Exhibit A: "Automobile Discoveries"
Gaga is on, mouth is moving, wind is blowing, speed is picking up. Then suddenly, a light turns red and there you are, windows down, within five feet of the car in the other lane, also with its windows down. Weirdness ensues.
Exhibit B: "Treno Discoveries"
As I was trying to concentrate on the Beyonce themed word search in my lap, a woman came and sat next to me, opened her laptop and began typing furiously. I imagined what it would be like to be that busy on a 26 minute morning commute, to not even have some spare time to dabble in crosswords or a morning paper. As this woman typed away I wondered how weird it was that we didn't even make eye contact. I also wondered why she chose to sit next to me rather than her many other potential train ride companions.
Exhibit C: "College Discoveries"
Going to a small school "where everybody knows your name" is nice. Some people always say hi. Some people don't. I often offered my "do I smile do I not smile" smile to most people that walked by. It was the kinda place where you knew everybody but didn't really know everybody. I always liked when people said hi to me. Made me wish I was the kinda person that said hi to everyone without a care in the world too. Why did that seem weird to do?
Exhibit D: "Mi Amica Discoveries"
My friend Kelly boards a bus in Philadelphia as part of her daily work routine. She approaches the aisle and sits by a woman occupying one of the two seats. Kelly smiles. She receives no expression from the woman in return.
Exhibit E: "Bicicletta Discoveries" (and the final exhibit I promise)
Riding through the streets of what I always believed (and in my heart still do) is a town filled with happy people waiting to give you a smile and offer you macaronis, I received a dirty look from a man moving his garbage can from one end of his driveway to the other. I had the feeling bicycling through your hometown was now the equivalent to robbing a bank.
These are all examples of what I like to classify as "weirdness that shouldn't be weird."
What made us this way anyways? Not all Americans, but many, are so removed from one another that even a smile is weird. How did hi become so taboo?
I could probably turn this into an entire thesis if I ever want to attend grad school.
No wonder why many Americans are so unhappy. It's not the economy, it's humans.
Despite the fact that we are at many times, like on the bus or the train, "all up in each other's businesses," a smile seems to close for comfort for many Americans.
Too much distance makes it easier for people to dislike one another, to talk about one another, to hurt one another. We create this distance yet suffer from it at the same time.
Whenever I start to slip into the "I'm Sara and I'm shy" mode and am unsure whether I should say hi to people I don't really know, I try to remind myself we're all the friggin same (that Jersey "friggin" can be really convincing).
Thinking of all this reminded me of something I read the other day by Frances Mayes in her book, Everyday in Tuscany. She shares a story of how she was on a bus all alone and an older woman came on and decided to sit right next to her when she could have sat in any of the other empty seats. She tells this to her Italian neighbor and friend, to which her Italian neighbor and friend replies, "Why not?"
Why not?
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Driveway ridin bliss
Unfazed and unaware of the street ahead of him, my ten year old cousin rode along the three connecting driveways in front of his grandmother's house (which also happens to be the same home of his most favorite cousin).
After discovering that his favorite cousin was too a lover of bicycles, he kindly invited her to join him. He seemed happy to have a partner in this driveway joy ride other than himself.
I remember yearning for such a partner in the years following my sisters infamous "accident". It was a regular fall evening, she had been braving the two wheeled machinery for years, and yet somehow, someway, on this regular day, her two front, very shiny teeth wound up shattered by the newly paved black tar beneath her.
From then on I became a solo rider.
Remembering this, I was happy to provide my cousin with some company.
As he raced by me, winding around sprouts of grass and the occasional rock, I wondered how long these three driveways would satisfy him. He was lucky enough to have a Grandma with a longer than average piece of asphalt extending from her house to the road and family members next door that were more than happy enough to share theirs. This would give him a little more time; at least a year or two more than the kids on the other side of town who were burdened by sidewalks and little front yards.
This I remembered was one of the benefits of having no other neighbors growing up besides your own family--not knowing that there are other biker children out there just like you--extreme riding from sidewalk to sidewalk, and gasp, even crossing streets (I would later learn this "benefit" would also contribute to a certain social awkwardness, but that's for another day).
So I went on, much like my cousin, believing only three driveways existed for bicycle tires to tread. I did not discover until age 14.5, that there was a bigger, more dangerous, yet more exciting paths for me to explore. It was at this age when I met friends who were already pros at crossing streets, even the treacherous "White Horse Pike."
14.5 was a good age--high school started which began my "teen angst" years, my ride was updated to the purple powerhouse I have now, I had my first real kiss on a trampoline at some kids house I barely knew by a kid I barely knew, and my parents finally let me ride my bike alone across that treacherous highway that was separating my world from the rest of the world--and I never looked back.
Until the other day with my cousin.
It seemed like the only place he wanted to be was there--pedaling as fast and as far as he could in the parameters given to him. One day he'll learn to maneuver the town's rigid sidewalk system and look out for cars other than the one of his mother driving up to get him after work. But not yet.
For now he'll learn everything he can from the space he has. Years of practice, focus and observations. He'll prepare himself for the day he gets to have a great crossing. And from then on he'll prepare for other great crossings to come.
After discovering that his favorite cousin was too a lover of bicycles, he kindly invited her to join him. He seemed happy to have a partner in this driveway joy ride other than himself.
I remember yearning for such a partner in the years following my sisters infamous "accident". It was a regular fall evening, she had been braving the two wheeled machinery for years, and yet somehow, someway, on this regular day, her two front, very shiny teeth wound up shattered by the newly paved black tar beneath her.
From then on I became a solo rider.
Remembering this, I was happy to provide my cousin with some company.
As he raced by me, winding around sprouts of grass and the occasional rock, I wondered how long these three driveways would satisfy him. He was lucky enough to have a Grandma with a longer than average piece of asphalt extending from her house to the road and family members next door that were more than happy enough to share theirs. This would give him a little more time; at least a year or two more than the kids on the other side of town who were burdened by sidewalks and little front yards.
This I remembered was one of the benefits of having no other neighbors growing up besides your own family--not knowing that there are other biker children out there just like you--extreme riding from sidewalk to sidewalk, and gasp, even crossing streets (I would later learn this "benefit" would also contribute to a certain social awkwardness, but that's for another day).
So I went on, much like my cousin, believing only three driveways existed for bicycle tires to tread. I did not discover until age 14.5, that there was a bigger, more dangerous, yet more exciting paths for me to explore. It was at this age when I met friends who were already pros at crossing streets, even the treacherous "White Horse Pike."
14.5 was a good age--high school started which began my "teen angst" years, my ride was updated to the purple powerhouse I have now, I had my first real kiss on a trampoline at some kids house I barely knew by a kid I barely knew, and my parents finally let me ride my bike alone across that treacherous highway that was separating my world from the rest of the world--and I never looked back.
Until the other day with my cousin.
It seemed like the only place he wanted to be was there--pedaling as fast and as far as he could in the parameters given to him. One day he'll learn to maneuver the town's rigid sidewalk system and look out for cars other than the one of his mother driving up to get him after work. But not yet.
For now he'll learn everything he can from the space he has. Years of practice, focus and observations. He'll prepare himself for the day he gets to have a great crossing. And from then on he'll prepare for other great crossings to come.
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