Front Of The Bus

I spend two hours of my day commuting toand from school. I walk down to the end of my street, flag down the trusty 16 GO Bus, and head to Union Station in Toronto. When Iarrive at Union Station I walk, on average, 13 minutes until I arrive at schoolwhere I spend hours learning about baking to then reverse the journey backhome. While embarking on my commuting adventure I’ve made a point to make mental notes about the wonderfully interesting individuals I’ve had the pleasure ofobserving and interacting with.

On days I travel back to Hamilton alone, Igenerally choose to sit at the font of the bus. It’s easy to get on and off,and since I tend to have a lot of stuff with me from my baking lab, the veryfront is a seat with the most space for all my baked goods and schoolbooks. Assoon as I ask if I can sit beside the individual who also chose to sit at thefront, and we cease our general chit-chat about having a lot of stuff and howit’s easier to sit up front instead of wander to the back of the bus, I expectthe pleasantries of small-talk to subside and for each of us to go about ourown activities— which for me, is sleeping.

While this may be the end of small talk, myexpectancy of sleep is often met with the reality of conversations extendingthe length of the bus ride, with snacks shared and adventures revealed. 

One of my first experiences sitting at thefront of the bus led me to meet a lovely older lady who shared her vegetabletray with me. It was funny—she opened up her snack andjust offered me some. She told me how she didn’t like celery (which was perfectas I love celery) and there we sat—eating vegetables on the bus while sheshared with me how she was going to Hamilton to meet with some immediate familybefore they all headed south to visit extended family. While my first thoughtwas ‘I wanted to sleep’ (wow, how ungrateful!), it changed to ‘Man these aregood veggies’, then finally transitioned to where I was genuinely surprisedthis kind lady would want to share her food with me—just a random girl sittingbeside her.

One recent experience in particular I found to be the mostamazing.

I sat down next to a lady at the front ofthe bus and after the generic small talk I offered her a freshly baked cookie.She retrieved a piece of Kleenex from her purse, took a chocolate dipped vanillashortbread cookie from the box, and very politely started eating it. We brieflychatted about how I am in school and began to discuss her: her life and herrecent life-changing experience with her daughter. She is a children’s bookauthor who moved to Hamilton after living in Pennsylvania for a while after shefled from Afghanistan with her family. She moved with her husband, who has a heart condition,and her daughter. The most random detail of our conversation was how we sharethe same name. I found out, where she is from, Aelea means ‘a woman of greatdistinction’.

Being a refugee, fleeing from Afghanistandue to the war, her life has been full of unbelievable trials. Being an author,she has a way with words, and was asked to share her story at McMasterUniversity about immigrating to Canada—the challenges she faced and the onesshe still encounters. While speaking with no emotions held back, she looked outinto the audience and found a face she recognized—her teenage daughter wassitting in the audience with tears in her eyes. As a mother, she hadn’t shared her struggles with her daughter—she hasbeen strong for her child, never letting on things were hard, never showing herpersonal battles to keep her daughter feeling safe, secure and welcomed intothis new country and new place they decided to call home.

Her daughters’ words to her after thepresentation were simply that she didn’t know. She had no idea her mother wasgoing through these things, how she faced challenges, and how she was continuallyovercoming them in the countless ways she was.

I don’t know why she chose to share thisstory but I’m glad she did. It’s eye opening, inspiring and challenging whenanyone shares a personal story with the glamour stripped away and naked honestystanding there speaking every word. The conversation shifted to how herdaughter loves baking, and she asked if she could buy a box of my cookies. Igave her all I had and the bag I was carrying them in and when I left she said,if it were God’s will, perhaps we would meet again.

Sometimes I don’t have the opportunity tohave in depth conversations—the bus driver who see’s me standing under the treeand pulls over without me having to wave the bus down can leave the same impactas the person I’m sitting next to who shares mints. The observation of the ladywho gets off a bus and gives her transfer pass to a young mother waiting withher child at the stop says more in her brief actions than any words I wouldimagine uttering to her or her to I. The lady getting onto the bus to auditionfor a gospel choir elective at University is someone who shared with me onepiece of her unique story.

All these people, whose interactions aresmall in the grand scheme of my day, week and semester, make the commuteworthwhile. Everyone can leave an impact, even without words, and it’simportant we look for those moments, listen with intent to those who arespeaking, and always sit near the front of the bus—because it’s those littlemoments I don’t want to miss.