man, here in Seattle you just look in the direction of a job, and you got one. You could flip a burger and get $16 an hour for it. All you gotta do is step up! I been workin’ with these dudes now, gettin’ on good terms and all, and now they gon’ pay for surgery to get rid of my face tattoos!” “I was gonna say, nobody’s gonna mess with you!” He laughed. “Ha! Well, it ain’t a prison thing. People look at me and they’re like, what’s…” “What’s the story here!” “Yeah. But no, it’s just a look. I tried to do music, but it was too expensive. You need money for that line. But you just meet the right people showin’ up and gettin’ it done.” I nodded. “People respect people that put in the effort.” “I been working grocery stores since I was eight years old. I’m forty-five now. How hard is that, bagging groceries? And here, you get paid. Minimum wage in Florida is like, $8.25. And did you hear, in parts of Tennessee, it’s still $6 somethin’.” “Okay wow. Wow. How do they expect anyone to get ahead?” He said the next thing as if it was normal. “Especially if they get you for jail. They charge you $35 when you go in–” “Hold up.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “They charge you to go to jail?” “Yeah! Thirty-five to start, and $20 for the wristband–” “What?” “Thirty-five to go in–” “Hang on. My head’s going to explode.” I was fully turned around in my seat now, facing him. “They pick you up off the street, against your will, and book you, and then they want your money?” He grinned with a shrug. “I’m tellin' you man, Florida! And it’s $1.50 a day for meals, or $1.50 or $2 depending on the prison–” “–for terrible prison food I assume–” “Yeah. Donations, mostly.” --- I got up and went over to sit across from him. He had an easy vibe, the knack certain people have for making you feel comfortable, no matter their appearance. I must have sounded so naive, but I had no idea. I’ve never been arrested in Florida. “I can’t get over this. You have to pay money to go to jail?” “And if you can’t afford it, they hold that debt against you, as a further reason to keep you in longer. A lot of them have farms attached to them, and they make the prisoners work the farms if they can't pay the fee.” “That’s slavery.” “Ah know!” “That’s– man. That’s completely the same as... I can’t believe this. In this day and age, the…” He shook his head, a rueful smile. I said, “It almost makes it worse that it’s happening now.” “It does, don’t it?” “I mean I was aware they unfairly imprison tons of people for free labor, but I had no idea they were charging people money on top of that. How do they expect society to keep runnin’ if they’re just throwin’ everyone in jail all the time…” I realized I was answering my own question. “...And keep charging them all this money?” I sighed. “And the whole $8.25 an hour thing, that just keeps people forever unable to rise out of their situation.” “Exactly!” “The system keeping them stuck, giving them no option, nowhere to turn to. That’s a nightmare!” “The cops are in on it, the judges, the public defenders making money off of all this. The amount of corruption–” “At every level–” “Yeah!” I remembered Angela Davis’ term. “Like an industry.” “That’s exactly what it is. You could have a seed, a single seed of hash and they got you booked.” “Man, how do you fix a system that’s that bad. Seem like the only thing to do is just get away if you can. I am so glad you got outta there.” “It’s not a lotta liberals down there.” “I’d be the only one!” “Ha!” --- If some of a society is held back, then all of society is held back. No matter who you are, you want others to do well, because that will help society at large. Maybe this is old news to you. But let's say it isn't. In the name of doing something besides preaching to the choir, I speak now to those unconvinced by today's calls for decency. Let's say you don't care about poor or marginalized lives, and are preoccupied only with your own success, unconcerned with thriving off the suffering of others. Fine. Even if these are your views you still want others to do well. Why? Because it’ll elevate your quality of life. Land for agricultural output used to be the ultimate and primary commodity, and because it was limited, competition for it at the expense of others was binary. A zero-sum game. Your doing well necessarily meant others doing poorly. But the world today operates on what's more accurately termed a non-zero-sum game– there are numerous commodities with ever-expanding means of delivery. Binary competition is becoming outdated. Other people don't have to do poorly for you to thrive. Innovation increases with greater demand, fed by a supply of more people with similar problems to yours. If more poor people and people of color can get good educations, that means there are more scientists developing cures for cancer. You want that, when you’re coming home from the doctor with a report in your hand. You want a larger pool of bodies solving problems and creating, thinking, inventing, researching, and engineering together. If more people on the street can get housing and drug counseling, that means less entry access points for impressionable youth– your kid– to get involved in addiction. Even if you believe you have no connection to street people or the working class... you still do, and you want them to prosper even if you have no empathy for their circumstances. Because their doing well will help you. --- Further reading: I sound like I'm advocating for ethical egoism and egoistic altruism. I'm not. Those advocate for prioritizing your own self-interests over others. I'm speaking only what I say above in terms of social contracts and how caring for others can benefit all, without trying to sneak in political agendas. Further context:
I find things to agree with in both of these diametrically opposed views:
More on pay-to-stay prisons:
 "I feel a bass, right here. A bass that rings to the very bones." dir. Lee Chang-Dong. Synopsis: Jong-Su meets a woman who may or may not have known him from long ago, and whose friend Ben may not quite be what he claims to be. Cannes Trailer. 148m. 2.39:1. --- What is the significance of living? Anyone who saw this Cannes entry and also saw the film it lost the Palme d’Or to– Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Shoplifters– should by now agree that a mistake was made in the handing out of cinema’s most respected trophy. While the excellent Shoplifters is no Green Book, there’s no denying that one of these films uses the language of camera movement, mise-en-scene, color, light, soundscape, editing and pace– in short, the language of cinema– to communicate to us viewers, while the other uses… basically none of these, sticking with acting and writing and not much more. Acting and writing derive more obviously from other art forms, whereas the tenets of cinematic form take better advantage of the medium’s potency. With all due respect to Kore-eda, a director whose purity of perspective and lack of irony I genuinely love, the Shoplifters approach is closer to watching (really good) theatre. Burning is a different matter entirely. It creates a mood that cannot be replicated in another format, because it uses tools specific to cinema.  Burning does more than utilize the tools of Pure Cinema though. Director Lee (actually pronounced “Ee” in Korean) draws us in so much by leaving a lot out– we ponder all the further, studying every movement and moment for clues... to what, we are not even sure. The less you know going into this one, the better. Suffice it to say that it’s worth setting aside 148 minutes for something pretty spellbinding. I haven’t leaned that far forward while watching a picture in years. The explorations of the movie reach beyond the already compelling question of what the relationships are between these three people, and far beyond the already hugely compelling question mark of whether or not one of them is a criminal. A young man meets a woman he doesn’t recognize, but who remembers him well from childhood; she leaves and reappears with a man of mysterious origin who seems in every way his opposite. One is unable to experience human emotion; another watches everything but remains inscrutable; the third is hungry for a plane of understanding the other two can’t seem to fathom. And yet despite all these unanswered secrets, the climactic act of the film feels violently necessary, even appropriate, on levels we cannot articulate.  Just watch it. And don’t read further unless you’ve seen the picture! SPOILER TALK: On Withholding Haemi’s comments about mime, and her search for something that transcends the entirety of the spectrum upon which either end of Jongsu and Ben sit, gain new meaning in light of her subsequent absence. Even an aside like “cats have a hard time changing their environment” becomes evocative in retrospect. When Haemi dances to the twilight and Miles Davis's score to Elevator to the Gallows, she seems to be ascending to a higher plane that is hers alone to touch. When Ben begins talking about burning down greenhouses, we are intitally shocked by the utterly unexpected nature of his comments, almost amused, but upon later guessing what he was referring to, chilled by his nonchalant attitude, just like those yawns of his that in retrospect strike one as disturbing. Ben seems to represent so many different things that are fundamentally wrong, and Jongsu’s violent act at the end seems borne of a deep-seated need to forcibly reject all of them: Ben's lack of human emotion, the social inequality he represents, his ease of lifestyle during a time when others struggle to get by, the very concept of uselessness, and his apathetic and potentially murderous blankness, his amorality. I appreciate the film withholding certain details, and notice it plays differently on subsequent viewings: we now know, for example, that the nighttime phone calls are his mother. But certain moments– Jongsu sneaking up on Ben by the water reservoir, with lots of buildup but which we never learn the consequence of; the fact that other women in the film wear a pink wristwatch, casting doubt on Ben’s unproven guilt; the suspicion that we may be seeing Jongsu’s writerly imagination, given that the scene of him at his typewriter sits adjacent to the only scene in the movie he’s not in; Jongsu’s uncharacteristic confidence in telling his mother he’ll “handle it,” whatever the problem they’re talking about is; the unseen cat, and so many more– these, as ever, draw us in even after the film is over. Ephemeralities I think the question of whether or not Ben is really up to something sinister is less a question than the strongly felt truth that there is something wrong about him, something criminal in spirit, that Jongsu can sense. Jongsu also seems often to be on another plane, one that the worldly Ben cannot understand. I find it fascinating and very nearly endearing that Ben is reading Faulkner, sincerely trying to understand Jongsu, because Ben feels he can understand everyone else but somehow not Jongsu; and that Ben seems to feel genuinely upstaged by Haemi’s comment that Jongsu is her closest companion. Ben has achieved all that mainstream society would call ideal, and yet, when faced with Jongsu, is faced with something completely outside his capacity to understand. Says actor Steven Yeun, who plays Ben: "[Lee and I] didn’t try to understand Ben from a material, physical level, but from a deep, philosophical one.” I like wondering about whether or not Jongsu, who often seems “slow” or dense, is in fact quite a bit more perceptive and in tune to something higher or larger than he lets on. The fact that this is never confirmed as such makes me lean in even more. There seem to be scenes which exist for the purpose of having us ponder the question: him looking up at the ceiling during his father’s courtroom arraignment; him walking out during the group job interview. Viewers of Lee’s films will know this is a recurring theme– a character who possesses a socially undesirable trait, which elevates their perspective in ways invisible to those around them. On Language There is also the question of the phoneticization of the title. There is a Korean word for “burning,” but this title uses neither it nor the Japanese one from the Murakami short, but rather Korean characters phonetically spelling out the english word: “baw-ning.” One other word in this film also receives this treatment, in arguably the film's most important dialogue exchange: “the Great Hunger.” Haemi even points out that what she’s describing are not the regular words for appetite, starvation, yearning, or craving, but something a concept beyond the definitions these words contain. Same with the title. Speaking further of language, Korean speakers will note how jarringly quickly Haemi switches to the informal tense with Jongsu, as well as the absurdity of Ben continuing to use the polite formal with someone of infinitely inferior social status during all of their interactions. He comes off as even more condescending than if he were using the informal or “rude” suffixes with this new stranger. Many films remain elusive for much of their runtime only to let all the wind out of their sales by explaining their secrets at the end (oh, Midnight Special). This one holds its cards close for its entire length, begging us to continue mulling things over long afterwards. This pervading sense of unknowing, coupled with the Korean language, which I as an amateur speaker I enjoy parsing and trying to keep up with, caused me to experience a sense of hyper-observation and attentiveness to detail at a degree beyond how I watch most films. Multiple viewings, incredibly, only sustain the pervasive mood of ambiguity. Lee’s knowing just what to show and not show, in all his pictures, I think, must strike a Korean viewer as particularly unique, given the new Korean cinema’s tendency to be too extreme, too transgressive (and for me often unwatchable), simply for the sake of being so.  Isn’t less always more?
 Northbound 4th and Royal Brougham, after hours. It’s always darker over here, a zone hidden in the open wastelands of industrial warehouses and vacant business parks.
He saw me from the bus shelter and scrambled into a standing position, torn with indecision about what to do with all his belongings. A collection of bags and buckets scattered about in his periphery. I opened the doors and leaned toward him. “Hey, my guy! D'you wanna ride?” “I do, yeah!” “Cool! Come on in!” “Uh kay, I just gotta grab all this stuff.” “Can I help carry anything?" He looked like a bruised animal, confused you'd ever want to pet it. “No. Thank you though.” “Right on. Well, I gotta keep it rollin’, so come on in!” “For sure. Thank you so much. Man," he said as he got everything, "You're the first driver...I been standing here four buses passed me by, cause I couldn't get my stuff ready fast enough. Which I understand, but it's like–” “Man, I'm sorry to hear it.” “Just blazed right on by.” “That's not cool.” “Worst day of my life,” he sighed. “The number of things... You know, you're the first– you're the second person today who's been kind to me.” “Aw man! Well I'm glad to be number two! We'll see if we can get it up to ten!” “Ha! I don't think that's…” he paused, realizing pessimism wouldn’t help things. “Well, thank you!” “Of course, always!” He plopped down in a seat with the relaxing finality of a hard day’s work done, or at least a tough rite of passage completed. On to another phase. He was a forty-something white man with reddish-brown hair and dressed like his belongings– equipped for the elements but corroded by them, sweatshirt coat and hood with blackish gray carpenters, the kind of nondescript outfit that leaves you looking for their face, the only revealer of who they are. I remember defined features, ready blue eyes and a goatee. “This is a great ending to such a shitty day! I'm not even gonna get into it.” I looked at him in the mirror. He was sitting halfway down the first half of the articulated coach, but I didn’t mind yelling. It was the relaxed atmosphere of the night bus, and the uncrowded air felt supportive. “Well, you know how sometimes a bunch of bad things happen all at once, and then a whole bunch of good stuff happens right after?” He nodded. “Yeah totally.” “Maybe it's like that, and the good stuff is about to come around!” “Right ON, man!” “All's well that ends well, right?” We went on like that for a while. Going through town we began filling up; the northbound 5 gets a crowd no matter the hour. I heard his voice again, talking to a seatmate. “You talking ‘bout the bus driver? Oh I know. He's the bomb.” “Best there is. I just got passed up by four buses didn't wanna wait for me. What am I supposed to do, you know? Wait for the nice ones to come around!” They were trying to keep their voices down from my hearing them. I smiled to myself. Here’s another friendly face stepping in at Pine: “Hey, amigo!” “Hey, Joe!!!” “Nathan! What're you doing on this thing?” I never drive the 5. Except right now. “I know, what am I doing on this?” “You're goin’ out to the boonies!” Chuckling: “It’s not my territory! I don't belong!” “Ha! You got no protection!” Later, Joe says: “All right, Nathan!” He’s yelling by the middle door. Somehow, and uncharacteristically for the normally quiet 5, friendly outspoken banter is allowed tonight. “Good to see you, Joe!” He’s gathering things of his own too; a theme for the ride, apparently. “Sorry I'm taking so long.” “Oh you're cool. You got it.” A Chinese woman deboarding now, with glowing eyes, says to me: “Shyeh shyeh!” I can’t summon the reply fast enough and default to English– “Thank you so much!!” Her husband follows behind her, gesturing to me with hands in supplication. The amount of gratitude we’re throwing around in here. It plays like a dream that shouldn’t be allowed to be happening but is, like those television shows from childhood where everyone was so nice to each other– except real and big as life, pungent with the unfakeable energy of the urban night. The guy who started this whole hive of goodness has been watching me. “What's your name?” “My name's Nathan, what's your name?” “Scott.” “A pleasure!” “You made my day man, and I didn't think it was possible! All this, during a crowd getting on… Listen, have a great night. Thanks for everything! Got all my stuff…” I could still hear him singing my praises outside. I don’t deserve this, I’m thinking, but I’ll take it, and gratefully. Deeper up on the route an older gent came forward. He’d also watched the proceedings earlier. “How many nights do you work?” “Five. I'm here every day except Thursday and Friday.” “I haven't seen you. I did just move to this neighborhood, though.” “You know yeah, I'm usually more of a south Seattle guy myself. This is new territory for me.” “Well, there's just one thing,” he said, winking: “Nobody on this bus likes you!” We fell apart laughing. I smiled for days. On to the next stop...  All right, bus drivers. Some of us other bus drivers have noticed you misbehaving, and we're not thrilled about it. Let's see if any of this sounds familiar.
1. Wow.
Gosh, these guys are in a hurry to get to the terminal. What's so exciting about the U District layover? Then there’s downtown.
“No, why? Who is it?” “I dunno, but he’s skipping the first few stops of every trip. He’s not picking up the guys here, or at Henderson.” “Oh my gosh,” I said. “That's ridiculous. He doesn't want sleepers, is that what it is? Or street guys? He's not supposed to only pick up people that he likes!" I snorted at the very concept. "He should just suck it up and do the friggin' work!" 2. The Big Idea In my opinion, trying to remember a lot of little rules isn't as effective as remembering one big idea. Don't bother trying to retain everything in this post. Let's just focus on the big idea. What’s the big idea? This is the big idea. Care. As in, the verb. Do the work like you give a [expletive of your choice]. Like you care. About the people, about your coworkers, about yourself. Take some pride in your work. All the actions above share a common element: laziness. Does being lazy and incompetent make you feel better? No. It’s no way to pass through the years. That’ll wear your identity of yourself down to something small and ugly, and you won’t like what you see in the mirror. Maybe you’re already there. The way out is to feel good about what you do, and the impact it has on others. In other words, the big idea is: Work together. Slow down. You don’t need to blast down 3rd, passing coaches on the right and cutting them off, like the 70 I share 3rd with every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evening. I have no idea what’s so exciting to him about 3rd and Main that he’s in such a mad rush to get there. I’m genuinely terrified when he zips around me, whipping that 60,000 pound vehicle around like it was a plastic Tonka at the beach. Doesn’t it feel better to drive slower? To have less stress, not more? Am I crazy or something? 3. Always Forever Now It’s not about rushing. These aren’t taxis. You’re paid by the minute, not by how dangerously you get there. Maybe you've been told that your job is to get people from point A to point B. That is incorrect. Your job is transport people safely between point A and point B. You don't have to get them to point B. You won't be penalized if something happens and you can't get them there. You just have to run it safely and provide good customer service right now. This block. It's about the quality of time spent while you're getting them there. Passengers don’t know this, but operators do: breaking your back driving fast will give you almost zero time difference in terms of terminal arrival time. Sure, you got to Henderson two minutes earlier and made an extra green light. But was that really worth it? Take your time. And remember that your actions have real ramifications to the operators in front of and behind you. If you leave early, you're making things tough for your follower. She’ll have to carry what ought to be your people. This of course makes things tough for passengers too. If you catch up to your leader, get close to him so you can help him, get some of his people, and take the load off. He should know to skip zones where he doesn’t have dropoffs, which is where you can swoop in and help out. You don’t even have to pass him. I love helping other operators. It makes me feel great, part of something. 4. Let’s end with some Positive Examples.
5. Help other bus drivers. Help them with their sleepers. Help them with their poles. One day, you will need their help. We're on the same team. Let your fellow operator in on 3rd Avenue. Help your leader with the passenger load if you catch up to him or her (deets on both types of skip-stopping here). Spend some time with the system map. Figure out where the major routes go, and how to get to common destinations so you can answer questions and get a feel for where people are going and what they transfer to. As a supervisor told us when we were starting full time, “take some pride in your work. If you don’t know what bus goes to the U District, or how to get to West Seattle, you need to go get a job working somewhere else.” I'm not telling you anything you don't already know to do. You're a professional. Slacking off can be addictive, but being your best self just feels better. Everything I know about bus driving I've learned from you guys. I look up to you. Let's not let each other down. Care. That’s all I suggest. --- I need to balance the calling out I'm doing above– here are two links appreciating my colleagues, and a third chock-full of tips I've learned from them that I live and die by. It's because I care that I'm as frank as I am above.  I'll leave it to those around me to conclude whether or not I'm the same person I was eight years ago, when I started my blog. I lack the requisite self-awareness to make such pronouncements.
What I can say is that some of my earlier posts carry a specificity of romantic perspective which was more limited than it is now, and which I've expanded as the years have worn on. I was learning, you see, and still am. My deep-seated enthusiasm for human existence is in the early posts more exclusively aimed at the downtrodden, those souls with whom I identify most closely. It's easiest for us to sympathize with our own experience, and as a working-class mixed-race adult who will always be, on the inside, a quiet, shy child from a working-class immigrant family, I feel an affinity for those who similarly live in the humble margins, taking life as it comes and making the best of things. The compass point of my enthusiasm remains weighted for this reason and one more– the people I encounter in the working-class and low income neighborhoods I serve have, in general, been nicer to me. It's fair to state I've observed a greater appreciation of kindness and respect in those populations, and how am I not going to welcome that with open arms? What I take issue with in my younger self is how I allowed this enthusiasm, these observations and inclinations, to limit my appreciation of people outside the groups under discussion. Youngsters– and humans at large– tend to categorize what they do not understand, and I've fallen for that trap as well. In my early posts you may notice a whiff of condescension toward people who don't engage, commuters and other affluent passenger groups. This reductive and binary sort of thinking, wherein we turn away from one set because of how much we like another, or disregard entire populations based on the high-profile actions of a few, is best described as exactly the type of prejudice I seek to dismantle in my writing, and the reverse prejudice that surfaced in my thinking back then is at best problematic, and at worst hypocritical. Yes, I feel more loved on routes like the 7. People engage more, smile more, make more eye contact, reach out to each other, remember me. Yes, these observations have led me to develop preferences, bolstered by the congruences of my own background. But that's not the whole picture. No one culture group has a claim on humanity's best traits. Two things have changed in my life in the interim. I didn't used to know a lot of wealthy people. I do now. Yes, money has a way of poisoning people. Yes, luxury vehicles tend to drive with less respect for those around them. Yes, apathy and the upper echelon are often bedfellows. But not all the time. Especially not now, when income disparity is such that most of our city's upper class is just another part of the 99 percent, not the one percent (Level 7 Amazon only makes $153k annually, not the one percent's $7.3 million). The second element is more important, and it's what happens when you become humbled by tragedy. It's possible to make it through your teen years and perhaps even a chunk of your twenties without slamming into the wall of failures bigger than yourself. Of Things Going Wrong and Just Not Working Out. Eventually, despite your best efforts, you'll come across an obstacle you can't surmount, that you'll instead have to adjust to living with. Do we come of age in the aftermath, when we realize that everyone around us is damaged goods too, and that they deserve endless and unrelenting forgiveness, because they're trying, as we are, to find love in whatever manner they most cherish– acknowledgement, respect, validation, salvation? It's okay to be quiet. Introverted. Some of my favorite people thrive by withdrawing, and I know now to better admire them for it. It's okay to be angry, frustrated by my friendly airs and wishing for silence. The story of a person who didn't like my colloquial approach at first and angrily accosted me for it, but who would later come around, doesn't need to be told here. It lives best spoken by those two who were there, if at all. It lives best in the rising sensation I had driving away. Alisha. Thank you. Not just for the second conversation, but for both of them. You confronted me directly, rather than going through the back channels to my boss's desk, and I respect that. But more importantly, you came up a second time, and shared what you shared: a change of heart, gifted with kinder airs. That takes courage and remarkable grace. I am deeply humbled. I was on the side of town I live in but feel a stranger in, and this affluent commuter had expansive humility enough to apologize for her earlier indignation and admit she felt differently now. It remains one of my favorite moments on the 5: near the tail end of the route with no one else aboard, introducing ourselves as friends at the end of the discussion, erasing a bad night and rewriting it anew. If her initial resistance to kindness plays into an assumption we might carry– that convivial interaction (especially between classes) is more readily rejected in wealthier areas, I've got a counterexample: a furious homeless man leaving my 10, the last in a line of deboarding passengers whom I was thanking and faring well. When he got to me he snarled threateningly, "Don't say anything to me." I nod-lowered my head, gently raising my hands in the air. He stormed off, upholding the unspoken truce, refraining from whatever his line threatened. He was going through something, and like Alisha on the other end of town, he needed space and silence, not small talk, to work through whatever it was. There are good people everywhere. Sometimes they just need a little room.  I forget her name, but I remember the enormous Barnes and Noble Booksellers that once stood here, inside the Starbucks of which she worked. Someday people won’t even remember there was a Barnes and Noble here. But today was before present became past, just another day in Westwood Village, as I dashed into the store while on break from the 5/21. I knew her through her boyfriend, a Jamar who’d taken my 49. Before that they both knew me from the 7.
She saw me and glowed. She probably glows for anyone who walks in. My kind of people, I thought. I was glowing myself, having just heard the news, and had to tell her: “Hey. Did you know, Seattle Magazine just named me one of the 35 Most Influential People in Seattle!” “Whoa!” “Yeah! It's ridiculous! I'm just the bus driver!” She paused, thinking about it, unable to keep from grinning. “Um no. That's not ridiculous. You totally… Nathan, that's like the lowest honor they could give you.” “No way.” She shifted the stance of her hips, the better to emphasize her point: “Okay. Do you realize you make getting on the number 7 bus... Pleasant??” “Ha!” “That is not an easy thing to do! That's hard! And you just... Whenever I would see the driver had curly hair, I knew, I was like okay, today's gonna be a good day.” “You, this makes my day! My week!” “I'm so glad I could make the Maker of Days' day!!” She would shortly move to another state, off to a new start with her partner. I imagine I’m only a footnote in what seems, on the basis of her consistently ebullient attitude, like a rich and fulfilling life. Does she know I still remember this exchange? That it comforts and inspires me? You have to understand, when someone tells you you’re the most influential person in the city, you don’t believe it. Who would? But when someone tells you the specifics of how you elevate their day, their life for a brief moment, that reads differently. It carries further into you, freed as it is from agenda and committee, one person to another telling how they bring the light. Would that I had the adroitness of mind to tell her how similarly she brought me up after my long trips on the 5. To walk in and see a smile like that; you like who you are all over again, in the presence of such people. I don’t remember your name, or where you were going, and if I saw you again I’d recognize you from your attitude, not your appearance. Thanks for giving that energy out to people. It means more than you know.  The Hope I wish the video could show you how packed the place was. Every available place to sit (and, in the back, stand, as many did) was taken. Wordstotime.com had me giving the speech in 72 minutes– but we got it out in 54 jam-packed minutes, and I’m grateful it went over as well as it did, especially given the pointed and specific nature of the material. (When all the copies of the bibliography of a lecture go like hotcakes… what can I say but thank you!!) The comments afterwards from folks young and old about how the evening put a name to their daily concerns, reinvigorated their appreciation of the value of knowing history, how addressing contemporary problems can be exciting and inclusive... I’m both thankful and pleasantly surprised. Because hearing this data about your age group can be easy to take personally. I speak both for the audience and myself when I first encountered the research. It’s useful to remember we have a tendency to interpret facts emotionally, to take data in as something containing judgment. But facts aren’t judgments or opinions. They’re statements of the nature of existence, and they contain no agenda. My aim in presenting them was to package together what we usually hear in the context of disappointment as something else– a reason to get excited. What impedes my generation’s awareness of history, happiness, and value of real-world communication, and how can we– as individuals– address that? Problems don’t get solved by pointing fingers from the outside, but by creating generative positive momentum from within. On Stereotyping If there was any ambiguity about these concerns, I wanted to clarify them here. Anyone more than passingly familiar with my work knows that casting a pejorative eye on others doesn’t interest me, and that generalizations are the opposite of my approach. Only someone unfamiliar with statistical analysis would accuse myself, Twenge or others of generalizing or stereotyping: stereotyping is the opposite of what such research provides. To stereotype is to presume an individual’s actions as representative of their culture group. Observing trends over big cross-sections of people using the scientific method is the best way to obviate stereotypes, not perpetuate them; we learn with accuracy which behaviors most, but not all participants in a study reflect. To say that more people in South Korea than in Germany know how to use chopsticks isn’t a stereotype; it’s a statistical reality. And in the same way responding to emotion with logic never works, reacting to facts with emotions only gets us so far. What I mean to say is– don’t take offense, contemporaries of mine. I like you. I am as I imagine you are: another young person like and unlike these statistics. Just like the subjects in the scores of studies I source from, I am a young person who uses technology too much, who wishes to make healthy decisions. Let’s continue to be who we are, and take care of ourselves. Enjoy! Click the PDF below for a detailed bibliography (also included at the end of the video). Special thanks to Brittany Rose Hammer for filming, editing and mixing this video, to MOHAI for allowing it and recording it, to Rachel Spence for everything, and to the audience for being as open and enthusiastic as they were. 
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Nathan
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