passenger

1. walking down the street in a brooklyn neighborhood i see a group of women and children walking toward me. not just a few. seven or eight women and probably somewhere close to fifteen children, all under eight. all adorable. the women push strollers or hold the hand of a small child and chat with each other in spanish, laughing. the children walk in a cloud around them, never straying into the street and never getting themselves too far ahead of or too far behind the group, looking out for each other as they go along. generally, when you see a group of kids this large walking together, it's a daycare group but the strollers are single strollers, not those four seater things preschools have. and the children are too easy with one another. but mostly, mostly, the women, their faces, say this is something else. they are happy to be together. some sort of meeting, some club of moms, headed to the park with their children on a summer morning. and i walk past them, smiling at the children. they smile right back and make room for me on the sidewalk, weave their small parade around me. but at the end of the group is one white woman walking with them, but not at all participating in the joy. she smiles at me, but it isn't a smile like the rest of the women in the group have. it isn't a real smile. it is an awkward, uncomfortable smile. it is a smile i see generally on the faces of white people when i am the only other white person they can see. in a room. on the train. waiting in line. but the smile i am used to. it is what she says that makes the middle of my stomach feel cold. "i'm sorry," she says, looking right at my face, shoving those words out around that awful, ugly smile.

2. i stop at an intersection because the light is getting ready to turn. a woman in a minivan with small children in the back sits just up from the crosswalk, staring blankly. the light turns and she stays where she is, looking at nothing. a car behind her honks once. honks twice. the minivan backs up slowly, just a bit, and somehow sidles over and out of the way of traffic. the woman does all this without moving, without looking, without expression. and a small brown car, the one from the honking, pulls up beside her and a woman's head cranes out the window, looks hard into the minivan. i wait. i wait for words you can hear only when a brooklyn driver feels wronged. she opens her mouth and says, "hey!" and she takes a slow, deliberate breath. then, in a tone moms use with sick children, she says, "are you okay?" she looks at the driver and waits. i know what she is thinking. the woman in the minivan does, too. she seems grateful and nods. yes. she is okay. she is breathing and alive again. the driver of the car scoots around and moves through the intersection. the woman in the minivan stays where she is, maybe to collect her thoughts. i wait for the light to change.

3. i walk a few blocks over to a street where the sidewalk is at least as wide as the road. large flagstones, too bumpy for skating but not bad for a bike. there are three girls on the sidewalk, hanging out together, nine or so years old, doing what nine year old girls do in summer. standing on skinny legs, giggling, flinging an arm or flipping hair to emphasize a point. i am halfway down the block from them when i see a man jogging toward them, toward me. one of the girls sees him, too. she continues with her giggling obligations but as he nears, she darts out across his path and runs in a fairly tight circle around him as he runs by. he is startled, but survives. she is giggling to herself now. i walk closer. she readies herself. as i come up next to the girls, she leaps out and runs in front of me, then around me and back to her group. her friends seem neither amused nor disturbed by this behavior. they do not talk to her about it. it is just something she does.

4. i wait for the bus near the park. it is a short trip and usually i would walk it but i have picked up some supplies for max, heavier things than i expected, and the bag i'm carrying broke. the rain is more like mist and although i was expecting to feel cooled by it, mostly i just feel like someone sweated on my skin. i wait at the stop with an older man and a woman who could be his daughter but seems, because of the questions she asks him, like she might be a home health aide or some sort of hired caregiver. it is clear from their conversation he likes her, is glad to have her standing there next to him. it is clear from the way she puts her hand on his back as he gets on the bus that she feels protective of him. she gives him her metro card to use on the bus, tells him to put it in his pocket and starts to walk away. he is confused, asks where she's going. home, she tells him, but she'll walk so he can ride the bus. the bus driver looks at her. the bus driver has been watching this whole exchange and says, "just get on the bus with him. it's raining. don't worry." the two of them sit down next to each other, thanking the driver. although we wait a while before we leave, nobody else gets on the bus. he asks her a question. tells her she should marry her cellphone, she loves it so much. she laughs, then keeps smiling after that. she looks at him like he is a baby bird. they get off at the first stop and both thank the driver again for her kindness. it is not so far from where we waited for the bus. three or four blocks. but he walks with a cane and it is raining and three or four blocks can be a great distance sometimes.