The 22

I started a poem in my head probably 2 years ago or so, while on the bus going to work. I still remember it, it went: "On the 22, in between hoodies and corporate suits..." I didn't get much farther than that. But it seemed to speak volumes in such few words. I was thinking of it again yesterday on my way to an interview downtown where the metro transit system once again chauffeured me.

I honestly think the bus is one of the most grounding pieces of my life. It is the only place where crackheads and business professionals sit next to one another for an extended period of time, at least, on the 22, that goes from Brooklyn Center through North Mpls before hitting downtown. It is comical even- to watch people, stiff and uncomfortable, pretending to be enthralled with something out the window, when really they are counting down the minutes that the smelly homeless person next to them will switch seats or get off. I may not be guilt free on that one either. Its reality.

It is the only place where I am guaranteed to hear outlandish conversations of who cheated on who, police mistreatment, job trouble, if the homeless shelter was maxed out again the night before, and get called a Bitch by a 17 year old because I didn't give him my number ( and he has no idea my husband was his teacher last year). 

I sincerely, really am thankful for the 22. The 22 reminds me how grateful I am that people are viewed through God's eyes, and not mine. That every "outlandish" conversation or concern, every person I secretly deem "beneath" me in my heart-is not outlandish and beneath God. Don't get me wrong, there are some messed up people on the bus. But the 22 reminds me that I am one of those messed up people. That just because I don't smoke crack, or have a same sex preference, or just because the bus is a choice for me not a default...it doesn't give me the right to cut my eyes, or snoot my nose. The 22 keeps me humble. AND, it gets me downtown in 20 minutes with free parking.