Several of my more profound learning experiences occurred during my daily 50-minute commute when I was beginning my new adult life as a downtown Chicago working woman in the early 1970’s.
I had my own apartment but didn’t have a car and therefore walked each morning from Memorial Drive to Torrance Avenue in Calumet City, IL, roughly a mile and a half walk, to catch the bus. It was rarely a perfect day for the trek – the weather was always either too cold or too hot, too windy or too muggy. And, at that time, women never conceded to comfort. No matter the weather conditions and no matter how long the walk, we wore our skirts and high-heeled pumps.
On one particularly steamy summer morning, wearing my orange floral skirt with its matching organza top and sash, along with my burnt orange high-heels, I stepped onto the bus and took up residence in my usual place on the hard bench behind the driver. It was sweltering that day and the bus was about to get crowded, but at least the windows on the bus were open, producing a much-welcomed modest breeze.
At the next stop a family boarded the bus, a very heavy-set mother and her two somewhat fragile-looking children, a boy and a girl. They sat down on the bench opposite me. The mother wore a frayed, brown, thick wool coat and carried two large brown paper bags stuffed to the brim with food, clothing and miscellaneous articles – an umbrella, an old radio, empty tissue boxes, socks, a half-eaten box of doughnuts, and an empty box of what had been Oreo cookies. It looked as if they had packed all of their belongings, including the morning’s trash, into these two paper bags. As soon as they sat down, the mother began ordering her children to perform various rituals.
At first, it seemed innocent enough. “Take your sweaters off; put them here,” she instructed while pointing to the bags. Well, it was a hot day and that made sense to me. However, it soon became clear that something was very wrong. I tried not to stare, and noticed other passengers making the same attempt, but the mother was loud and barked orders every few minutes. “What’s wrong with you? Put your sweater on.” “Eat these doughnuts.” “Stand by that window.” “Put the cookies at the bottom.” “Cross your legs.” “Move over there.” “Get up; stand in front of that orange lady.” “Kneel down.” “Put your hands together.” “Pray.” “Put your jacket over your head.” The demands were relentless and pointless.
With each order, the children obeyed. The little girl, probably no more than 8 years old and weighing no more than 40 lbs., silently cried as she stood in front of me, the orange lady, and slowly placed a royal blue jacket on top of her head as if she were donning her First Holy Communion veil. The boy, appearing close in age to his sister and of equal weight, remained seated as he complied with each unreasonable command to cross and uncross his legs. He picked at a doughnut he clearly did not want to eat and, as crumbs fell on the bench, he tried to swipe them away while being tasked with the additional chore of removing the cookie box from the center of one bag and placing it at the bottom of the other bag. When the doughnut crumbs landed on the bus floorboards, it provoked an onslaught of hard slaps and curses from the mother.
At one point, when the children were not wearing their sweaters, the mother required them to stand in the middle of the aisle and exchange shirts. He reluctantly but obediently removed his and gave it to his sister. She shyly removed her’s and gave it to him. They never appeared to question the requirements, never puzzled over the logic. They simply exchanged the clothing while keeping tearful eyes glued to the floor. I prayed that this would be the end of it, and that there would be no requirement for an exchange of pants.
This was during a time when people rarely took a stand when witnessing child abuse. This was during a time, in fact, when we often did not recognize child abuse. Moreover, this was also during a time when we did not easily recognize mental health problems. I provided myself with a convenient rationalization that any outside interference could result in additional harm to the children.
I tried to catch the childrens’ eyes. I wanted desperately to convey to them, in a subtle, almost telepathic way, that “It’s o.k. We understand. Please please don’t feel ashamed or embarrassed. We are with you and you will be all right.” But only once did I connect with the little girl. Her large, brown pleading eyes seemed to be asking, not for our understanding, but for our forgiveness. Forgiveness for the spectacle of her family. I’d like to think that she heard me, that she read my laser-like penetrating message, but I can’t be sure. It was just for a split-second, and then she was directed to parade mid-way down the aisle with her blue Communion veil so that she could stand by a specific window. “Not THAT one; the other one!”
Many stops later, they departed the bus for destinations unknown. It was a large, ceremonious exit, with the mother firmly regulating the organization and order of the departure. While walking towards the exit, there was another exchange of shirts, followed by orders to put the sweaters back on, and finally, a demand that they finish the doughnuts.
I had known compassion prior to that experience. As a young girl, I had felt it for a neighborhood child who had no friends, a neighborhood cat that had just given birth, and even a grasshopper caught by my sisters and myself, which according to my concerned mother, required that we place in a jar with punched holes so that Cinterkath (our name for our new pet) could breathe. But I had never known compassion so deeply, painfully and indelibly until that day. To this day, those children remain in my heart and prayers.
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