Driving the bus

It’s a chilly September morning, as I head out for my third day on the job driving the bus for the MORE School in St. Paul.  No, it isn’t a giant school bus.  No class endorsements or special licensing needed.  But, it does have those back-up sounds and requires a certain level, of, shall we say, courage.  Blind, I-rarely-think-things-through, nothing can stop me, you only live once, thank you Art Fruncillo for teaching me how do drive so well, courage.

This is volunteer work, and I’ve agreed to do it twice a month.  I’ve been donating to the MORE School for years.  But increasingly, I felt the need to do more than roll into the MORE School’s questionable neighborhood in my pimped out minivan, to drop off dish towels and other items that are no longer good enough for my advantaged and spoiled family, but someone in an entirely different situation would be thrilled to have.  So when an opportunity was advertised to drive some MORE Elders to their social group, I jumped at the chance.  As is my custom, I went all in before asking very many questions.  It turns out the entire thing is organized through Lyngblomsten Nursing home near the State Fairgrounds in St. Paul, as part of their SE Asian ministries (somewhat amusing, considering none of the SE Asian folks actually live at Lyngblomsten - how could they possibly afford an American nursing home?!?!).  Lyngblomsten, of course, has an extensive volunteer program, complete with volunteer coordinators who need to hold training sessions and give tours and make requirements in order to justify their paid “Management” positions.  I’ve worked at a non-profit.  You people are not fooling me.  So, I endured the meeting, and the tour, and the required physical (yes I can press my foot against your hand, thus proving I can press my foot on the gas pedal of the bus) and the drug test.  Can we get on with the driving work, please?

Going in on my first day, I wasn't giving a ton of thought to the actual people I’d be driving.  I was pretty nervous and focused on trying to navigate this bus through Frogtown and the east side of St. Paul.  Compounding my stress was the fact that I left the entire sheet of directions at home, prompting a call to my husband who scanned the document and I spent the whole first day trying to read the directions off my phone.  I wondered what these lovely elders in the back thought of the ding dong housewife-type looking at her iphone the entire time.  Do they know, or even care, that looking at my phone while driving is illegal?  Are they worried about their safety?  I fleetingly thought about all they have likely endured to even get to this country, and hoped that my nervous smile was enough to give them some semblance of comfort...

As my volunteer work has progressed, there are really two separate experiences with this work.  One is the bus.  The other is the people.

The Bus:

OK, it isn’t that big a deal, really.  It’s like the “little bus” that the special kids rode to school when you were a kid.  You know you've made fun of the short bus, don't try to deny it.  But, let me tell you, it makes me jump each and every time I hear branches crashing into the top because I’ve forgotten how “tall” I am!!  Here is what it looks like:

And there is this one driveway off Hoyt Ave - pretty steep, leads up to an apartment building and becomes a narrow parking lot with the building on one side and a row of garages on the other.  I pull up, the folks get on and I have no choice but to back DOWN the driveway, between garages, parked cars, dumpsters and the possibility of SE asian toddlers dashing out and getting smashed under my tires (of course this would never happen, because these kids have learned to be savvy, unlike American toddlers who would surely die, followed by a parental lawsuit even though they were not supervising said toddler and were actually inside the apartment building watching Dr. Phil).  You can’t turn around and look out the window, people!!!!  You MUST use the mirrors.  Sure, the backup sound is repeatedly going, “Beep, beep, beep”, but is anyone really paying attention?  The last person I saw in a vehicle looked so strung out from the night before, I don’t know if they would notice the beeping sound as they are looking down to pull the cigarette lighter out of the dash.  Sister Stephanie, who runs the Elders Program at MORE School, says why don’t I just have the elders walk down the steep drive so I don’t have to back up like that.  What??  I’m not making these lovely people walk down the driveway.  They’ve done their time!!!  Why live in America if you can’t enjoy the advantage of curbside pick up?!!?!?  They deserve to be picked up at the top of that driveway, dammit, and as I back up, I always send a little prayer of thanks to my wonderful father for forcing me to drive on black ice and in rush hour traffic during rain at the age of 16, giving me enough courage to do this thing.

**Note:  But for the love of God and all that is good and decent, if you ever see my bus coming down that driveway as you are driving down Hoyt, please, I beg of you, stop and give me some damn room.  

There is a certain camaraderie I feel with other drivers of large vehicles.  Look at us!!  We are way up here in these tall rigs doing important work - taking people where they need to go!  Picking up garbage!  Trimming trees!!  I always give them a big wave and a smile.  They often look perplexed at my enthusiasm.  Sometimes, I resent them.  Oh, look at THAT lady driving a different nursing home bus...she has somebody in the passenger seat holding a map and helping her with directions..  Bitch.

Eventually, I get them all safely to the MORE School.  This takes two separate routes, because the bus only fits 14, and there are always more folks than that.  The real trick is getting them back home.  They all want to pile on the bus and we are trying to organize the route and talk through the translator and my phone is ringing with a work call and somehow Sister Stephanie has them all on the bus and I circle the people I need to drop off and thank my lucky stars I have an iphone with a great map application and the rest of the folks go and sit down in the grass, smiling and happy to wait for as long as it takes me to get back and can I just tell you this:  I love these people.

The People:

I brought, shall we say, a certain "urban ignorance” to this whole situation...  I thought I was so smart, beyond saying simply “asian” or “SE asian” and knew that these folks weren’t Chinese or Japanese or Vietnamese.  I was sure they were Hmong.  I based this on a very basic, not-that-educated assumption (in this case, I made an “ass” out of me, by the way).  They live on the east side, they must be Hmong.  So anyway, I really wanted to reach out to them somehow.  Most of the elders say hello, goodbye and thank you in English.  Some of them even speak a bit of English.  But, I wanted to greet them in their own language.  So, I thought I was all clever and went online to look up how to say “Good Morning” in Hmong.  This is what I found:  Nyob zoo.  Ok, I know that you can’t possibly pronounce this phonetically, I’m not THAT stupid.  So, I will ask Daphne, who is awfully friendly and speaks pretty decent English.  I show her the words on the paper as she boards the bus and she is confused.  I wonder if she can read.  I’ve made a terrible mistake.  She then says something I can’t quite understand and we have yet another awkward smiling and nodding moment.  I squeeze her hand, she sits down and we move on with the route.  I stick with English “Good Morning” for the next couple riders.  But then Rosilin gets on the bus, and she is just so darn nice, I want to give this another shot.  I ask her how to say “Good Morning” in her language and she responds with sounds that I tried and tried to duplicate.  Highly unsuccessfully.  My mouth just couldn’t seem to form the sounds.  Which got me thinking of that clicking language some Africans speak and the "rolling r's" in Spanish that I also can't do.  We get back to MORE School and I chat with Sister Stephanie, relaying the issue with the language.  She says, Oh, you must have been trying to speak Hmong.  These folks are Burmese and they speak Karen (pronounced Ca’wren, emphasis on the last syllable).  All my pride-filled liberal-minded best intentions came crashing down into a puddle of sheltered-suburban-shame.  Suddenly, I was “that woman”.  I might as well have said, “They all look the same, anyway, don’t they”.  Holy shit!!!!  But Stephanie is so nice, she says, that was really great of you to try.  Good morning in Karen is pretty easy, she says.  She then repeats what Rosilin tried to teach me, but with her clear, clipped Minnesota vowels.  Here is how it goes:

good morning: ghaw luh a ghāy (Stephanie said it ‘Go La Gay’)

So, at that point, I only knew that they were Burmese.  I didn’t yet know that in Burma, they have one of the worst health care systems in the entire world.  But you know what?  These people don’t seem like sick elderly people.  They are not getting wheeled down the hall at Lyngblomsten to get their hair done.  Oh, no.  They toss their beautiful gray hair into a bun and hobble onto the bus, most often assisting someone else who could probably use a walker or cane, but sure doesn’t have one.  Sometimes they RUN to the bus - why??  Maybe so as not to waste my time, or the other elders’ time.  When they have to wait, they SIT ON THE GROUND!  Can you imagine driving by an American nursing home and seeing the folks sitting on the ground?  These people have LIVED.  I desperately want to know their stories.  

I also didn't yet know, that first day, that since independence from Great Britain in 1948, the country of Burma has been in one of the longest running civil wars that remains unresolved. The country has been under military rule under various guises since 1962, and in almost constant conflict.  But these elders are peaceful, loving, generous of spirit, warm, friendly, appreciative.  They hold out their fingerless hands with pride, spreading love and good faith wherever they go.  They smile and reach for me in thanks, even when they are blind and missing an eye.

I didn't yet know, that first day, that the effect of military rule in Burma has been a severely impoverished and underdeveloped nation, despite a wealth of natural resources.  Burma has rated as the second least developed nation on the United Nations Development Index.  Which perhaps explains how these folks can walk out of an apartment building that I would consider living in squallor, with a huge, grateful smile on their faces.

I didn’t yet know, that first day, that peace, democracy and the most basic human rights do not exist in Burma. Millions have been forced to flee due to military rule and are scattered all over the world longing for the day when they can return to their homeland and be re-united with their families and live in peace.  Will these elders live to see that day?  Unlikely.  But, here they are, caring for grandchildren, participating in social groups, working harder to tend community gardens and plant flowers to beautify their surroundings than anyone in my own advantaged suburban community ever does (myself included).


Sometimes the bus is lively and they are all chatting.  Other times it is quiet.  I was whistling my default tune the other day ("Dream a Little Dream of Me") and one of the elders was whistling her own tune, which I didn't know.  How is it that this woman and I are here together, our lives intersecting on this bus, whistling our tunes.  During these moments, I am in love with life.


But I still have to back that damn bus into the garage.