Long night's journey into day

The plans are close to solidified for my trip next month. I leave the day I actually left New York after a visit last year. Much to my mother’s consternation, this time, I decided to travel by bus to New York and back. I do not think I have fully convinced her why I will not fly at least one way, but after a certain point she realizes that ana is going to do what ana wants, and passed that age a while ago where she cannot make me do something I do not want to do (except not to fight with my siblings anymore, because that robs her of peace, especially when our fights get really ugly and one of us puts her in the middle).

I am a little apprehensive about the long bus ride, and you would understand why if you have ever traveled in a Greyhound bus, and have had to listen to various things besides hyperactive children who eventually begin crying, or people snoring in Dolby surround – these happen in planes, trains and automobiles as well, so ultimately these are not the things that bother me. It is the words that come out of some people’s mouths, and if I feel like I am losing it when I am in a bus for a little over an hour – which is how long it takes for me to get to Boise, I do not even want to imagine what it will be like for two days and a few hours. But since I’ve made the choice, mine is not to bitch and whine. It will be an experience, an exercise in patience, a chance for an extended view of “real” America – whatever that means.

I have written before of my journeys via Greyhound, and the interesting things that people say, or do. When I traveled from Portland back to my little town, which was a rather long ride, I had my purse in my lap much of the time, and my cane falling about at my side. I was okay with it, but apparently the hefty woman who sat by my side was not. There went all my hopes of being able to relax more comfortably with the seat next to me free. I held on to my big purse and my book, and she kept saying, “You don’t look very comfortable.” I kept telling her I was fine. If I am fine, then I am fine, why is it that you do not tell me why you’re not comfortable with it or me was the thought that entered my head every time she said that. Not that I thought she felt threatened or anything like that, just perhaps the tiniest bit of OCD , just as I was vis-à-vis my reasons for not relinquishing my items to the stained dirty floor or the overhead shelf. Ma is concerned that her daughter, who once lived like Oscar Madison and let her sink filled with dirty dishes go to the point of turning into a science experiment, is growing more obsessive-compulsive about the cleanliness of her person, as well as the things around her than she is – and I tell you that is no small feat! But she would have understood me more than the woman sitting next to me.

The more I traveled East, I began to think that I had never come across such an interesting array of folks as I had going West. I rarely traveled West by bus though, not even during my college years when the schedules were different, and my parents, bleary eyed, took me to the bus depot at six in the morning. As we waited, he looked at me with a smile and said, “From now on you are going to fly.” Arguing with my mother: normal. Arguing with my father: not exactly priceless. When I finally left Portland, and moved to Boise, Greyhound became a biweekly affair. It was to the point where the folks at both bus depots began to recognize me, and that was just a wee bit weird.

One of my worst journeys to Boise was a few months ago, I think it was in the Spring, and I still remember it because of the two men who talked loud enough for the entire bus to hear. They had to, because one of them was sitting on the other side of the aisle, across from me, and the other one two or three seats behind me. They were both complaining about where America was going. Obama and socialism were intertwined. The tea parties this summer were no great shock to me because I had heard enough of this in the town where I live, on the bus, in Boise, Idaho. The spoken chant, “Obama is leading us into socialism” was shared between these men. Predictions were offered which sounded like they came from Rush Limbaugh’s playbook. Oh, and then there was the discussion about the Confederate flag. One of the guys talked about how he had seen this African-American woman on Fox News “whine” about why she was offended by the display of the Confederate flag, and he yelled at the television for her to shut up. He proceeded to give the history of the flag, how it is still used in the army, or by a certain brigade/group within the army, but he failed to include certain things such as the fact that the Confederate flag is still used as a symbol for many white supremacist groups. It has been used by the Klan, perhaps even the neo-Nazis. Given the history of the Klan, especially in the South, I would be hard-pressed to blame this woman for being offended, or uncomfortable with seeing the flag anywhere. And he had his right to sit in a bus and openly declare his love of the flag, but what of her right to express her opinion? He had all the answers.

The man with whom he was sharing this even felt some empathy for her viewpoint, but the Confederate guy would not budge. Meanwhile I was fuming, because I had listened to these guys trash Obama, and then this woman from the time that we left my little town to minutes outside of Boise. I wished so much that I could turn and look at one of the guys and tell him that he was the one who needed to shut up. Having a confrontation in a Greyhound bus though was the last thing I wanted to do. Thankfully the journey was almost over, and I tried my best not to think “That explains it!” when one of the guys said he had to take his medication.

***
Last month, I was on the bus headed back to my little town after a long hot tiring day in Boise. The bus only goes twice, once in the morning, once in the evening. I was hoping to have a quiet trip back, even if the young ones in front of me were loud. My hopes were dashed when this oily-haired man asked me if anyone was sitting next to me and I could not tell him to move on.

I had something in my hand, a piece of paper, I think it was my receipt and he told me I could put it away. I kept holding on to it. I don’t remember why I was holding on to it but again I managed to make someone ill at ease with something which did not bother me at all. Not that I was at ease myself, I leaned more towards the window, so that every time he moved, which was a lot, he would not touch me. He began talking to me as soon as the bus driver left the depot. First he asked me about colleges in the area, and I gave him a list of what I knew. Then he asked me if I went to church.

The moment certain folks ask you if you go to church, you might have some idea of where the conversation is headed – especially if you don’t, or they suspect you don’t. I responded, “I have not been to church in a long while.”
He said something to the effect that I probably was not missing much, which for which I was thankful, at first. We would not have to have that greatly anticipated conversation about being saved, good Christian bad Christian, why I was probably damned more than he was etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

He then proceeded to tell me what was wrong in churches today. Those who no longer followed what was in “the book”; how the spirit was no longer there, how rather than being serious and rebuking, pastors depended more on levity, and empty sermons. I sat there and listened, weary, in the mistaken hope that he would run out of steam if he kept talking and I did not look at him or respond to him. Finally I said, “If you want sermons that are by ‘the book’, you should go to an Orthodox church.”

He went to that church (I did not believe him), and to Catholic churches, and various ones, but they all were “lacking”. I thought to myself, because of levity? Anecdotes are actually great for sermons, especially when they are about the priest’s foibles because it helps to remind us that we are all human, even a priest. I used to love listening to Father J.’s sermons or Father G.’s because they knew how to reach one at his or her core.

The more he pressed on, the more his voice reminded me of the adults in Peanuts features, like Charlie Brown’s mom, and I tried zoning out. I could still hear him though quoting John the Baptist, when he should have quoted Christ more, quoting from the Pauline epistles, taking those verses out of context to express his disgust with churches. I make it a point not to argue about verses from epistles when taken out of their context, especially when they are taken out of context to condemn “the unholy”. I may not be living my life according to the spirit or the word, but I try to have a little more respect when it comes to maintaining the integrity or the spirit of the verses themselves. As he kept raving, I pointed out that I really could not stand the triumphalists, the street preachers, and he said that he could not either. But there he was, oily hair and warm breath, doing the exact same thing!

I finally got him out of his trance by saying, “I have not lost my faith, but I have distanced myself from organized religion and don’t like talking about it too much.”

The silence following my words was uncomfortable, I felt him inaudibly rebuking me. It was very dark so I did not know if he was looking at me. I think a great part of the discomfort was within me because before those words were uttered, I had not given much thought to them but I did not say them just to make him stop. I meant them. Outside the window, looking at the myriad of stars in the sky, I could not help but say a silent prayer and ask for forgiveness.

And yet weeks later, when Teddy Kennedy died, and I watched his funeral take place in the Catholic Church, I could not help but find comfort in the rituals and traditions that are part of that organized “religion”. I can still appreciate rituals and traditions from my distance even if I dismay certain members of my immediate and extended family by not immersing myself in them.

***
The conversations I have described do not just take place during cross-country travels in a bus, but the fact that they happen anywhere are indicative of the divide between certain people based on ideology, based on faith, and the little to no tolerance that we are capable of exhibiting. It is not easy for a lot of people to face the “other”, the uncomfortable, and the offensive without losing whatever patience and good will still remains within you. And I know I am not a very patient person. Ma reminds me of that every day. I think what my journey is going to require other than patience is the lessening of worry when it comes to my parents to the point where I am not anxiety-ridden the entire time, and the calming down of Ma who is already afraid for me. She wants me to call her at every single stop.

“Ma!” I protest. This would be impractical for the stops at night. She does not insist but she always hastens to remind me, “When your brother traveled from North Carolina to here and back, he called me from every stop.” I do not hasten to remind her that that was twenty something years ago when we were in college, and I am not my brother (and thank goodness for that!).

I know I am going to call her from more stops than I tell her I will though, and not just for her peace of mind.

Here’s to a patience-filled, worry-free journey! And to the hope that upon my arrival and seeing one of my Maamoos, after nine long years, he won’t say what he did the last time I arrived at his place via plane and bizarre taxi ride, “Oye, tuN te baRi bahudar ai!”

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the title to this was inspired by the title of Eugene O'Neill's play which is "Long Day's Journey into Night". I begin my journey at night.

part of this was published earlier in a blog.