On the 33, I rode through the streets of my home, Philadelphia, stared out smudged windows and examined unfamiliar faces. I remember a few individuals who were regular riders whom I had the pleasure of getting to know, not well enough to know their first name, but with whom I had a familiar friendliness I would like to think is uncommon on most public transportation systems. My 15-20 minute ride was a perfect amount of time to reflect on my day or worry about and hope for a different tomorrow. Frequently I arrived at my destination with tales from my commute. Usually displaying either shock by a typical display of urban blight or warmed by the completely unimportant but beautiful display of unique, comforting often bizarre human behaviors.
Many faces on the bus were black or brown, many were shades of tan, olive and some white. Much of the experience was entirely mundane on these rides on the Septa bus route 33, up from Penns Landing, all the way down Market St. making a right on 19th and up north through Fairmount to 33rd and Vengango. The electric voice meant for reminding travlers of the route final destination, still rings in my mind. A robotic, "Thir-ty-third and Ven-aango," a place somewhere in North Philly I might never see and don't pretend to understand.We rode together, sharing nothing if not the same breathing space, a seat, a pole to hang on to during a particularly jerky stop. A quiet moment in our busy days. At some point these folks I rode the bus with, silently and without their knowledge, became my people.
They taught me lessons about the commonalities of strangers, and powerful glimpses into lives very different from my own. Sometime after seeing one too many care worn single mothers, being sat on, having countless anonymous crotches and mid sections walk by, rear ends backing up into me, elbows jutting out, people yacking too loudly into their cell phone, joyful chance encounters of old friends, little independent old ladies out shopping did their lives and struggled infiltrate my soul. My heart broke for them. Hoped for them. Felt the daily struggle of making do with them.
There were intimate moments shared, beyond maneuvering a sweaty hand through droves of other different colored hands, clamoring for an inch of real estate on the grip pole or hanging bar. I remember laughing with a pretty light skinned black girl, her hands overwhelmed with shopping bags, about the delightful indulgence of retail therapy. We both craved those new clothes, our updated and fashionable version of our young selves. I remember the frantic, desperate and angry pleas of an overwhelmed mother calming her rambunctious toddler. A little too roughly shoving with demands for him to "quit whining and act right." Sometimes there were threats of physical violence to these children that still haunt me. The child's eyes wide with youth, potential, innocence, their short legs dangling off the seat. They were the cutest, the most well behaved little kids, the ones with the frustrated single, working two jobs, going to school, trying to do the right thing even with the challenges, too young mommies.
Sometimes a care worn mom would yell too loud, push too hard, grab too tight, and the whole bus would hold its breath. I used to make silly faces at the wee ones, using my signature (my old touch my nose and stick my tongue out routine,) hoping to bring some laughter into what seemed like a rough day. I loved seeing the feircely independent older ladies out and about doing their thing. Curiousity got the better of me, and I would let myself wonder what their lives were like, how many grandchildren they had, what funny or heartbreaking tales they had to tell. So many life lessons were learned in these tiny powerful moments. I'll never forget my people on the 33!
