Friday, December 10, 2010


She stops traffic. Literally. People see her and hit the brakes. It’s as if their minds cannot take all of her in and desperately seeks more time. Stares follow her every step. Every. Single. Step. Her feet can only move her a few inches at a time. She moves slowly towards the bus. Joe and I are sitting on a packed bus on our way out for an evening. She finally reaches the ramp and the bus tilts when she steps on it. She is winded at the top and has to stop, catch her breath and then move towards her seat.

There is a stillness on the bus as she settles herself. The driver has difficulty in putting on the seat belt, she is using an extender so the issue isn’t a physical fit but the physical touch that is necessary for securing the belt. She is strapped in. As we drive at every stop, people glance in the bus and when they see her they stop. Actually stop. And stare. Their faces set as hard as their stare.

She is hugely fat. I am a very, very, very big man and I feel small in comparison. Her clothes fit tightly, straining against her body, holding her in, stitches desperately holding on. Everything about her is gray. Her clothes, her hair, her manner. Nothing sticks out. Nothing calls attention to the person who is sitting quietly on the bus. Looking only forward.




Stare at her. Point at her. Laugh at her. Call out to her. Kids, young teens mostly, try to get her attention. They don’t see me. Huge in my chair. They don’t see the man in front of me sitting in a chair designed by NASA. They don’t see the woman on the other side of the bus, quietly petting her guide dog as they travel together. They don’t see Joe, tucked away at the back of the bus. No. The bus is empty of all except her. Her difference makes us all invisible.

One kid screams something hideous. I don’t need to report it here. She looks straight ahead. We all hear the words tossed at the bus. We all feel them batter the side of the bus as they land, hard, against the window.

No one knows what to do.

Least of all, I.

Those words, those hateful, hurtful words. They are reserved for me. I had thought. But no. I am not the target here. She is. Her face is passive. I know that face. I have practiced that face. It is a face that is meant to communicate ‘you can’t reach me in here’ but now I see that it doesn’t say that, it says something much different, ‘I have fled from you, I live in terror of you, I have vacated my eyes in fear of the hatred I see in yours.’

Even when she got onto the bus, already full of the different. Her eyes glanced around, first identifying a seat, then looking in panic at us, knowing we could all see her, knowing that she had to be present for a few moments as she walked the stage in front of us. Would she find rejection here, even amongst those used to rejection?

For the briefest of seconds, when she got to her seat, before turning around to sit, our eyes met. I saw in her eyes something else. Something beyond panic. I saw courage. Raw, unadulterated courage. She was out in the world when it would have been safer to stay in. She may hide within but she will live without. In that moment I admired her. Truly. Deeply.


Another hateful word slams the side of the bus. It begins a torrent of words. They rain down on her, she must hear them, she must. But she stays still. Carved of soft stone. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, like I do when I’m under great stress. I can’t think of what to do.


The man in the chair by NASA turned to her, using the breath that he used to steer the chair, took control, he said, ‘Where are you off to on this cold evening?’

She turned to him, grateful to be spoken to, included, ‘I’m just going home.’

Then, as a sea of vitriol engulfed the bus, as the light turned green, we all began to talk. Of normal things. Of work. Of home. Of weekends. Of dogs. The bus suddenly seemed like sanctuary. They were out there. We were in here. There wasn’t anything we could do in the moment about them, but there was something we could do for her.

In a world that uses hate as a weapon of exclusion, we could use inclusion as our best defense. We had the power to change the world around us, and we did. We had the power to make the space around us welcoming, and we did. We had the power to use gentle voices to silence hateful voices, and we did.

When she got off, she turned to all of us, still with journey’s ahead of us and said, ‘I am so often alone, for a few minutes I felt what it must be like to have a family who loves you when you need to be loved.’

She cried as she walked along towards the door of her apartment. One slow step after another.

But no one teased her in those steps.

Some kids saw her get off the bus. They stared. But they were silent.

I’m not sure why


Kristin said...

Maybe those kids could sense that for a few moments she had been wrapped in a protective blanket of love.

Belinda said...

I hate that the world csn be so narrow and shallow and cruel. Yet "standing with" made a difference. "Stsnding with" takes courage too.

theknapper said...

What a powerful post and how it shows the importantance of human connection.....and how that gave her an innoculation against the pain she experiences daily.So much to contemplate.

Andrea S. said...

Creating an environment in which teasing or bullying can happen requires the dehumanization of the target. A universal consensus among people present that the target is someone who doesn't count for much (with silence taken as consent even if not meant as consent) allows dehumanization and then bullying to proceed.

But when other people model not just inclusion but the validation of the target's basic humanity it becomes harder to carry on the dehumanization and victimizing of the target.

Perhaps this is why the children were silent at the end.

Colleen said...

Dear Dave:

The power of the ordinary. That is what I am left with. As I read this post I was thinking, "What do you do or say to someone who is being so horribly ridiculed in front of you?" And the man who asked her where she was going knew exactly what to say and do - to simply draw her into an ordinary conversation - ordinary on the surface but the message of solidarity not far below the surface.

Thanks Dave for a very thought provoking post.


Nathan Dawthorne said...

Why are people so afraid of difference?

Brenda said...

A very touching post for me. Your story was not about me, but it could have been. I'm a big gal, and like her have endured countless nasties hurled at me in the most ordinary places...the grocery store, the subway, even at an old job. I can imagine that behind her passive face was this dialogue: "I hear you, but you'll never know it. I'll never let you see your words have any impact on me at all. By not reacting, I take all the fun out of your cruel game." The difference between we two is that I, thankfully, have friends and family who love me for 'me'. The package has long ago ceased to matter, and I'm rarely alone. The kindness you and the other passengers showed her will stay with her for a very long time, and will continue to offer her warmth in what can be a cold, cold world.

Kris S. said...

Just lovely, Dave.

rickismom said...

Yes, There is a lot of hate out there. I once read a book about those "experiencing difficulties" in life, and a snide comment by the author that this is "NOT about those who brought difficulty on themselves" (but about those found to be hurled into an unforseen situation) hurt to the core. So easy for others to judge and condemn others, without having an INKLING of what their lives are, or what lead them to where they are today.
This post is a treemendous reminder to all of us of the power we have to make a beneficial impact on the lives of others , OH with even so little effort.....

Baba Yaga said...

The best defence against exclusion is inclusion. The ordinary is the best defence against being made extraordinary.

Some things are only obvious once spoken. Thank you. (Again.)

Anonymous said...

wow, i was deeply moved by this.