- Published on
Nicer Than They Look
- Author
-
-
- Name
- Posts
- Posts
-
Really trim, this young out-of-towner. Svelte would be the word. She tossed her hair to one side and listened as I answered her question.
"Yeah, so it's divided into three parts," I was saying. "There's Chinatown, Japantown, and Vietnamtown, and Chinatown has the stuff that stays open the longest."
"So the part I'm going to would be…"
"Chinatown, yeah. And if you'd rather do sushi, that's just a little further east and north…"
"Nah, no sushi, I'm starving!"
"Quantity is an issue! I know how you feel!" We started talking portion sizes. I pointed out various spots I thought might be suitable.
She said, "is it safe to walk around in Chinatown?"
"Um. Uh. It's okay."
"Oh. It's just okay."
"Just pretend to be really confident, you know? And people will sense that."
"Fake it until–"
"Exactly. In a weird way that works."
"Okay," she replied. "I won't have a problem walking in Chinatown. My race, my age!"
"Yeah, you should be fine. And you know, most… a lotta the guys are friendlier than they look."
That's no Pollyanna talk, reader. I feel lucky in being able to speak from experience.
A new ladyfriend and I were once about our business on the town, getting ready to step off the back of a 5, when– wait, I asked her. There's someone I want to introduce you to. Okay, she said, blinking a little when she saw who we were approaching.
I nuzzled with my hand a massive brooding heap near the back doors. The hulking form stirred from light slumber. Swarthy and weathered, dreadlocks and matted layers stuck together, streetspeckled dingy. I waved a hand, friendly.
"Hello Mister Avery! Wha's happening?"
"Aw Mister Nathan, heeyy, now!"
"Listen, it's somebody I want you to meet!"
You remember Avery. He may be the most deferential, respectful man on the street right now– if indeed he's still on the street. This was years ago. "Aw good morning, young lady," he said to my companion. "It's a real pleasure. This is the man right here, you got a good dude."
As she and I stepped out I noticed another man– there's Charlie, waving his sign at Third and Pine, with his usual coterie scattered about him, discussing politics and religion– and over here, another fellow who calls himself Muhammad Ali. He still had his front teeth then. I introduced her to them all by name. She was nonplussed.* What just happened? Who is this guy? These aren't the types of people she was used to meeting. They weren't hipsters with beards and plastic-frame glasses, or uptown professionals. The relationship didn't last, but I hope that morning lives on in her mind as a pleasant recollection, a memory of class boundaries bulldozed aside with decency.
A similar incident happened with another young lady some time later. She later told me, "okay first of all there's like five things about that interaction that have never happened to me before. Lots of people come up to me. But the craziest thing is, I've never had some guy on the street tell me how lucky I am to know the dude I'm with. Guys don't say that. They say to the guy, 'you got a lucky girl. This' a special girl here, she's really beautiful,' whatever. They don't congratulate me for ignoring them for the competition! Jesus! You must really be doing something out here!"
Reader, I blush. It isn't me those fine men are so enthused about, but the act of being respected. It's my enthusiasm for them, my acknowledgment, my ignorance of stereotypes. Oh, it's that one kid bus driver again, who doesn't make me feel like a scary-looking black man, who throws fresh air my way. It's kindness these guys are so excited about, not me. They know hardly anything of me, after all, except my attitude.
As a bus driver, you're in a lucky position. You're an authority figure with undeniable street cred that can't be ignored. Uniquely, you're also a neutral party. That's what separates the role from most other interactions between authority figures and the underserved: you're not enforcing anything. You're serving. You're just there, in the city's worst neighborhoods at night, having a remarkably affable– or pleasantly ho-hum, depending on your approach– evening.
I'm not saying the folks are always on their best behavior. I realize certain situations are eased with my unfair advantage in being male– and a mixed-race male to boot ("Everyone's half-you," a passenger once quipped). Having posters of my face everywhere doesn't exactly hurt either… but moments of respect and appreciation were occurring way before the ad campaign. They occur when people think I'm white. They happen to my bus driver friends who are female. Sometimes, the folks choose to mirror what we offer, because of their own good qualities.
"A lotta the guys are friendlier than they look." Of course I wish that were always true. But the point is that it's often true, and we would do well to elevate our general opinion of certain groups accordingly. There is real kindness out here, and I've seen it, breathed it, and still breathe because of it.
--
*Nonplussed means surprised and confused, usually to the degree of not knowing how to respond. The word's been developing a slang usage in the US exactly the opposite of its original definition; some people think it means unsurprised or unperturbed (Google the definition for a laugh, as you'll be presented with two perfectly opposed meanings). I use the word here in its original definition.
"Yeah, so it's divided into three parts," I was saying. "There's Chinatown, Japantown, and Vietnamtown, and Chinatown has the stuff that stays open the longest."
"So the part I'm going to would be…"
"Chinatown, yeah. And if you'd rather do sushi, that's just a little further east and north…"
"Nah, no sushi, I'm starving!"
"Quantity is an issue! I know how you feel!" We started talking portion sizes. I pointed out various spots I thought might be suitable.
She said, "is it safe to walk around in Chinatown?"
"Um. Uh. It's okay."
"Oh. It's just okay."
"Just pretend to be really confident, you know? And people will sense that."
"Fake it until–"
"Exactly. In a weird way that works."
"Okay," she replied. "I won't have a problem walking in Chinatown. My race, my age!"
"Yeah, you should be fine. And you know, most… a lotta the guys are friendlier than they look."
That's no Pollyanna talk, reader. I feel lucky in being able to speak from experience.
A new ladyfriend and I were once about our business on the town, getting ready to step off the back of a 5, when– wait, I asked her. There's someone I want to introduce you to. Okay, she said, blinking a little when she saw who we were approaching.
I nuzzled with my hand a massive brooding heap near the back doors. The hulking form stirred from light slumber. Swarthy and weathered, dreadlocks and matted layers stuck together, streetspeckled dingy. I waved a hand, friendly.
"Hello Mister Avery! Wha's happening?"
"Aw Mister Nathan, heeyy, now!"
"Listen, it's somebody I want you to meet!"
You remember Avery. He may be the most deferential, respectful man on the street right now– if indeed he's still on the street. This was years ago. "Aw good morning, young lady," he said to my companion. "It's a real pleasure. This is the man right here, you got a good dude."
As she and I stepped out I noticed another man– there's Charlie, waving his sign at Third and Pine, with his usual coterie scattered about him, discussing politics and religion– and over here, another fellow who calls himself Muhammad Ali. He still had his front teeth then. I introduced her to them all by name. She was nonplussed.* What just happened? Who is this guy? These aren't the types of people she was used to meeting. They weren't hipsters with beards and plastic-frame glasses, or uptown professionals. The relationship didn't last, but I hope that morning lives on in her mind as a pleasant recollection, a memory of class boundaries bulldozed aside with decency.
A similar incident happened with another young lady some time later. She later told me, "okay first of all there's like five things about that interaction that have never happened to me before. Lots of people come up to me. But the craziest thing is, I've never had some guy on the street tell me how lucky I am to know the dude I'm with. Guys don't say that. They say to the guy, 'you got a lucky girl. This' a special girl here, she's really beautiful,' whatever. They don't congratulate me for ignoring them for the competition! Jesus! You must really be doing something out here!"
Reader, I blush. It isn't me those fine men are so enthused about, but the act of being respected. It's my enthusiasm for them, my acknowledgment, my ignorance of stereotypes. Oh, it's that one kid bus driver again, who doesn't make me feel like a scary-looking black man, who throws fresh air my way. It's kindness these guys are so excited about, not me. They know hardly anything of me, after all, except my attitude.
As a bus driver, you're in a lucky position. You're an authority figure with undeniable street cred that can't be ignored. Uniquely, you're also a neutral party. That's what separates the role from most other interactions between authority figures and the underserved: you're not enforcing anything. You're serving. You're just there, in the city's worst neighborhoods at night, having a remarkably affable– or pleasantly ho-hum, depending on your approach– evening.
I'm not saying the folks are always on their best behavior. I realize certain situations are eased with my unfair advantage in being male– and a mixed-race male to boot ("Everyone's half-you," a passenger once quipped). Having posters of my face everywhere doesn't exactly hurt either… but moments of respect and appreciation were occurring way before the ad campaign. They occur when people think I'm white. They happen to my bus driver friends who are female. Sometimes, the folks choose to mirror what we offer, because of their own good qualities.
"A lotta the guys are friendlier than they look." Of course I wish that were always true. But the point is that it's often true, and we would do well to elevate our general opinion of certain groups accordingly. There is real kindness out here, and I've seen it, breathed it, and still breathe because of it.
--
*Nonplussed means surprised and confused, usually to the degree of not knowing how to respond. The word's been developing a slang usage in the US exactly the opposite of its original definition; some people think it means unsurprised or unperturbed (Google the definition for a laugh, as you'll be presented with two perfectly opposed meanings). I use the word here in its original definition.
I appreciate your feedback. You and Mark would get along, if you don't know him from the street already– he also doesn't care for friendliness qua friendliness, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Those of us ops who call out our own zones do so for different reasons, but one of those reasons is how annoying listening to 8 hours of the robot voice is– I'm sure you find me as discombobulating as I find the intrusive "Kate," which is why my announcements are briefer than hers, if more humane. And you're right, the bus belongs to the people, not myself, which is part of why what happens on it is outside my control. I don't wish to change your opinion on these matters, but there is one thing I'd like to clear up.
Your notion that I reach out to others and document positivity for the sake of fame comes as a surprise– surely you know kindness and empathy are about the most unpopular attitudes in western culture today. Nothing could be less newsworthy than working-class people being nice to each other! The proof of my goal being positivity, not popularity, is my bus-driving approach existing long before the blog– five full years, in fact. The blog was always an offshoot, not an end game. As a former Hollywood resident and someone who's experienced certain decidedly non-glamourous elements of fame up close, trust that fame doesn't interest me.
Being kind does.
Most of all, though, I want to address your calling Nathan fake and just wanting to be famous. The first time I met Nathan was in about 2009 or 2010 (at least two or three years before the blog started) on the afternoon rush hour on the 3/4 northbound toward Queen Anne. He was friendly, acknowledging every person who got on the bus. I distinctly remember that ride and the driver! Years later a friend posted in Facebook a link to this blog. I looked it over and realized that I knew who the author was, none other than that nice, young driver who by his demeanor made people show their better sides. I recognized the tone in his writing, and I immediately devoured every entry on his blog. I well remember thinking that if I hadn’t already met and ridden with Nathan, I, too, would have brushed it off as being fake. But I had met him in person, ridden his bus in person, and could see the sincerity shining through, reflecting what I witnessed in person in his writing. And your comment was glaring in its isolation. I’ve met people on the street and started talking about “that bus driver”. “NATHAN!” they say. (Yes, they, as in plural. It has happened several times.) In that one word, I can hear the respect. So, no, it’s not fake.
Thanks so much for this gracious and thoughtful reply. I still remember that rainy night on the packed 3/4!
I think if our disgruntled friend spent some more time with the blog (such as reading the post which he commented on, which amusingly addresses my focus as opposite to the assumptions he states!) and some more time on his own thoughts– I imagine he was hasty given the amount of spelling errors he makes– he might feel differently. He does have a point though, in that too much on the microphone can be intolerable when you just want to go home, as you yourself mention; thus why I avoid jokes, songs, etc. He's lucky my route is so frequent he can easily choose to take a different bus– no real excuse there.
Compassion is usually scoffed at by those who don't need it in order to survive. That's a privilege.
Hope to run into you again soon, Deb! Keep putting out all the great goodwill, as you so ably always do!
I take the 7 almost daily. The bus driver job is to keep the peace and, of course, drive the bus safely. Sometimes, riders have other things on their minds so it helps when some operators call out the stops.
Just yesterday, an infrequent bus rider didn't know that around 7 p.m. the 7 and the 49 are one long route. We have a lot of tourists from all over the world, so they often need help because they are in unfamiliar surroundings. Nathan's customer service makes a difference!
He is kind person, not fake at all! I know him as truly caring person...helping passengers with grocery carts, wheelchairs, walkers, strollers, etc. As a person with multiple disabilities and neurological issues, it helps me when he lowers the bus for me.
The other day, I was on another bus (not Nathan's) with my elderly mother with her walker. The operator made room for a mom and her kids in the disabled & elderly section up front which was fine. The operator did not say anything. I lost my balance even when I had my walking stick & my mom's walker. For me, having someone who warns me is important because it's a safety issue.
I appreciate the way that Nathan acknowledges every person from every walk of life. I used to find it a little unusual because some operators don't always communicate much. I know that everyone is different and that's okay.
Thanks so much for your words here. They, and the thousands of other voices along Rainier and elsewhere in the city, who support the concepts of assistance, community, respect and love, keep me going.
As a society we have deemphasized the power of institutions and the collective to help people (as a collective, solving homelessness, for example, would be very easy: tax the US's richest 10% an extra 0.01%, with a focus for use in the relevant areas; that money would change people's lives in a way a few coins never will), in favor of people being more individualistic, and thinking about their own needs only. With the collective power of a society no longer being harnessed to help the disenfranchised in tactile ways, it falls to the individual to make a difference.
As individuals, we cannot effect change in the giant manner that society as a collective could, and handing out a few bills here and there accomplishes next to nothing... but we can help the person next to us feel equal, respected, not alone, even just acknowledged for a moment. In the subjective realm, that morale boost is huge because of how inspiring it can be. It's not just a desire on my part; it's a responsibility to my fellow human being. It's what we can do for now.
I've met a lot of people who don't care about these people, and I'll be damned if I'm going to ignore them (and the goodwill/morale they've given me) for the sake of a privileged, angry man's comfort. He should continue feeling the way he does if it makes him happy and helps those around him; I'll endeavor to do the same.