• Published on

    For the Haters

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    All of us have a friend, or relative, whom we like but who has views we can't tolerate. We like them because we know people are better than their worst qualities. You know this because you are yourself better than your stupidest mistakes, and because people can change. You’ve grown. Right? Maybe someday they will too.

    I tend to let people be who they are. I don’t reject those who have different values, partly because on the road, I can't. I rub shoulders amongst, well, everyone, including some of Seattle’s most misogynistic, homophobic, and transphobic communities. I feel sorry for the smallness of their prejudiced worlds.  But I can’t hate them, because I’ve spent time with them. You can only hate people you don’t know well. I try instead to focus on the good things, listening and leading by example, reminding myself that a person is always more than one thing. 

    But battle lines are being drawn in our great country, and we are entering a new era focused on violating the rights of women, immigrants, people of color, those with disabilities, the elderly, and the poor. That's basically everybody. Some people support this subjugation, wrongly thinking they’ll benefit from it. 

    I speak now to you folks. 

    This post is not for the choir, because preaching to the choir is lazy. It’s for the haters. I reach out to you without judgment, because I happen to like some of you, and I think you’re better than this. Read on.

    --

    Somewhere along the way, somebody awfully clever suggested that feminists hate men. This is not accurate. Women often love men, especially men who are respectful. They simply want their own needs to be addressed too. You know, like how you put on your own oxygen mask first on the airplane. Women want an oxygen mask of their own, that they get to put on–protections, guarantees, support, respect; things men have always had and take for granted. Feminism is a fight not for dominance but equality.

    When was the last time someone treated you like your desires and opinions don't count, like you’re less intelligent than you really are, less educated, don't make as much money, or don't have as much experience? Ask your female and POC friends if they ever run into this. Wouldn’t it frustrate you too?

    You know our current president is “pro-rape.” He thinks being a rapist (meaning, a psychopath incapable of empathy, who can violate and permanently traumatize others without the faintest idea of what that’s like to go through) represents a compelling go-getter attitude useful in business and politics. It’s a new phrase, a new idea. I cannot abide by it. Because it, all of it at the end of the day, boils down to this: 

    I was raised to treat others the way I want to be treated. 

    You were too. You’ve heard of the Golden Rule. All religions have a variant of it, because it’s incontestable. Without it all societies would crumble. Also, pragmatically speaking, there's this:

    If people around you are doing better, you will do better too. You don't lose anything  if society treats women and people of color fairly. Men are taught subconsciously that they have purpose if they're providers, and this is why the independence of women scares them- what purpose does a man have if there's no one to provide for? But men can be more than just providers, just as women can be more than homemakers, admirable as those roles are. Not everyone wants to get married and raise kids. 

    If women can control their bodies (meaning their lives) and innovate, contribute, grow, as they choose, rather than being forced to do what others say, forced to put aside their dreams forever... if immigrants can get a foothold and complete, say, medical school (that’s more people who could cure cancer–your cancer, or your kids’)… quality of life improves for everyone. You can be a man supporting the opportunities of others for purely selfish reasons, and it would still make sense. Human rights don’t exist in limited supply. They aren't like food or money. And anyways, why support ideas that make life harder for your own loved ones? 

    Politicians love to manipulate using fear because it's easy. Don’t give in. You're not afraid. Talk to people from other walks of life, ask and listen. Aren't they so much more like you than you thought? The way forward is one where everyone feels empowered, where your needs and theirs are met. This is how we increase the general welfare and the blessings of liberty for all. 

    How did our leaders make you forget what you always knew was true? Treat others as you would want to be treated. Measure everything by that. It’s all you need to remember.

    I know it’s pointless to try to change others, but I believe in diplomacy first. The most powerful weapons are not weapons, but ideas. Words. I use them now because I want to believe we can get somewhere by having a dialogue. And I may be wrong. Maybe those kids you’ve read about, those teen boys who bully girls by chanting, “your body, my choice….” Maybe I’m wrong, and they should all just be summarily taken out and shot. I can think of no attitude the world would be better off without than theirs. Maybe you can’t talk to these people, just like you couldn’t talk to Hitler or bin Laden.

    But can you blame me for trying?

    --

    It’s not for me to have the last word on this subject. Here’s Vera Brittain, author of Testament of Youth and the first woman to write a book on war. Food for thought:

    In spite of the feminine family tradition and the relentless social pressure which had placed an artificial emphasis on marriage for all the women born, like myself, in the 1890s, I had always held and still believed it to be irrelevant to the main purpose of life. For a woman as for a man, marriage might enormously help or devastatingly hinder the growth of her power to contribute something impersonally valuable to the community in which she lived, but it was not that power, and could not be regarded as an end to itself. Nor, even, were children ends in themselves; it was useless to go on producing human beings merely in order that they, in their sequence, might produce others, and never turn from this business of continuous procreation to the accomplishment of some definite and lasting piece of work.
  • Published on

    Trolley Tips

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    Trolley buses remind me of manual transmissions in cars. They demand qualities which require added effort, but which make us better drivers: attention, focus, present concentration, a continual honing of skill, a talent for timing, and an ability to read the road further ahead than normal. No, they're not the easy choice. But easier is not always better. Aren't knives best sharpened against the unpleasant resistance of stone? Muscles best created through effort and strain? Challenges make us better, and trolleys are a skill set with a steep learning curve. I think they're the best work in the system. Read on for tips on how to excel while you're at Atlantic. One day you'll have the seniority to pick away from here, but you just might find yourself wanting to stick around...
    If needed: click here for a breakdown of what trolley buses are and how they work. Now, let's begin:

    Navigating through special work
    Don’t power through deadspots. It’s bad for the electricity (you’re arcing the power every time you do that, and you may blow your fuses), and it gives a jolt to the passengers, which they don’t like, especially if you’re doing that for the whole ride. Instead, coast through them. How? 
    • Memorize where all the deadspots are for your route. This is easier than it sounds: start with the CBD, which has the most complex wire. Make a note of where the front of your bus is when you hit a deadspot. I use the middle of the front doors as my reference point. When I pass by that tree, or that newspaper bin or manhole cover. The next time you go through that deadspot, lift your foot off the power pedal right before you pass your landmark. You'll get to where you know where every deadspot is on your route within a couple of inches. What a pro you are!
    • Slow down. Trolleys are designed to roll. Diesels have pretty strong retarders; trolleys don’t. They roll further than you think. You’ll make it through your deadspot fine. Also, because they roll further than you think, you don’t need to use the power pedal as much as you do in a diesel. If you do, you’ll end up braking too much, and we all know how much that hurts our knees. Maximize the time you spend coasting.
    • Slow down to 9-10 mph for special work. You'll get written up at 11 mph. This speed is only for the moment when your shoes pass through special work (whether deadspot or live). Sectional insulators are the one type of special work you don't need to slow down for (but, do still coast through them - they are deadspots).

    Landmarks and difficult special work: an example
    Let's use outbound 5th and Jackson as an example, and go through it step by step, together. Assuming we're using a sixty-foot trolley (the deadspots will be in different locations in a forty-footer):
    1. Don't rush this. If the ‘don't walk’ hand is counting down already, consider waiting out the cycle. I assume your coach is on the side wire because it's always nice to use the side wire (allows other buses to pass), especially when a relief is taking place. If you're on the side wire, you should hear 4 deadspots as you cross the intersection (if not, you'll hear 3).
    2. As mentioned above, I measure the location of deadspots by where the front of the coach directly beneath me (the middle of the front doors) is during the moment of the beep.
    3. Green light. Accelerate to 9mph before reaching the middle of the intersection.
    4. Do not activate your right turn signal as you cross the intersection, as this will set your poles to turn right. Merging? Use your 4-ways.
    5. Deadspot 1 (as your poles return to straight wire): your front is just about to cross the middle of 5th Avenue.
    6. Deadspot 2: just after middle of 5th, almost as you touch the farside crosswalk. You will need enough momentum to clear both these deadspots at once; there isn't enough space between then to accelerate. Remember, you only need 9mph to do this. 4500s coast quite well.
    7. Accelerate for 10 feet or so.
    8. Deadspot 3: As your front door passes by the anime-style painted image of a young woman in a chef hat and apron on the right wall.
    9. Accelerate for 6 feet or so.
    10. Deadspot 4: right before your front doors pass the door with white number zero on it.
    11. You made it. First day? You probably powered through all the above and jerked the bus around. That’s okay for now. But each time you go through, try to memorize these locations a little more so you don't power through deadspots, and give a smoother ride. Find your own landmarks. Remove your foot from the accelerator before the deadspot. If you're new, the back of the coach where the poles are is slightly further back than you think.

    General reminders
    • Use the side wire at every opportunity, especially at 5/Jackson, NB Pike, SB Union, and Prefontaine. You don’t know what’s going to happen in these places, and you may be there for a while for whatever reason, and you don’t need to hold up trolleys behind you. If you're the lead coach, use the side wire at these zones every time.
    • Don't accelerate until after the back of your coach has completed the turn– you may feel done with the turn up front, but the poles back there are still going through the turning wire.
    • Every split of lanes in the wire involves one lane with a deadspot, and one with live wire. Learn which is which in every case, so you know whether or not you want to hear that deadspot beep. This way you'll have a good idea of where your poles are just by listening.
    • Pay attention to the wire. Pay more attention to the road, but pay attention to the wire. This sounds like a lot to keep track of, but it eventually becomes second nature. If you're not completely sure which lane of wire your poles are on, get out and confirm.
    • Hot tip: Open the rear end of your front roof hatch so you can hear the wire. Try driving with the AC/heaters off for a while, so you can familiarize yourself more easily with what you want to hear– and especially what a fahslabend switch activating sounds like.

    Stopping smoothly on an uphill
    Using the hill holder rather than the service brake can make this smoother. Here's how: 
    1. Pick a point where you want to stop, ideally just past the zone flag (why past the zone flag, instead of before? Two reasons: 1) you eliminate right mirror clearance issues for when pulling out; and 2) you confirm if anyone at the zone actually wants you).
    2. Ease up on the power pedal, while still applying pressure, slowing down the coach while still powering forward, until you're almost stopped.
    3. The second the coach is perfectly still (this is easiest for me to judge by looking at the lower edge of windshield in relation to the pavement beyond it), hit the hill holder. Your coach is stopped! No herky-jerky whatsoever!
    4. Do not use the power pedal to hold the coach still on an uphill. This is absolutely terrible for the traction motor. Use the hill holder.

    Resetting your poles from one lane of wire to another
    • Pull the parking brake.
    • Be sure you pulled the parking brake.
    • Step out the doors with your vest in hand. Be mindful of cars. Put on your vest as you walk or jog to the back of the bus. You walk quickly to the back, to show the passengers you care about being expeditious, but once you're back there behind the bus and with the ropes– take your time. Rushing it will take longer.
    • Grab the rope of the pole closest to the lane of wire you're moving to, but don't pull the pole off the wire yet. While still holding the rope, walk over to where you're directly beneath the pole, then pull the rope straight down to get the pole off the wire. This prevents the pole from swinging around wildly.
    • Still holding your pole, and being mindful of cars, walk the pole over to where you are directly beneath the wire you want to let it gently rise to the wire. Do it slowly. Use both hands.
    • Is the shoe at an angle where it doesn’t want to slip back onto the wire? Raise the shoe up to the side of the wire and use the wire to knock the shoe back into something approaching straighter alignment. Then try again. Take a deep breath while you’re doing this, and remember to be mindful of cars.

    Resetting your poles after losing your poles
    I try to be aware of where the poles are at all times, and the minute I’m not sure, I check visually, either by the mirror or by actually stepping out. You want to be sure. This way, you only ever have to move poles from one lane of wire to another, rather than having them fly off and go everywhere. But let’s just say that’s just happened anyway, because sometimes it does. The poles have just flown off and are swinging around, settling on top of the coach.
    • Pull the parking brake.
    • Be sure you pulled the parking brake.
    • Do not hit the “lower poles" switch- this slows down the process.
    • Jog out there while being careful of cars and putting on your vest.
    • Rack each pole. Hot tip: first rack the pole you’re going to reset first. This saves you a second because it takes a second for the air pressure to build back up.
    • Is it raining? Don’t stand directly beneath the pole, but just to its side, as you pull the pole down to tap the coach as you and get it out of the hook. This way all the raindrops and hot carbon on the pole don’t fall on your face!

    Merging during switches
    You’re southbound on 3rd, approaching Union.
    • I recommend using your 4-ways in this scenario. 4-ways do not affect the wire, and let cars behind you know you're about to do something weird. They don't know what, but something.
    • You can also do Straight Override, but keep your hand on the switch so you remember to switch it back to "N" right after. I don't use the override; too much of forgetting it's activated. It's turn signals or 4-ways for me. 
    • Eventually you'll know where all the switches are, and will likely take the easier path of doing your merging maneuvers before or after them.

    Pulling into the yard
    1. As a courtesy to your fellow ops behind you (like me!), PLEASE don't lower your poles until you've parked in your assigned lane. Here's how to park in the yard without losing your poles:
    2. Hug the left curb. 
    3. Notice the arrows and lane numbers on the cement; while hugging the left curb, drive until *your driver's seat* is on top of your assigned lane number.

    4. Crank the wheel hard to the right, then proceed slowly, until you hear the 'click' of the directional switch. These are directionals, not fahslabend switches, meaning they're not activated by turn signals but by the angle of your coach during the turn.
    5. Coast through the deadspot, which starts right after the click, then drive up your lane.

    Qualifying on trolley routes
    Pay attention. Stand at the front. Ask questions. For the love of all things holy, don’t sit in the back with your headphones in. Trolleys are a challenge, and you don't need to learn all this the hard way. We're a team at Atlantic. Try qualifying with someone who speaks your native language, so you can hash out all the details. If the driver isn't being a good teacher, try a different bus or come find me.

    Third
    Third Avenue has the highest amount of bus traffic of any road in the world. Don't clog it. Here’s a recap for how to do the Weave in three lines:
    1. Use the left lane except to enter or service a zone;
    2. Don’t pass buses that use the same stops as you (unless they have their 4-ways on);
    3. The bus in lane 1 (the right lane) has the right of way.
    • The biggest thing, really, is to not block bus stops that aren’t yours. Using lane 2 is safer, more open, doesn’t annoy other operators, and clears up passenger confusion over what stops you stop at. Memorize which routes stop where; they're generally grouped by route type and destination (all trolleys use the same stops; all buses to Fremont use the same stops, etc).

    Thank you for being a professional. The only thing left to say is the one thing that's more important than every single little detail above: 

    We're a team. 

    Let's look out for each other.
  • Published on

    Ode to 12th and Jackson

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    This intersection is a living thing. You come upon it slowly, visible as it is from a distance in all four directions, but it still surprises you. Its capacity to shock surpasses the imagination. How debased can humans become, in their treatment of others, of themselves? How thoughtless, how distracted, self-obsessed, how cruel? You cannot know if you haven't spent solid time here, and I don't just mean passing through. I've given up trying to explain it to people. Bosch would shake his head in rueful understanding. Even the more reflective Bruegel captures it in his 1560 Children's Games. This is simply part of who we humans are. 

    Twelfth and Jackson's current state is the logical extension of our society's preoccupations: a bottomless appetite for escaping present reality, especially anything involving pain or challenge; a tendency to look after one's own needs and no one else's; and– to paraphrase Hanlon's razor, an endless capacity for what looks like malice, but is really just ignorance and laziness. If you could get an entire city's power structure to continue kicking its biggest problems down the road, you'd get 12th and Jackson.

    So why do I love going through there so much? 

    Why do I relish the opportunities to step outside there, helping people with their walkers and strollers and carts and wheelchairs? To let them know through my actions that I see them as equals? What is it about these castaways, who reject the capitalist system that rejects them, who've found its weak points and milk them without apology, who remind us that the only thing we all have in common is our stupefying talent for making mistakes?

    Perspectives

    I haven't always felt this way. But tonight, with the infamous zone now closed, as I drop off my peeps at 8th instead of 12th, and watch them now have to walk the four long uphill blocks to their destination, my heart begins to tell me things my mind has forgotten.

    These are the most hated, feared, avoided, abandoned, talked-about people in the city. They will be gone someday, and for the first time I realize I'm going to miss them. Why do I find myself having a soft spot for these rejected souls?

    1. Maybe it's because these youngsters feel like they're the same generation as me. Most of them are actually younger, but they don't know that; I still look twelve, and there's a resulting camaraderie of shared experience. Yes, they're making stupid mistakes. Haven't we all, especially in our youth? 
    2. Or maybe it's because the American side of my Korean-American heritage stems from similarly humble origins: Dust Bowl Okies and Irish stock, which if you know your history (or have read your Steinbeck), were two of the most universally despised demographics in early America. Otherizing has been a project of all societies, and these folks were ostracized in ways so depressing we no longer discuss them. My grandfather's side is Hungarian (hence “Vass") and they were detested almost as much as ‘those filthy Irish...’ More recently, my family's other half had the (mis)fortune of being Korean in 1980s South Central LA, a time and place that was nice for exactly no one. Does some part of me contain the generational memories of those decades past, echoes of ridicule and unearned suffering on all sides, which surface now in the form of sympathy, as I regard these similarly despised kiddos, who like my American forbears often hail from small, forgotten midwestern towns? 
    3. Or is it simpler than all that, and more fundamentally because I find it impossible not to sympathize with the underdog in any situation?

    Faces

    Underdogs find each other, sometimes in unexpected ways. Tonight a trans girl of color and a scruffy young white guy enter as friends, nevermind that assumptions tell us they never would, the former gregarious and the latter with that distinctly rural silence you acquire when you know the loneliness of vast spaces. Because 12th is no longer a zone I have to explain the closure to everyone, and this invites conversation.

    She says, “Why are you the only nice bus driver? Or like, the only driver that's nice to us?”
    I know I'm not the only one, but I play along. She means the general state of affairs. “I don't know!” I exclaim. “It's not that hard to be nice to people, right?”
    “I guess it is!”
    “I guess it is.”
    “Well, I know you drivers have to deal with a lot of shit.”
    “That's true. But people are mostly pretty all right. Lotta people struggling these days, can't expect ’em to be at their best.”

    The rural guy nods silently. I'd remembered the girl from previous rides, when she seemed too distracted to notice anything about the driver, but tonight she shared that she had, “and the next time I got on the 7 I was like hold up, what happened to the friendly bus driver?" 

    Another young man echoes these words later on, appreciating how I announce the stops. "Thanks man," I reply. “I like being out here. I'm glad somebody notices!” 
    “Oh yeah. Sometimes I'm having a shitty day and I blow right past you, but I notice.”
    His humanity comes into focus as we continue chatting, talking about his days fishing in Alaska, about waves, swells, and finally about the film Interstellar, the two of us united, transported, seen by each other as we rhapsodize over what is both one of our favorite films, enthusing on various aspects of its cinematography and especially that magnificent score.

    Who could ever say these guys are less than human?

    I've written often about how respect is the currency of the street. All street fights are about perceived disrespect. Respect on the street, when it is perceived, is often acknowledged with gratitude. Maybe I like the 12th and Jackson crowd for the simple fact that (when they're not having an episode or high out of their minds) they respect me. It feels good, frankly. You don't have to demonstrate respect and gratitude in Bellevue. You can, but you don't have to. But in the spaces I drive, doing so can save your life. And being on the receiving end of it brings me up. 

    Saying hey to Vern, an old-timer I haven't seen in a decade. He slept on my bus for years, but he was always going somewhere, on his way toward something, just like he is today. Witness his quiet surprise that I remember his name. He smiles to himself, feeling seen anew, perhaps a rare feeling for him. My heart warms correspondingly at other gents who remember my name, especially two grizzled men slightly too old for all this mess, the one with piercing blue eyes, who fought in Afghanistan because he wanted to help end Saddam’s crimes against women.

    Catching up with Nemo on his way to 12th, a young man effusive with praise and gratitude, the kind of angelic personality I've never seen get angry, despite his circumstances. I watch him bring out the light in his friends. “I'm so glad you're still here," I say, "still goin’ strong.” These people can have preciously short lifespans. 

    Here is a jeep at 3rd and University southbound, pulling up alongside me after dark. It's tricked out with a custom paint job, glossy red rims, and an elevated chassis. There's a sunroof, tinted black like all the other windows, and it's opening now, and there's a man standing up through it, the driver's head and torso rising into view. He's gesturing, trying to get my attention. I'm illuminated by my driver's dome light. What does he want? I take a chance and open my window.

    “Yo," he exclaims, continuing with words of appreciation and gratitude that I'm blushing too furiously over to repeat here. “You got me through that shit for real, all that mothafuckin’ bullshit!” He gestures toward the mayhem back there at the bus zone, presumably referring to a period of homelessness and struggle and late nights on buses. I return his words with appreciation of my own. We wish each other Happy New Year, and I watch with glowing joy as he drives away, a man who's put in the work and gotten through it, driving a fancy tricked-out vehicle that clearly means a lot to him. He dreamt of one day getting here… and he has.

    “I don't like that man," Abraham Lincoln once quipped. “I must get to know him better." I like this derided crowd because I've gotten to know some of them. When I feel safe– which isn't all the time– but when I do feel safe, and my needs are met, I'm able to feel empathy for them. 

    I imagine this would be true for any of us.

    Mirrors 

    The single most valuable piece of instruction I got in bus driver training was the great Bob Dowd telling us: Respect everyone, especially the people whom you think deserve it the least. What helps nurture this skill?

    Art, and for me especially cinema, is the great empathy-building machine. I think of Roma, Keane, Mati Diop, Andrea Arnold’s work, Scorsese, this year's Nickel Boys, Millet, August Wilson's plays; I think of Tolstoy, Hardy, Wharton, Richard Wright. These works and countless others offer suggestions of what it's like to walk in another's shoes. They remind me that all great stories are actually about loneliness, because loneliness is the premier and universal human problem, especially of our time.

    I watch them walk the long walk up Jackson, and I see myself in their solitude, their uncertain futures. I regard their ignorance and confusion, the restless narcissism of drug-addled youth; I regard the ethnic minorities they disrupt and displace (whom I picture above, and who've lost transit through no fault of their own). I consider my coworkers, suspicious and afraid. All suffer in varying degrees; each of us has something to be bitter about. The difference is that my outcast peeps in the street have nowhere to hide. The rest of us walk our hard walks behind closed doors, playing up our facades of competence and class. 

    They walk their walk in plain sight.

    --

    P.S.: Things I don't appreciate about 12th and Jackson:

    • Roland. That wasn't cool, bro. Stabbing 10 people without provocation, several of them in the back, just because they were white… Come on, man. You're making it harder for everybody, most of all yourself. Did you really think that would ease your suffering? 
    • Which brings us to: Erratic behavior generally. There needs to be a place for people who are a danger to themselves and others, and that place shouldn't be the local ethnic neighborhood. Some sort of destination and intervention is needed– and that intervention will probably have to be compulsory. But that's for people smarter than me to come up with.
    • Perceptions. It's not a mob of scary people. As an operator it helps to mentally separate the folks at these zones into two groups: people on drugs, and people behaving erratically– smashing up property, throwing things, etc. Only this second group is a threat. The youngsters on fentanyl aren't dangerous to you; only to themselves. 
    • Closing zones. It makes more sense to fix a zone than to close it. By now we know (from the examples of 3rd at Pike and James) that closing zones accomplishes nothing. Everyone just moves down to the next zone. Twelfth and Jackson is an important transfer point and destination (with some of the city's best restaurants - Sichuanese Cuisine, Saigon Deli, & Tamarind Tree forever!), and should eventually have safe, reliable transit, preferably sooner rather than later.

  • Published on

    NPR: KUOW: Nathan on Shawn Yim

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    Click here for both interviews. The short version (6 minutes) is at the top of the page, and printed; Scroll down for the long version (19 minutes), which goes into further detail and covers issues like fare, shields, and back-door boarding. Further context:
    I post new material at the start of every month. Check back soon!
  • Published on

    Shawn Yim

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    I always called him by his full name because it made him laugh. Shawn and I crossed paths in the lunchroom, on the road, at our lockers, the bullpen, the layovers, and everywhere else. We moved in similar circles. He and I both had the seniority to pick away from Atlantic Base, home of the hardest and most challenging routes; and we both had the seniority to pick away from night work, but for different reasons we wanted to be there, working our night shifts together downtown. I do it because I like the people and the pace; Shawn did it because he needed the money, and overtime is best found on the routes, times, and places that are least desirable.

    But the 70 is such a cush route.

    It doesn't even go to 12th and Jackson. It's too short for sleepers. It's just the 70. Shawn wasn't downtown, either. This happened in the U District. And, reading this at home, you might think 3 AM is a uniquely dangerous time, but it isn't. In post-COVID Seattle there's no difference in safety between 3 PM and 3 AM. Both are equally fraught. Remember the new full-timer who, perhaps because he was African, was [REDACTED to protect operator privacy]. That happened during afternoon rush hour, broad daylight with tons of people around. 

    Our city allows this sort of thing. 

    Let the terrible sentence live now as it did then, in that poor operator's horrific experience. He will never forget those minutes. The same is true for the ten people recently stabbed near 12th and Jackson within a 36-hour period, by one deranged individual who attacked all of his victims unprovoked and mostly from behind. There are good folks up there at that notorious intersection, from the small business owners to the seniors in affordable housing to yes, the youngsters outside struggling with drugs. I happen to really like some of those people. They don't deserve to be stabbed.

    Neither did Shawn. I consider his final moments with the paralysis of intimate sorrow, intimate because I’ve probably driven the very same vehicle was sitting in, and because I know exactly the terrain and timbre of his final time and place. Shawn Yim as he stumbled away from the bus, making it only a short distance before collapsing on the concrete, over there in the alley behind Wells Fargo, a young and healthy 59 year-old dying alone, collapsing not just in loss of blood but also in belief. How could it possibly end this way, so badly and so soon? All the things I'd planned for, hoped for, wanted to do, fix, see, live….

    You remember that I was in the Paris terror attacks in 2015. My next book dives deep into that. But you also remember how decisively Paris, as a system of governance, took action in responding to something even as nebulous as terrorists, taking preventative measures while pursuing the appropriate action behind the scenes, swiftly and with the use of considerable resources. They ensured safety when the enemy was unknown and few. 

    Our situation is different. Seattle’s problems and dangers are not hidden but obvious. They repeat in predictable and terrifying ways. Violent behavior happens here without intervention. Life-destroying drugs can be used in broad daylight without consequence. Unstable souls with desperate needs, dangers to themselves and others, are dumped on the street and left to rot amongst the crowd. Hundreds of millions of dollars and years of lip service are expended in the name of solving these crises, while 3rd Avenue remains exactly as unsafe as it was four years ago.

    The fact that it was Shawn Yim crushes me.

    A robust and friendly man, one of the few Korean-Americans at Atlantic Base besides myself. I rarely brought up our shared heritage but it was always there between us, an unspoken bond the others couldn't share. We would joke about the miserable state of things, the jesting laughs of our brief interactions emboldening us to carry onward. “I don't know how you do it, Nate," he'd smile, watching my enthusiasm as I prepped for another night on my 7.

    It happened five minutes into his last trip of his shift. 

    Home stretch, almost done. He probably took the piece (we call shifts pieces) thinking this'll be easy, route 70 at night no big deal, nice easy route during the hours when there's no traffic, even better. What was he saving up for, working all those hours?

    The pain of losing Shawn is the fact that I always hoped to know him better. We were both of us continuously in motion, rushing through our lives, aware that we'd get more out of knowing each other but, you know, duty calls. Our friendship was a lifetime of unfinished conversations. Who was he, deep down?

    The two of us standing by the microwave, Shawn with his polished wire-frame glasses and trademark light blue oxford–only senior operators wear those, because the uniform store no longer makes them–with a reflective vest on top. His bald head and thoughtful eyes plus the professionalism of the glasses, contrasted with that safety vest, cast him as a sort of urban intellectual, the kind of person you can’t quite pin down, because they don’t fit into any one box.

    I always wanted to ask another question, share a little more. He knew my partner, and would joke about how good her Korean is. “That’s so creepy, you sound like my sister!” he'd tell her, laughing with that handsome, tired smile of his. Other times he'd be driving the bus I was riding, and we’d wax reflectively about human nature and the state of the city. Of course I wish I could remember our exact conversations. But how can I, sitting as I am in the shell-shocked immensity that is violent death? At least I can still recall the feeling, the easy sensation of another day with one of your favorite coworkers, joking the trip away while watching the road together. He was so good at letting me be myself, even when he had different views. I did the same for him. We never tried to change each other. Talking with him brought me joy.

    Why do we delay the things that matter most?

    It is the City’s responsibility–our leaders and ourselves–to make Seattle safe. To foster environments where people don't have to risk damage and death by merely using transit. After all that has happened and continues to happen, who among our leaders would dare to say meaningful progress has been made? My friends on the street and I know differently. We watch and wait as ever we have, waiting for legislation that could so easily reverse a lot of the things Seattleites have to suffer, waiting for someone with the agency and power and courage to come forward and make some real moves. That person will be named a hero.
    ​
    But whoever they end up being, they will be too late for Shawn Yim.

    ---

    CLICK HERE for my NPR interview on this subject (scroll down for the full 19-minute interview).
  • Published on

    When We Were Kings

    Picture
    Stalkers are no fun. They make me uncomfortable. It's something female operators and I commiserate about– the problem is more common than you think. One night a colleague walked into the base after her shift with three massive– and exquisite– bouquets of roses. 
    “What's the story?" I asked. 
    “Oh, they're from my stalker," she replied. “I can't say no, or else he flips out. These are hunnerd dollar bouquets! I'm like, sure! Now I'm ’onna go put ‘em on my Dad's grave! Din't tell him that though!”
    "Right?? Hey, makin’ the best of it!”

    She grinned with relief when I and another operator listening shared we have stalkers too. It's an occupational hazard that isn't discussed enough. In past days I was always embarrassed to share about mine, though in retrospect I have no idea why; maybe I thought I was the only one. Shame follows us in curious ways.

    Of course, stalkers never think they're stalkers. They think they're boyfriends, or girlfriends. For the longest time I thought the best way to deal with them was to stay on their friendly side– you know, “keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer"– by giving them what they wanted in a boring, unfulfilling, and boundary-ridden manner that would hopefully make them lose interest and finally stop bothering me (newsflash: this doesn't even come close to working). I've always been too nice. I didn't know the first thing about speaking up for myself, or how to ask for help. And I'm particularly at risk for stalkers because I have a high threshold for what I think constitutes friendly behavior: more than once have I been accused of sending mixed messages, and more than once has my friendliness been misinterpreted for flirtation. I can hardly blame such accusations; people (myself included) see only what they're looking for.

    All this to say that there's an antsy knot that appears within me when people refuse to leave the bus, especially at terminals. The invasion of privacy that is someone refusing to let you take your break alone is (strangely) similar to the sensation of being stalked. Both involve an ignorance of your need for personal space. It can be hard not to take personally.

    That anxiety manifested itself in frustration this afternoon, when I noticed a man in his eighties nodding off when we arrived at the Queen Anne terminal. I told him we were at the end of the line, that it was time to hop out, but he couldn't be bothered.

    He gazed up from behind his walker with glassy eyes, staring fixedly out the window, then at me. He wore green corduroy pants and a clean oxford button-up. He had a large Nordstrom Rack bag. It looked brand new. I took a deep breath and sat across from him, resigned to having lost my break due to his presence, trying to hide my irritation while reminding myself that this was no stalker, obviously, just another bewildered soul who got on a bus without reading the destination sign, trusting to fate that it'd take him where he wanted.

    I said, “Where you tryin’ to get to?" 
    "Boren and Minor,” he said. My brain hiccuped. Aren't those parallel?
    “Well, lemme take a second and look that up. Boren and Minor, that's tricky. You got a good one. Usually I know where stuff is!”

    I've removed all web browsers and social media from my phone, but I still use Maps. Together we confirmed that there was no such intersection, and that what he wanted was the Capitol Hill QFC on Pike. Still bewildered, he said, “You always drive this route?”
    “I've done most of the routes, but usually do the 7 and the 49.”
    “The 49, where's that go?” 
    I reminded him. 
    “That's right, the one I'm spossa be takin’.”

    I was coming around to the guy. His slow-birthing confusion reminded me of early childhood, the age-old puzzlement we feel looking out at existence, so full of questions we never find answers for. He had that quality of paralysis I've felt in times of grief, when just being takes great effort.
    “We'll work it out,” I said. “How's your day been otherwise?”
    “Been good. I woke up this morning.”
    “Exactly yeah, good to be above ground, nice beautiful day like this. I like this job.” 
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. I been driving these buses 17 years.”
    “Oh! Long time!”
    “Yeah man, 2007. I still like it. Where’d you work before?”
    “Postal service. It was real uh, blue collar type work.” He had a soft voice, thin, and no teeth, but there was just barely enough articulation to make out his words.
    “Hey, that's you and me both,” I exclaimed in agreement. "I respect that so much, real work doin’ somethin’ with your hands. Feels like you've actually done something at the end of the day. Did you like it?”
    “Hell no, I just wanted that retirement!”
    We laughed. The silence he wore so well couldn't stay put for long though, a silence of memories lived and lost, hazy, emotions waiting in forgotten rooms.
    He said, “My twin sister she passed just as you was startin’, in 2008. We were real close.”
    “I'm sorry to hear it.”
    “Thanks,” he said, with real appreciation. “We were real tight, every day. She taught me to read and write, taught me how to cook.”
    “Sounds like a good person.”
    “She was.”
    “What was her name?”
    “Kathy. Kathy –.”
    I paused. Somehow it was important to continue, to respect his presence with spoken interest, engagement. You get ignored too often in later age. No one likes to feel invisible. “You been in Seattle a while?”
    “You bet. Came here 1953.”
    “Oh 1953, wow! I bet you seen some changes.”

    It's a line I often share with the old-timers, the better to make their memories feel heard. It unleashes the wound-up slipstream of memory inside them. Having been here thirty-plus years myself, there's always a lot to share, here in this metropolis even I now barely recognize. But he had a different answer. 

    “Um. Not really. It's pretty much the same.”

    No one's ever said that about Seattle! But I realized he was much older than most of the old timers I chat with. He wasn't fifty or sixty; he was at least mid-eighties, if not moreso. He had the perspective to have seen not just one rise or fall, but several of each. I found myself grinning with newfound optimism.
    By way of paraphrase, I said, “…Everything changes, everything stays the same!”
    “Ha! You got that right!”
    “People are happy, people are sad, joy and sorrow, highs and lows.”
    “Highs and lows for sure."

    We learned each other's names and shared further words and silences, as I let his humanity reach me. He was about as far from being a stalker as one could be. When we finally arrived at his stop, I went back to alert him, and walked out with him together, showing him how to cross the street and where, for his connecting route. 

    I'm often moved by the solitary figure walking away from the bus, and was once again as I watched him. The figure striking out, alone, amidst a vast throng of indifferent souls, all moving and thinking faster than he. We can only hope that when we are one day as old as he is, if we're fortunate enough to live that long, as rich in memory and perspective, that a youngster or two will take time out of their day to slow down and help. To meet us at our pace, and trust that once, long ago, we were kings.