the faces that you meet

Well I didn't make it to the end of the day yesterday; around 11:00 the chills started racking me and I gave up and went home.  Had to call in sick today.  I loathe missing work (it's a toss-up between racking by chills or guilt) but really had no reasonable options.  (I am grudgingly thankful for the voice of reason as repeated with varying degrees of exasperation by a certain Neil.  They breed us stubborn in Pennsylvania.)  

After I finally yielded to good sense yesterday, I trudged the two blocks to the bus stop.  Detroit's bus lines run at odd times.  The city buses, which stop approximately every ten feet, run all day, but if you want to get to the suburbs and you don't have a week to spare you'd rather not take them.  The commuter buses, which I take daily, only run during morning and afternoon commute times.  Late last year the regional transit authorities teamed up to create an express bus line that both runs 24 hours and makes extremely limited stops all the way to the suburbs; only drawback is that the buses run once an hour, so you have to get the timing pretty exact.  Shivering, I made my slow, shaky, feverish way to the express stop on the other side of the central city park to wait the 15-20 minutes for the next bus.

As I approached the stop - one of the rare-ish stops boasting an actual shelter - I could see that it was occupied by three rough-looking men of color engaged in loud conversation.  When I reached them I paused before stepping into the shelter; they noticed me and all started talking at once.  

"Which bus line you looking for?" "You wanna see the schedule?" "There's one in here or you can look at the one on the other side if you're more comfortable."  

At that last proclamation, said with perfect understanding that I might not be comfortable in close proximity, I smiled and stepped into the shelter with them.  "No, this is fine."

Their faces were both friendly and prepared to flirt; the smell of alcohol stood strong in the air.  One of them asked how I was doing.  "Pretty sick, actually," I said.  "I had to leave work early."

The flirtation instantly disappeared from every face, replaced by solicitous concern.  The most inebriated of them jumped up and offered me his seat; all of them began offering their favorite remedies for illness.  "You go home and wrap up like a burrito in a big blanket with some hot tea."  "Get lots of sleep."  "Make sure you eat a good salad or some soup first.  You want to have something in your stomach for when you're resting."  "Tell that man of yours to leave you alone, you need to get better."  

I loved listening to them.  They knew each other well, kept interrupting each other and then apologizing, talked about relationships (the man sitting next to me said, "I got a sweetheart, when I'm sick she takes good care of me and I'd do the same for her but she's never sick!") and germs and the spread of disease ("People are always touching things with their unwashed hands, like the toilet handle or the door, you touch those and you pick up germs"), and taking sick time off from work ("You work hard, they know that, they know if you go home you're really sick").  They gave me little details about their lives ("He's got two beautiful baby boys at home, his sweetheart can't afford to get sick").

A skinny hipster passed the stop hastily with his eyes fixed straight ahead.  I know that look from wearing it myself when walking through downtown Detroit, a city with a nationwide reputation.  It hit me pretty hard, though, seeing that look on someone else's face - race-based fear.  I must have worn that look as I approached the stop to begin with.  What hit me hardest was the matter-of-factness and compassion with which my new friends accepted it.  They saw my caution and wanted to make me comfortable.  They didn't even spare a glance for the nervous hipster.  They deal with white fear all the time.  And the fear looked different to me from my unaccustomed perspective, sitting down on the bench instead of walking past - it lacked all subtlety. It dehumanized.  And I saw, for just a second, that this othering is the daily experience of the men who were being nothing but kind to me.

I know that already; I have read fairly extensively on the subject of systemic racism.  But, typical of most white people, my social groups remain largely homogenous.  I don't see.  And seeing brought me up short.

I don't want to be a part of that othering.  It's bullshit.  I want to help break it down.  Changing my body language when I walk down the street might not be a large contribution, but it's a start.