THE ISOLATION JOURNALS - DAY ONE - DEAR BUS DRIVER
Writers always talk about how they’ve kept journals since they were young. That’s not me. Sure, I’ve tried journaling from time to time, but I always found myself re-reading my words, cringing, and ripping out the pages.
But times change. I’ve changed. This month, I’ve decided to participate in The Isolation Journals, a 30-day creativity project to help make sense of these challenging times. Each day, the project’s creator, Suleika Jaouad, will offer a writing prompt, and each day, people like me and Elizabeth Gilbert and Erin Khar and Esme Weijun Wang will write something in response.
I’ve never done anything like this before. I hope you’ll join me on this journey!
Today’s prompt:
Write a letter to a stranger—someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start and to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. You may be stuck inside four walls, but there are no boundaries. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.
Dear Bus Driver:
I’ve been riding the 31BX Balboa B-Express for exactly 23 years. I know because I was three months pregnant when I first moved to San Francisco, and my son will turn 23 in September. Of the many SF Muni drivers I’ve had in all that time, you were the kindest. I’m sorry I never told you so.
You probably don’t know, but I’m sort of a bus celebrity. To this day, strangers will stop me on the streets of San Francisco and exclaim, “I know you from the 31BX!” Those strangers always seem so excited, like they’re telling me something new, but in truth, I’ve heard it a lot. I’m used to being bus-famous.
Countless strangers saw me on the 31BX through the early stages of my adult life:
as a young professional woman with a growing baby belly
as a first-time mother in a suit and pantyhose carrying an infant in her Baby Bjorn
as a harried mother juggling her briefcase, toddler, and Ziplock bag of Cheerios
as an even more harried mother juggling all the above plus a growing baby belly
as a bone-weary mother in a spit-up stained suit holding a preschooler with one hand and bottle-feeding an infant with the other.
Those same strangers saw me – or kindly pretended not to see me – when I got on the 31BX completely bald from chemotherapy, having dropped off my older son at second grade and holding a Ziplock bag of Cheerios for my 3-year-old.
Those same strangers saw me – or kindly pretended not to see me – when I struggled to climb the bus steps, my joints aching from cancer treatment. I remember one bus driver – runner-up to you in the kindness department – who would lower the steps every time he saw me, the way one would do for a senior citizen. Never mind that I was only 39 years old.
I was in my office a couple years ago when I learned my brother died by suicide. I was so overcome by the news, it didn’t even occur to me to take a cab. As if on autopilot, I walked down the street to catch the 31BX home. Just as I reached the bus stop, the driver closed the door. I raised my hand in hopes that he would have mercy on me, but he avoided my eyes and drove away. Some drivers take pleasure in their power, no matter how petty.
Recently one morning, I overslept and was running late. When I saw the 31BX whizzing past me headed downtown, I didn’t bother to raise my hand. Another bus would be coming in 10 or 15 minutes. There was no need for me to beg for mercy.
But you waited. I was stranded at the street corner, the light having turned red. The gulf between us was immeasurable. You waited and kept the rest of the 31BX riders sitting in their seats. You saw me in your sideview mirror, desperate for the light to change, and you waited.
I’m embarrassed to say that wasn’t the last time I overslept and saw your bus whizzing by me. Each time you waited, I thanked you, and you gallantly tipped your head.
The last time I saw you, you said, “Tomorrow’s my last day on this route.” You said it like it meant something. Like you were saying goodbye.
I meant to bring you something on your last day. A card. A cookie. Something to show you how much you meant to me. But I overslept and missed you.
I haven’t ridden the bus for three weeks now. Occasionally, I’ll go outside for a walk, to get some fresh air while I’m sheltering in place. Whenever I hear the familiar whirr of a Muni bus passing by, I glance up to look for you.
I hope you’re keeping safe.