Transit is indeed one of the most stressful jobs, but it's not always bad news. The greatest difficulty I think we all face is not knowing when the toughest parts of the job come a haunting.
Today was my Friday. Generally, this is cause for celebration. Saturdays, depending on the route, can be either busier or much more laid back than weekdays. On the 35, weekends are a bit more relaxed than during the hectic work week. That's why I've driven it Saturdays for several years. (Yeah, the "mysterious Deke ruse" ain't workin' so well these days, folks... I'm "out" for all impractical purposes.) How I wish the upper reaches of this roll afforded me the opportunity to stop the bus and take a few photos from the majestical heights of what I see: Mt. Hood in its winter white blanket, the middle-Portland stretch of the Willamette Valley and the wooded hills from there to Estacada. Although brief, I'm afforded brief glimpses of the wondrous beauty my forested home bestows upon a 35 operator.
So. Lately, I've come to dread work a few, if not several times, each week. I don't always know why, but often I do and don't want to admit the source. It's a foreboding sense of doom I fight off like a little dog attacking my ankle. There's little to base it on except for the constant stories worldwide of abuse waged upon transit workers. Not only operators suffer the wrath of an unforgiving minority of passengers. Supervisors, maintenance workers and others are treated to violent outbursts which wreak havoc upon us all. When one suffers, so do we all. It's a pandemic, and I'm not sure anyone truly has all the answers to prevent the increasing violence against us. Even management has awakened to a fraction of our woes, having begun installing weakly-effective barriers to help protect us. Thanks for that. If you created a legal department tasked with aggressively prosecuting those who assail us amidst your outrageous growth of middle management positions, that would help even more. Given that there's rarely, if ever, a presence of our transit management in court proceedings when those accused of assaulting us are on trial, this addition would be greatly appreciated.
Many of us suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Some do because they have been violently assaulted either physically or verbally. While it may not seem as intense as being beaten, verbal assaults can shake us to our core. Because we're "public servants" it seems we're fair game for people to thrust upon us their frustrations and anger. Maybe it makes them feel better to punish us for whatever sins have been nagging them, or whatever has happened to them. You can smile at someone, heartily welcome them to your ride and have them unleash on you like you just kicked their ugly dog (or brother).
For me, such an attack is an intense ride into yesteryear, and then my own PTSD kicks in.
I was married once upon a time, to a very abusive, sexually-abused as a child and chemically-dependent person. We were deeply in love for a brief moment in our youthful selves. This devolved into a nightmare scenario where I never knew when violence would strike. Taught never to strike a woman, all I could do when the violence burst out from her personal nightmares was to fend her off. It was devastating to have someone I adored above all be so violent toward me. I loved her so much! How could she do this to me?!? A very young, innocent lad who had only loved a few times before and never so intensely up to that point, it was a searing pain I believed nobody had ever felt. As the years worked to ease the havoc it had wreaked upon my soul, I realized millions like me (mostly female, but sometimes male) had endured it for thousands of years. Seems human nature is very cruel to its own, especially to those we believe "love" us. Stevie Wonder put it most poignantly to me when he sang "All in Love is Fair".Life for years after my divorce at the tender age of 25 was pure hell. I was angry. Trust became something only a trusted few could earn from me. Only my closest friends could get through the hard shell I passionately-lashed out from my hardened soul. They remain with me today, loved ones who guided me through hell and into my present. After enduring eight years of a few brief passionate encounters, my final love gently eased her hand into the cracks of my broken heart. I welcomed her gentle massaging the embers of anger smoldering deep within me. Now, the anguish of my youth is a memory thanks to the sage patience of my Beloved.
We celebrated our 25th anniversary in Edinburgh, Scotland last year. This time, it was us and Father Andy in St. Mary's Episcopal Cathedral, our love but one of thousands echoing the past four centuries of marriages within its sacred depths. Given what we have endured, it was fitting we pledge our undying love for one another here, where the echoes of love's constance shines from its sunshiny rays of stained-glass windows. It gave us hope that our love will echo there in its constance, at least until we reach it again some years hence.
At times however, a nightmare can squeak past her protective grasp of my tranquility. This only happens when someone on my bus rekindles those horrific memories. My breath quickens, my face hardens into a mask nobody who knows me today would recognize. Flashes of torturous nightmare scenes flood my mind. Ancient wells of fury burst to the surface and I'm unable to control them. Those who provoke me could be asking for troubles not equivalent to what I suffered. Granted, this only happens when one pushes me beyond the limits of reason. Usually, I can soothe the minimal rants or raves with a joke or heartfelt word of compassion.
Years of service as a transit operator have taught me to recognize when people have had a hard day. We all know what that's like. It's when that 0.5% of habitual troublemakers board who remind me of "It Who Shall Not Be Named" that I tend to have trouble calling upon my reserves of patience to deal with. Those of you who read this with more than 40 years to your experience upon this blue marble will know what I'm talking about. Some younger may have an inkling, while anyone under 25 has yet to truly experience life's darkest trials. Whatever the case, we all have a common knowledge that life becomes increasingly harder to bear between 20 and 40 years. It's how we deal with the deepest adversity which shapes our adult logic.
At these times, which are rare, I've learned to recognize what is happening. I'll pull over, tie up the bus and warn whoever is misbehaving they have two choices. 1) Take a moment and stop the offensive behavior; 2) Get the fuck off my bus; their behavior is not tolerated among a group of good people, and; 3) You can leave voluntarily or in handcuffs. If I don't do this, things can escalate quickly. If my words fail to communicate, I surrender the "power" of my position to one much higher up the chain of command. I am not violent by nature, never have been. If I were to be physically attacked, I cannot guarantee any measure of control. It is this scenario I constantly strive to avoid.
Humans have evolved over millions of years. Throughout, a biological constant has remained. From earliest times whenever our species has been attacked, our DNA has a built-in protective element. It's called the "fight or flight" syndrome. When faced with physical danger, our bodies respond by a heightened sense of alert. Our heartbeat increases; blood and energy pools in the center while the muscles and senses are multiplied. In a word, we physiologically become prepared to fight to the death or retreat, whatever our innate senses feel poses the best chances for survival. It is no longer within our control to prevent this biological state; it just happens, and we're not able to call upon lawbooks or transit precedent while dealing with imminent danger. We're faced with simple survival, and our biology takes over, plain and simple.In the case of my first wife's attacks upon me, my main goal was to protect myself. A few times, I truly believed she was intent upon killing me. I was terrified. Being attacked by someone you love beyond description is something I hope none of you ever experience. Only once did I strike back in anger, and I felt so bad afterward I vowed never to do so again; it's a promise I've kept. My gentle father always taught me never to hurt someone of the opposite sex. While unfortunately my life has seen me "hurt" ladies, it hasn't been physical in nature. Early on, my amorous nature injured the feelings of girls I truly adored simply because I couldn't remain faithful to one while courting another. I eventually lost the love and respect of both. When I saw the pain my actions caused them, I vowed never again to be false to another. I have kept it since, and promise to, forever.
I have sought counseling to deal with the residual anger from my first love. Lasting wounds linger and at times interfere with my interactions with the public I serve. This job requires a steady hand, not one raised in anger toward someone who doesn't deserve the wrath of some distant past. While I've managed not to engage in physical combat with another since that fateful relationship, I fear the residual damage it caused.
Having been threatened, verbally assaulted on many occasions, goaded into unnecessary confrontations, spit upon, cursed and insulted so deeply I wanted to commit violence, I'm thankful to my father's guidance. I have avoided returning what I've received, and found it within myself to forgive those who hurt me. Also and most importantly, I have the love and constant support of my Beloved, the guiding light in my life, who reminds me what Tom Petty wrote, "don't sweat the petty stuff, pet the sweaty stuff".
As I walked to my road relief today, that overwhelming sense of dread attempted to overtake my peaceful preparation. My Beloved was asleep; usually I can depend upon her love messages to prepare me for what dangers may lurk, but I could not interrupt her doze. A few weeks ago, so was rear-ended by a mindless teenager and she now has whiplash and PTSD of her own to deal with. To awaken her healing slumber is something that would make me feel guilty in the face of the pain she feels. Adding my fears of the unknown to the terrors of her present reality just seemed unfair. While she would gladly rise up from her own discomfort to ease my own, my love her forbids me from putting more stress upon her loving plate. Only for her can I always be strong and resolute, and this was definitely a day deserving such loving diligence.
I took a deep breath as I eased The Beast into the Transitway for the first time on the mall, released it, and repeated The Mantra for perhaps the 7,350th time in my career, I gave myself up to God and any remaining goodness transit has to offer its' frontline workers. "Be safe, be kind, be courteous, be thoughtful, be polite, be patient, be considerate, be vigilant, be calm... be smart, be smooth, but above all, be safe." A few blocks down the road when my panic seemed all but assured, I repeated these soothing 12-points. Another deep breath, hold... release. That did the trick, and the wheels within my pent-up soul rolled free once more.
Ahh, another Saturday roll on Line 35. Downtown, south over the Willamette's western banks and mid-town hills, back down into Lake Oswego, a roll through the rude streets of West Linn and into heroin-addicted fools constantly inhabiting Oregon City Transit Center. All went smoothly. People were glad I rolled into their stop on time through a driving wintry rain, and that their operator welcomed them with my patented (and genuine) smile as they boarded. I was at peace, loving my job and those with whom I serve, including those I provided a safe and smooth ride to all day long.
The panic attack which greeted my work day was forgotten as I rolled into a stop and lock in the yard tonight. All was well, my work week complete. The yard was silent except for the rumble of my bus engine. A Maintenance brother greeted my arrival, ready to roll my bus into the fuel lane and wash rack. He was kind and happy to hear it was my Friday, wishing me a great weekend. We exchanged New Year's greetings, and I trudged wearily toward the garage, absently tugging on my vape after two hours behind the wheel. It only took one deep drag; my lungs had already been assailed with exhaust all day long, so it was a fair trade.Dropping off my pouch and Lost and Found items with our dear Station Agent, I wished her a peaceful evening and proceeded into my end-of-shift ritual. Pee, wash the bus off my hands and face, breathe, greet fellow night-shifters and walk to my welcoming and much-more-comfortable car seat. Afore-mentioned seat swallowing this aching body a few precious relaxing moments before propelling it homeward. Ahh... sweet freedom!
As promised, I have fulfilled what I set out to do from the beginning of this blog: to write what it feels like to be this bus operator. Hopefully, you feel my words. If not, peace be with you as always. Thanks for reading, once again.
May the feelings of dread become less as time moves on!
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