Lessons Learned (Or, "When Life Proves a Point").

There's this family that rides my bus in the morning. They have been riding my bus for maybe two months now. The first time I got on the bus and they were there, I was pretty taken aback. I saw a mother and three young children scattered in three different seats. The mother was somewhat sprawled with a toddler in the handicapped section. The 3- or 4-year-old was sitting two seats behind her. And the 5- or 6-year-old was sitting maybe two seats back and across the aisle.

The bus was filling, and all three kids were taking up more room than was necessary or courteous. People were standing in the aisle when there were a perfectly good seat next to stretched-out middle child and oldest child. I became ridiculously annoyed and started brooding about the hundred things I'd like to say to the mother or the bus driver or even the people around me, but I didn't say anything and continued brooding as one, then two, then all three kids started crying and/or screaming about something. When I neared my stop, I couldn't get off of that bus fast enough. Eugh.

I came home that night and complained up and down to my roommate and boyfriend about this discourteous, loud, annoying family that had ruined my once quiet (and usually peaceful) bus ride. I couldn't believe how much it bothered me. The next day the same thing happened, except the bus was even more packed. But, there were these children, sprawled across perfectly good seats, and the baby was given room to lay on the handicapped section, rather than being forced to sit in his mother's lap so someone else could sit down.

That day the bus was so full that I wasn't sure I could make it up to the front door to get out (as least without sticking people with my bag and stepping on toes), so I shouted to the bus driver to please open the back door, and of course she didn't because they almost never do, and so when no one approached the front door she quickly shut the doors and continued driving. I was unbelievably annoyed.

Then I heard a child's voice shout out "SOMEONE WANTS TO GET OFF THE BUS!" and the driver turned around, bewildered, and stopped the bus again so that I could actually disembark this time.

"So," I thought to myself "I'm obviously meant to find the good in this situation." I decided this was obviously a lesson that life was trying to teach me, so I devoted some time to looking for this lesson. Obviously, I knew, I should be thankful for the little (I say this with a hint of sarcasm) set of lungs that prevented me from missing my bus stop entirely. But, I knew there was more than that.

Each day, when I encountered the family on the bus, I searched for the good and appreciable in them. I knew this was more than just an exercise in maturity. I've worked with kids, a lot of kids, and I've learned (and continue to learn) that patience always has room to grow. But, again, it seemed like there was more to it than that.

So over the next few days, and then weeks, I observed them. I learned the kids' names (from the numerous times they are shouted on my ride). I've learned what they like to do, where the younger ones go to daycare, and the neighborhood where their mother works. One day, I even learned what kind of lunches they got as, on the rare occasion that the two older ones actually sat together, they decided to look at the contents of their lunch boxes.

The examination started simply enough with squeals and giggles, but the giggles shortly turned to shouting when the middle one smashed the oldest's sandwich, and then the oldest smashed the middle one's Little Debbie cake, which was followed by a great cry of despair and very brief, yet mournful, temper tantrum. For the first time, I actually found myself laughing at their antics instead of being annoyed. I looked over at their mother who, despite scolding them for the squished food and yelling, was laughing too.

One day, the middle one, once again in her own seat, turned around to the pair of adults in the seat behind her and stared intently. They paused to look at her curiously, but continued their conversation.

Obviously she was not content with the attention she had received so she began to lean toward them, closer and closer, until she was straining over the back of her seat. As if this weren't enough to garner the attention of the two now very confused people behind her, she smacked her bubble gum loudly and began to blow a bubble. She was so close to them that I was afraid the bubble would touch their faces (my mouth must have been agape) and then she reached out and popped the bubble leaving strings of gum hanging between her hand and mouth. The people behind her were now staring wide-eyed, as was I, and I guess this was the attention she had wanted because she turned around and sat back down in her own seat.

After I got over my sheer disbelief, and the nagging "where is your mother" finally stopped echoing in my head, I started laughing. The scenario was so ridiculous and over-the-top that I had to laugh. I decided not to even bother telling anyone about the latest escapade because I knew that if someone told me the same story, I probably wouldn't believe them. This kind of stuff only happens in movies, right?

Then one day, to my surprise, the moment of truth arrived. I walked onto my bus and found that the only available seat was next to the oldest child. Should I force her to scoot in, and appear to make a point? Should I walk past her and appear to deliberately avoid her? Either way I feared it would appear I was making some kind of point, and this wasn't my goal. What the hell. I walked up to her, peered down, and waited for her to move in. She looked at me, a bit surprised, and half-heartedly scooted toward the window.

I removed my hat, adjusted my headphones and leaned back in my seat, trying to ignore the fact that she smelled like baby wipes and telling myself that babies smell like baby wipes, and she lives with a baby, and she's a kid, and you're an adult, and stop being so damned judgemental.

Just as I had settled into breathing through my mouth a little body leaned across my lap and yelled "MOM!!!!!!"

I sat up, wide-eyed.

"MOM!!! I NEED HELP WITH MY HOMEWORK!"

"You should have done it at home."

"There's only one page and I need help!"

"You should have thought of that at home."

She opened a work packet of vocabulary words and synonyms and such, and stared intently at the instructions. The mother backed down a little and asked what the instructions told her to do. She read them aloud haltingly and with some trouble. She looked upset and said "I can't do this."
The mother responded "Yes, you can."

She looked down at the sheet and began sounding out the instructions again. She glanced between her mom and the worksheet a few times and then hunched down. I paused for a minute thinking of all the kids I have taught and helped and said "You can do this."

She looked at me with a good deal of surprise as I told her to match the words in the first column with the words in the second column that meant the same thing. I helped her sound them out and then talked through the possible answers with her. She came to one that baffled her and I said "Want to know a trick? If there's one you don't know, do all of the other ones first and the leftover answer is the answer to the one you don't know." She smiled happily and drew the line to the confusing word with pride when all the rest were done.

She looked at the next section of the work sheet and then looked at me. I told her to read the instructions, several times asking her what sounds certain letters made when she got stuck on longer words. It occurred to me that she was enjoying my attention when she had trouble sounding out words that, in previous sentences, she was able to zip through - but I didn't point this out and diligently reminded her to break long words into smaller pieces. We finished the last problem on her work sheet just as the bus reached my stop. She smiled happily at me and I smiled happily at her and told her "good job" and started to get off the bus. As I walked past the mother, who was holding the wiggling baby, she shouted back to her daughter "Did you say 'Thank You'?" The little girl, lost in thought, did not appear to hear her. The mother turned to me and mouthed "thank you" and I saw genuine gratitude in her eyes.

When I got off the bus I hadn't had the grand epiphany I thought I would when this situation came to a head. As I sat waiting for my next bus, I thought about how it was really nice to see a family, even a loud one, spending some time together in this hectic world. I thought about how nice it was just to see a happy family together.

The lesson I learned, and continue to learn, is this: Patience and kindness in all things.

The next time a situation like this presents itself in my life, I'll try not to be so quick with annoyance, and I'll try to be more understanding without taking weeks of introspection.

When they first popped onto my bus, I kept hoping and hoping that they'd switch to an earlier or later bus and I'd get my quiet bus ride back. Then one day, they weren't on the bus and things seemed too quiet. I found myself hoping that someone wasn't sick, or that they hadn't missed their bus. I breathed a sigh of relief when they were back on the bus the next day.

Patience and kindness in all things; even the things that bother us have the potential to bring us joy if we are open to receiving it.

Love Forever, Love is Free*

For the past few months, I've come to appreciate the "community" of regulars who grace my presence on my daily trek to work. The most interesting people, by far, are the people who wait for their bus at the stop where I wait to transfer to my second bus.

Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).

At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.

One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).

When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.

As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.

She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.

This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.

I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.

But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.

She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.

I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."

But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.

More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.

But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.

Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.

And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).



*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz


**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.

*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.