Body builder and Tony

To you, tall bearded man with the impossibly toned biceps: I see you're carrying a package. (No, like literally a box you filthy minded cretins.) I would like apologize for being in the way of your reflection as you try to check yourself out instead of me. It's fine. I just watch you repeatedly flex your back instead.

Tony on the other hand was the kind of person who didn't look past you but stared into you. After me trying to ignore yet another boring conversation started by asking me what I'm reading (a book about loneliness- catch a hint), Tony distracted my persistent conversationalist who turns out to know less about the public transit system than he knew about the phonetics of "lonely". I piped up to provide much needed clarification. You want this stop not that one, there should be people that know the busses better there. He explained he was going to an interview to be a bus driver having gotten tired of the trucking business. He talked abou how physically taxing the trucking industry is, how no one should do that for too long. He introduced himself as Tony and I helped him find his stop. He would be the kind of person to remember a body's name if you were a bus regular. Hey Tony, if you're reading this, I hope you got the job.

To the couple holding hands on the train

One tall. Red sweatshirt covering oversized scrubs for you lanky frame. A draw string badge hanging from the front of your shirt indicating a medical profession. Probably a hospital aid, or someone who works in a nursing home. You have two pairs of glasses perched on your head- one occupying the bridge of your nose and the other carefully tossing your hair. Your arm reaches out in a protective way, cutting off the line of sight for curious onlookers from seeing the same thing you have the blessing to look on. Your voice is somewhere between a chortle and a sarcastic aside, thought you don't mean it that way. Your short linear mouth only really moves when you smile, and you do that a lot when you look at your protection.

The other could not be more different from you. Short where was tall, round where was stretched, floral patterns where were neutrals and solids. On a periferial view, even the piercings are reversed- many where were none. I see you both wear matching necklaces, hidden but resting on important skin instead of factory cloth.

The hesitancy is cute. Both leaning in before remembering the public transportation part of this encounter and pulling away. Afraid to cause a disturbance. But I saw the tender removal of a draw string badge and the gentle placing in a pocket. Keeping safe without a name. Anonymous in adoration, knowing private jokes are better than public displays. The look is clear, unmistakeable really. That's what love always looks like.

Meeting Cincinnati

Maybe I have one of those faces. The kind where people just tell you things? It happens more than I can explain and yet my "I'm busy reading the New Yorker face" doesn't seem to keep them at bay. And because of the patriarchy, it's almost always men who feel the need to address me. Thanks patriarchy for making me the ideal conversationalist, it's really charming.

Today I was running errands and using the train to get around. I got to the station, sat down and pulled out a copy of the New Yorker, because I'm a stodgy adult in gym shorts. Without fail, 3 young men walk into the train and sit down behind me. The oldest of whom was likely only 20 though he looked older. The one sitting immediately behind me said, "excuse me ma'am" and struck up an unwanted conversation with me. Something about taking his little brother out for his birthday. He asked if I went to the university- the answer to this is always a little tricky, because technically yes, but also people assume that they are asking if you are an undergraduate, which alas, I am not.
"How long have you gone to school there?"
"About 3 months."
Other member of the group sitting across the aisle, "man, she's gone to school there as long as I've been in jail!"
Well, this took a turn. Seeing my probably confused face he pulls a large ziplock bag from the front of his gym shorts (because this is the first piece of masculine clothing that adheres to the plight of women: no pockets.) Lofting up the bag he says, "I just got out today!"
Me: "Congrats man!"

Small talk continues despite my attempts to return to my magazine. The "little brother" who was sitting behind the man right behind me asked me if I was salty about the Chiefs- I mean, usually? But my care level about sports is pretty low. The man behind me tells me about his uncle who holds some football record that is memorialized on the stadium walls while his little brother talks to the man across the aisle about his recent drug transaction cost. After one stop of awkward conversation, the brothers got off the train leaving me with the man across the aisle.

Lucky me, he decides to pick up the conversation, talking about how good it is to be free. He talks openly about his criminal record, doing time in juvenile prison and his recent stint in jail. He introduces himself, says people call him
Cincinnati and references his shirt which is a sports reference about the Bulls I clearly don't understand. He says his time in Ohio was because he was "a shooter." Getting into shoot outs will evidently land you some hard time somewhere. He says his friends call him "Chino" because he has narrow eyes. Frankly, Cincinnati is a much better nick name and not just because it's less racist. He talks about the football scholarship he had, the now famous players he knows, the protective custody that lead him to this desert state. He talks about his, and I quote, "baby mama" who is going to graduate college this year with a degree in bio chemistry. He asks which stop he should get off in town- I know nothing about the lay out of the city other than where I need to go, but he checks the map anyway. He apologizes for the behavior of "his homies" because they don't know how to "talk to a female". If I'm being honest, anyone who refers to women as "females" doesn't know anything either.

We talk about the weather compared to the Midwest. He used to make "ass angels" in the snow in Ohio, but there's no snow here. He says there are two seasons here: "hot and fuck no." Which isn't untrue so far.

I finally get to my stop, he shakes my hand and I get off the train- checking to make sure I'm not being followed.

It's not that it was a bad conversation. It's just not what I have in mind when using public transportation. Of the 5 other men on the train near by, why was I the person who clearly needed to be engaged in conversation. The man sitting on the other side of the aisle from me was reading a text book- didn't he need to be bothered? What about the man who was nearly asleep behind them? This is a constant battle of how to create and demonstrate civility in public ways, working to create a safe public space for women and still being aware that some people are bad people and would follow you around after an interaction like that. It's not that I don't like people (I mean they're not great, but I'm not reclusive) it's that I want to have the chance to choose whether I talk to someone on public transportation or not. Me reading a magazine with headphones in should be enough of a social signal that I would like to be left alone. Errands shouldn't be this taxing.

So men: be better. Know the difference between polite conversation and the "I'm busy reading something interesting" expressions. Remember, a woman riding public transportation by herself is not an invitation to conversation, if she wanted to talk to you, she would.

A word of advice from our sponsors

A few weeks ago (maybe it was last week? Maybe it was yesterday? What is time? All I do is read, sleep and go to class.) a friend of our professor and scholar in her own right came to class for a little impromptu visit. Her dry wit and canny remarks were a pleasant change of pace for the typically heavy theory class. She spoke for a few minutes about her own experience sitting in our seats as first year PhD students trying to tackle the world of academia.

She told a story about sitting in the theory class not having any communication background and wondering what in the world everyone was talking about. So when other people nodded, she nodded too. Some of the words sounded like English and those were comforting, but most of class was like listening to a combination of an unknown language and made up sounds. Fearing that this was going to end her foray into communication, she started looking into other programs on campus. Her background in social work lead her to the PhD in social work across campus, but they wanted an MS for admission. One day in the grad office she started talkin to her fellow cohort members about how confusing and disheartening theory was. She mentioned to them that she wasn't even sure if she was cut out for this program because she was so lost. They looked at her and said, but we nod in class because you do. We have no idea what's going on either. She does stay in Comm in the end and graduates with all kinds of accolades. But her parting words to our class were: "so if you're lost, just keep going I guess." 

It's almost fall break here (days left). Until then, just keep going I guess.