On Acing It

1. Uh-Oh

Four years ago, I froze.

Nothing bothers me more than men harassing women, and that's exactly what was happening on my 49 one afternoon in Summer 2020. He was big and tall, lanky, with the youthful self-absorption that breeds the worst kind of entitlement. He sat next to a young woman and leered like a Disney villain, putting his arm around her in a way that was obviously invasive. I said, “Let's try not to touch the other passengers please, that ain't polite," to which he replied, “She's my girlfriend!"

The woman was silent, and I wondered if I'd misread the situation. We carried on.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting behind her now, reaching around to touch her in ways that will get you arrested. She froze. I froze too. I can't blame her for freezing, but I do blame myself. I froze just as I have the times others have physically assaulted me, frozen with confusion and disbelief, confronted by human behavior I forget is even possible, and utterly unprepared to react to.

After a second I said, “Okay," in a tone of deep disappointment, and pulled over, opening the doors. But I didn't know what to say next, or how. He was bigger than me. He was looking at me. He had nothing to lose. I have a lot to lose. I was frozen. She stared at me while I sat there doing nothing. I'll never forget the look on her face.

Fortunately the female companion I'd been talking with up front wasn't frozen at all. She saw me look back, followed my gaze, and immediately shouted, “Hey, what the fuck, man!”
    
My friend could do what I couldn't; a woman intervening in situations like this tends to work better than a man doing the same. It creates a sisterly two-against-one dynamic that helps tip the scales in the right direction, rather than escalating manly confrontation. Her caustic comment worked beautifully. I mumbled something in support, and the offender exited one stop later. I closed the doors after he exited, but, stupidly, opened them up again for a thoroughly oblivious earphoned-in commuter who asked to get off there too. Now I would know to refuse his request and attempt to explain, but I was still frozen.

Generally, I feel like I bungled the whole affair, which was only saved by my adroit friend speaking up. I did what every good bus driver does after bungling a situation; figure out a plan for what to do next time it happens. Because whatever it was, it will happen again.

2. Once Again

Four years later, I'm once again driving the 49. Another entitled man, this time older, fifty-something with shades and big headphones, coasts into the bus with a dismissive air and settles into the rear lounge. As we service the Roy Street zone he yells up toward me, “Ey driver, hold up! I wanna get some snaps o’ this!”

He's eyeing a classic car across the street. I'm hardly enthusiastic to indulge such whims, but the light is turning red and I remain stopped. Like all self-absorbed souls, he imagines I acted just for him, and hollers a thank you, letting me know I can drive again. The light turns green and I do so.

Operators know that in our new landscape of all-door boarding, most problem passengers enter the bus by sneaking in through the rear doors. Psychologically this is unsurprising, but try convincing administrators and policymakers that rear-door boarding exacerbates safety issues. Another man has entered, this time through the rear, and I know to pay attention. He is dressed in starchy clean, oversized, all-black denim, with spectacles and a fresh, flat-billed baseball cap.

Sure enough, he begins stalking up and down the aisle, sniffing at the female passengers, sitting down next to this one, now that one, forcing them to squeeze closer to the window. He speaks in low tones; I can't make out words. Nothing backfires worse than a false accusation, so I hold off for now. What is he saying to them? Would he even respond to anything I ask? Sometimes people are too far gone to hear you.

On the 7, passengers often have the street smarts to deal with such matters themselves. Less so on the 49. But here is a female college student, quiet and demure, clearly uncomfortable, standing up and moving away from the man's advances- remember how hard this is to do- standing up and moving toward the middle door, while he looks on dumbly. She makes eye contact with me. Her expression says everything. Let me out of here.

Some rules were made to be broken. We're not at a stop but I open the doors. She thanks me with her eyes and is gone.

Now the man in black stares at me dumbly. He says, “Why'd you let her escape?"
Once again, I freeze. His sentence confounds me. Escape? My starting frame of reference for what constitutes acceptable behavior is so galactically far from his that I don't know where to begin.

One stop later, two other passengers from the back walk up to me, a man and a woman. They couldn't be an odder couple- another demure college student, short and bookish in appearance… and the middle-aged man from earlier with headphones and shades, the classic car aficionado whom I'd written off as entitled.

We are always more than one thing.

What they had in common now was their urgency, a shared sense of mission. Both began speaking at once.
“Hi um there’s a guy who's being horrible-"
“Listen that dude with the hat, all in black-"
“He’s harassing the women, saying stuff-"
“He actin’ way outta line, jus' like she say, botherin’ everybody. You got to say someth-”
"Please say something!"
“-tell that fool to stop.”
“I'm on it,” I said. "Thank you for telling me."

3. Go Time

They hurried off (still discussing it together on the sidewalk, in a flash of beautiful bonding), but they’d done enough to burst me out of my frozen state. I love when passengers tell me. Only then am I sure my suspicions are correct, and only then am I sure others are on my side. Our side. I got on the mic.

“Okay everyone, special announcement. SEXUAL harassment–” instantly I have everyone's attention- "is not cool. That's not okay. We can't be botherin’ people like that, it ain’t right. Gotta give the female passengers a lil’ bit a personal space, let ‘em do their thing. I'm really only talking to one guy, all the rest a you guys are cool. But let's try to look out for each other, try to show some respect for everyone. Thank you all for lookin’ out.”

The effect I was hoping for happened: others intervened. I wanted to suggest community, standing up for the right thing, often dangerous when alone but easier in a group. I wanted everyone to know they had my respect- and, crucially, my implicit encouragement. In speaking up I was the first vocal bystander, but the critical ingredient which gets everyone involved is not the first bystander but the second bystander who takes action. The two men, and then a woman, who began standing up, moving hesitantly but firmly toward the offender, were the real heroes. A verbal tussle ensued, becoming physical; one departed, then the offender himself. We all sighed collectively, me most of all.

I'd been practicing four years for that.

We fail so we can learn. Regret is good, because it's proof we've grown. Own the sensation, my friend, and cherish it as you cherish yourself. It is the purest, truest evidence of personal progress. Failure comes for all of us, a silent proposition, the universe waiting to see if we'll bite at the chance to improve ourselves, the chance to exercise grace, mercy, empathy. When people say experience is the best teacher, they're being euphemistic. They mean failure. We go through our trials so we know just what to say, do (or not do) next time.

So we can ace it.

Don't beat yourself up for bungling things. Aspire instead, as much as possible, for that awesome, nigh-superhuman feat:
To make each of your life's biggest mistakes only once.