About that girl...

...Young. Black. To the young black girl on the westbound train around 5:40 this afternoon, you almost made me cry today. Not because of your short shorts or navel breaker (I enjoy at least one of those things in the right time and place). It was the aura around you. I could feel your hostility; see it in your posture. You sat with your feet up on the seat, almost in the lap of the passenger next to you. I suppose I should be thankful that you at least had the courtesy to take your shoes off first.

Your eyes cut across the subway car trained on the people standing, daring them to claim “your” second seat for their own. Save for stolen glances of your reflection in the door across from where I stood, I averted my eyes – several times. But I was supposed to see you. That's what you wanted. Right?

Tell me. Who has broken you to this point where you think that behaviour is acceptable?

... Broken. Black. My emotions kicked into high gear after you left. I saw relief return to the faces of those offended by your gesture. In other faces there was an all too familiar hint of resignation. Shame. That's what my emotions were really about. I don't know your story young black girl, and it's just as well since the tabloids around dinner tables tonight will just label you – STEREOTYPE – anyway.

I've spent the past eight years more aware of my “colour” than ever before – a symptom of moving from the majority to a minority. But along with my consciousness of self comes a consciousness of others, the Black others. I want the best life for myself and for them too. When they stumble, I stumble. Caught being black while wearing a white name, I sometimes I walk into boardrooms too cautiously. It doesn't happen often, but it shouldn't happen at all. Every time I have an encounter like today's, I feel small for us. I feel small as a young black, once a girl, now a woman.

*****

To the young black girl, I would like to share this with you: Black Girl Thriving Tools (Short List) By Kyisha Williams (re-posted from the blog of Toronto artist and activist, Amanda Parris.)

“It's not like I'm the only person in the building who smokes pot!”

No – those aren't my words. First to begin, I would not say “pot”. And secondly, I'm not an obnoxious cell phone user.

I had the pleasure of sitting in front of one of those people on my way home this evening; those people who make you wish you could launch razor thin tranquilizer darts into their voice box from the back of your head silently and surreptitiously.

The irony of my unwanted interaction with the offending passenger reads like poetry. I was on my way home from a forum on the importance of public space. Up for discussion was who can do what where; who pays to maintain the where; who determines the what; and the fundamental difference between the private and public realm. And up in the private space of my thoughts all I could hear was her - the bane of my streetcar ride home.

People have written about public cell phone use etiquette ad nauseam. Why do I have enough rant worthy material for a blog post?!

Voice level, subject matter, language – they all matter when your audience is stuck with you in a confined public space.

I don't care that you're soooooo tired, especially when I'm soooooo tired (and sick!) and just trying to unwind in spite of your presence. Manners maketh the wo(man).

Maybe if “the old lady” in your building did call the police to bust you for smoking pot, we would never have met.

Cut Eye Meets One Bag Too Many

I hate being that passenger. You know, the one on public transit who is balancing too many bags, while trying to find a seat close enough to the door so that he/she steps on the least number of feet possible upon exit. Sigh. But today, I was that passenger and it reminded me of a great performance of subway theatre that I dubbed "Cut Eye Meets One Bag Too Many."

******

8:26 a.m. - The height of rush hour. I got on the train, remained standing and sandwiched myself between a pole and about a dozen people. As I was just about to enter my ‘zen’ place with my book in tow, the door chimed open at the next stop and in she walked... one-bag-too-many. Impeccably dressed and oblivious to those around her, she barreled through the train as if it were empty, dragging at least three bags at her feet and two hitched up on her hips. My girl then squeezed in front of me to grab the only available seat and nearly mash up ah foot with one of her over-sized treasures. The offender was a black, boxy briefcase on wheels and the unsuspecting victim, female, was pissed.

Now, let me pause at this point to mention that when I moved to Toronto and became a cog in the commuter-super machine I learned very quickly how to pass the time in lieu of reading material, sleepiness, etc. It’s simple. When yuh get tired reading the same subway/bus ad, start to maco! This is how I managed to witness the delivery of a cut-eye so sweet that it made me lose my place on the page I was reading altogether.

If you don’t know what a cut-eye is, you have never received one.

The injured, a.k.a. cut-eye, recovered quickly enough, but I would pay plenty more than a penny to hear the thoughts that ran across her mind in sync with her deadly glance. (aye aye moment: Most communication on public transit is non-verbal simply because it's safer. Always assume that you are travelling with at least one person crazier than you.)