pigeon

shaking the black kid’s hand on the bus with allison

I’m gonna say his name was PJ because I don’t remember his name at all wait—actually I think it was Chris—?, and PJ seems a good enough match to how I remember him — relaxed, outgoing, soft-spoken, charismatic, and just the right amount of doofusy.

It looks weird, typed out that way: “the black kid” — somehow that doesn’t look or sound right — too generic, arbitrary, impersonal — is it something to do with how all words even tangentially connotative of race seem fraught? — but that’s how I typed it however long ago when this pigeon was born, so that’s how some part of my mind remembered it, so I guess I’ll leave it like that, for now at least.

Allison and I were in 10th grade, so 1985 or 86. The school bus was idle, an island in a dark asphalt lagoon. A bright café in a dark night. A homely pod. Chunky instrument cases of various sizes, from flute to sousaphone, clogged the aisles. We were done playing whatever marching band show had been the reason we’d traveled to wherever we were. We probably did OK. Our uniforms were dorky but cool. Our band director was dorky but angry, frustrated, and bad at communicating. But it was cool.

How did me and Allison (the white kids) get to talking with PJ? What were we even talking about? I have no idea. I don’t remember knowing him or anything about him before that conversation in the dark bus, waiting for everyone to get settled, the driver to get his coffee, the roll to be called, etc. I don’t remember ever talking to him again after that. But for whatever reason, in our little huddle nestled between the tall backs of our particular couple of seats, we got to talking about race, and prejudice, and stereotypes, and why people judge other people, and how messed up all that stuff was, seemingly for no reason.

I truly don’t remember the details. I imagine we shared our differing perspectives and experiences. I wonder how self-aware Allison and I were. I wonder how honest we were. I wonder how many things we said that if we said ’em today on social media, we would be positively pilloried for. All I remember is the three of us sitting or perching or squatting there, in that transient and safe little space, talking about it all, and (me at least) feeling kind of fresh and brave.

And I remember how the conversation concluded. We made a pact. We pledged to each other that we were going to represent, from that day forward, resistance to racism and prejudice. We would refuse to judge people by their skin color. We wouldn’t make assumptions based on race. We were going to be agents of peace, and carry that promise into our respective futures. And we shook on it.

As I said, I know nothing further about PJ. And I have only a few data-glimpses about Allison, from several years ago. Pretty sure she’s pretty conservative. Married a military guy. Made posts back in the early days of Facebook with conspicuous gun-ownership references. There’s a version of me that’s lazy enough to assume that means she didn’t succeed as well at keeping the pact. But that’s such utter bullshit. How would I know? God, I yearn for complexity, for everything to not be boiled down into caricatures, into “two sides,” etc, etc. All I have to do to experience that complexity is pay attention, and talk to people and — not make so many damned assumptions, not judge people by their skin color or by any surface feature. So obviously my real question for myself is, how well have I kept the pact?

I can honestly say I’ve failed sometimes. I could tell some stories about my failures, for example in the first school I “taught” in full time, in Milwaukee. One thing I have definitely experienced is what it feels like to be inadequately equipped to do the job you’re supposed to do.

I can honestly also say I keep trying, and the older I get, oddly enough even at the same time as I’ve become more socially brittle and distrustful in a lot of ways, I’ve also gotten better at actually seeing other people, at actually internalizing the concept that other people exist and other people matter.

There’s lots more I could say about all of that, and I’m sure some other pigeons, perhaps some of this pigeon’s cousins, will remind me to, later. Right now I’m so tired I feel deranged, so I’m gonna call it a night.

Wherever you are, Allison and PJ, I hope your eyes are still as open and bright as all ours were that night, and I hope you’re warm and safe and strong and either home or on your way home or on some hopeful bus, revved up and ready, about to strike out on some new adventure.

Update, 030425

“I’ve failed sometimes” — This sounds like pleading guilty to a lesser crime. Where’s the balance between self-aggrandizement sloppily concealed and self-recrimination? To what extent is the latter merely another iteration of the former? And rhetorical questions merely continue the charade, do they not?

Sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between yearning for the capacity to process complexity, and longing for simplicity.

Reminds me of another pigeon: “I’ve basically given up worrying about whether i’m a ‘good person’ or not,” said someone whom I haven’t thought of a pseudonym for yet. Another pigeon, another time.