Other People Have it Worse. The Ramblings of a Commuting Student

It’s 4 am: the ground smells of crack and dumpster spillage; a white Tesla is left charging alone, a stark contrast to the broken concrete around this blaring white car, still visible in this dark hour—

Rushing down the steps of my apartment building I’m breathless, out the door the wind greets me with cuts on my hand as I press the metallic walk sign button. Despite me rushing, the moment I’m on the bus, the Pause happens. Time stretches on the bus, a portal where all beings appear trapped in their own sense of time. Momentarily, all around me are humans in their tiny universes. There’s nothing like Seattle humans, families amidst strangers damp by the rain and the smell of murky heaters. Sitting there I observe their little lives: the small lady with sturdy black work shoes, the tall person with curly blue and blonde hair stomping on the bus with a billowing skirt and eyes that do not smile. I sit and count my stuff: gloves, check; lunch, there; and the small piece of sadness I cannot miss, “What am I doing here?”

Although today is a good day, it’s a “This cuts carbon emissions and everyone takes the bus” day. The safe hours of  7 to 10 am are when the bus is lively. But the early morning or the darker nights — that’s when inexcusable sadness the size of a scrappy blanket, drenched by the cold winds and rain, weighs heavy on my soul. I’m young, did my parents not do enough? I’m a lady, can’t something horribly wrong happen to me out here alone?  Yet I must remain unafraid because I can’t be late to work, it’s only a morning commute and other people have it worse.

When you’re waiting for the bus, 10 minutes is fine but 15 minutes feels like eternity. No matter how early I am there’s always another poor sucker waiting as well. It’s kind of comforting, another person belonging in this sad darkness trekking to god knows where. My flowy black pants are not suitable for my job, but they’re cute and it’s what I got. Surely I can’t belong to a life like this, somewhat alone in the dark; nonetheless, I’m on the bus now and it’s not terribly cold here, it’s just vacant of the wind. I wonder what the bus driver thinks of me, the girl with wide eyes, who will always say hi; do they think of me as obnoxious? No, they just want me to sit down.

In moments such as these I think of the women in my family. My mother, my grandma, and my great-grandma and their lives as young women. Is this better — is this better than miles upon miles of walking to get anywhere, walking to get charcoal, walking to get food, walking to get to school — is this better, my life as a young Oromo American woman? I’m sure it is despite its tragedies, despite working tirelessly to make a living. What’s factual is: the desperation can’t omit the beauty blooming alongside it. The life I carry is a part of hers too. Whether that be Yaayi, Ukulee, or Genet. 

On my first day of university, I walked to my school after getting off at the wrong stop. I walked through what, in my eyes, was a considerably “wealthy neighborhood.” I wondered if their wealthy kids had to take two metro buses to school and walk a distance. I envied the idea of being cozy in their dorms within walking distance of their classes. But another thought also crossed my mind reaching the university. Thoughts of my grandmother from Oromia. My grandmother Ukulee is a stern, devoted lady; she’d told me when visiting America that she was great at writing as a child. To me, this warmed my heart, I was familiar with women in my family not being able to finish their education. But here she was smiling at me about how she excelled at writing. So, when I climbed up that hill looking, crossing the street to enter the university’s grounds. I turned and whispered to the woman of my lineage, I’ve done it yall I’ve become one to go to university. 

 

—

 

Faintly, the Christmas train circles around our Christmas tree; two watches for two little girls, two purple strawberry shortcake cups, pink and purple jumpsuits with sparkling butterflies. A lot of my childhood was like this, little gifts from Mommy.

My mother, Genet, is the oldest of 10 kids. This is something I’ve grown proud of being a daughter of the eldest. To me, she embodies wisdom and kindness. “One by one steppi kee tooko lamaa jetee demtaa, not jumping all at once, you can do it,” she’ll tell me.  She came to Seattle, 25 years ago through marrying my father, adapting to a land without her family. She took ESL for a year before she was able to find a job; her ability to learn English opened new doors: “I started to live with society, with community, with church. I started work at goodwill; I made money.”

My mother has always been a tenacious woman. She would tell me about living apart from her siblings in her adolescence living with her grandma, my great grandmother. What I did not know at that time was what she did while living with her grandma.

“You were a market woman!” I exclaim.

“Yes, since our family had everything on the farm, bokolo, dinnicha, oranges, coffee, and salt. We’d bring it to smaller towns. It’s a business we did for two months to be ready for school,” she replies.

 I had the chance to visit Ethiopia at 15, and I distinctly remember walking through the market with my older cousin in my Nike tech jacket observing her expertly purchasing items from sellers. It surprised me to learn that, just like those vendors, my mother also sold things in a busy market from the ages of 10 to 16.

“Before it was a struggle waiting for mom and dad, they had 10 kids so I had to start a small business. That money was just for myself so I enjoyed it,” my mother shares with me.“I’d know to help when needed, but it was me who had the money.” 

I still remember all the little things she do for us. Maybe she created this habit when working in the market as a young girl in Ethiopia to provide herself with little gifts. Decades later, she’d do the same gifting her children with things that made them smile. 

 

— 

 

We became friends through our bus route and tennis. Mai Hung, a small yet fiery girl with long black hair, strong hands and a bright smile, and I. Both Mai and I played on the tennis team for our high school. We’d stay after school together, where the sky would turn from light to dark blue hues, and just before it could get any darker, the bus would come. She would share with me her dreams of being a doctor and how life was like back in her homeland Myanmar. I still remember being inspired by this girl who walked miles to get back home. I don’t remember the last meeting before time tore at our connection.

Five years went by and I found myself on the light rail — “We are experiencing a prolonged delay” —  and not soon after everyone was asked to deboard the train and wait for the shuttle. I walk away from the crowd, standing near the bus stop the shuttles are promised to get to, and lock eyes with a small young lady: it takes a moment, but my eyes finally register it’s Mai. Later that evening on a call, we catch up on past years. In the midst of sharing achievements, trips and plans for our future, we stumble upon the harder topics about how my family moved due to a foreclosure.

“I would’ve still been your friend when times got hard,” she says.

“I appreciate that, Mai, things did get hard. But it’s so nice to hear from you and see the growth you’ve experienced over the years,” I reply. 

We speak on sharing how difficult commuting to school has been over the years, laughing at our early hours and exhausting commutes. The night sky’s darker by now, the dark blue hues resembling night, yet we continue speaking, this friend of mine and I. 

“The time that it takes up is very time consuming, and then it kind of drains you out at the end of the day. It’s not as productive, but you know it’s what I got, so I gotta work with it,” she tells me. 

“I know, right? You finally get to that location, and I’m like damn people don’t even know how far I live,” I say. 

“Especially [those of] us who’ve struggled, we understand the discipline, rather than just implementing things when you’re not in struggle, you understand the meaning behind [it]. It’s a lot more emotional attachment, rather than just doing it because you have to.”

“I think I’m becoming more compassionate towards people who go through the same things.”

 

—

 

It’s 1pm: the ground smells of yellow roses and a freshly vacuumed carpet; I sit in my room completing this project, considering the moment my ramblings became poetry, and my dreadful experience became a story to share. I’m not sure who’s reading this; whether a friend, classmate or co worker, I’ll let you decide who you are. But I’ll ask you three things: What time is it for you, what do you despise that holds a meaningful story, and what will you let it become? Yours truly, Sooreeti Kaayoo.