How I learned something in half the time

The clock on kitchen wall here is about a half hour behind time. It probably needs new batteries, but I haven't felt like finding a ladder or standing on a chair to replace them. I don't mind it too much, having to add the half hour.

Last night, though, I remembered how someone in Quebec told me that one of the Canadian provinces is a half-hour different, not a whole hour. I tried New Brunswick but it wasn't. It's Newfoundland and Labrador. And that's one province, not two. Now you know.

Newfoundland is where Celtx has its headquarters. Celtx is a play writing platform I've used for a long time.

A friend is going to Quebec City for New Year's. I can't do that, but I'm thinking how nice it would be to see the Rio Grande Valley again, walk across the river to have a cup of coffee in Mexico.

ENTREZ/ TENGA BUEN DIA

Cold spell the week before Thanksgiving and Hannukah

(which won’t happen for another 80,000 years
I learn this morning still under covers -- radio)

This the second day of it. Two Jehovah Witnesses ignore “Entrez” (where did that come from?) but give me literature and wishes for a good day, in Spanish, then hurry on to witness elsewhere.

Outside neighbor’s back door their dog the color of their house but with bright orange collar sits waiting in the hope it will open. Entrez in dog would do him well, do him up brown, as the old expression went; but they’re away to work. The door will not open. He seems to come to accept this, walks down the deck steps, but soon forgets and goes again to sit at door, as if he cannot think of anything else to do. (It is colder than the thermometer, which of course he cannot read, tells.)

Yesterday the first day of it. I, like him, was locked out and in only my stocking feet, the cold with light rain coming. I managed to break in to the garage, get into my car, drive to some good woman’s house to be given poached eggs (from her backyard chickens) and the wherewithal (what a wonderful word) to make it through the day until neighbors (these with the brown house and brown orange-collared dog) could let me have the key they keep to this house where I’m staying by the grace of its owners.

I thought long for the animals all around who have nothing but their coats when the cold comes. I hoped to keep that awareness for them, even if I cannot bring them in, as I was brought in. I am thankful for this second day to be inside, to be mindful for the animals outside, especially now the neighbors’ dog who’s the color of their house but with a bright orange collar. This ends with me taking an old quilt over to offer the dog some cover

but first I ring the doorbell to soon learn it is not as I thought. The mother is home; the dog, inside, now, at her heels, is a she. I return the key. I bring the old quilt back with me.

May every creature fare as well in this cold spell
as we, the dog with orange collar and I,
this week before Thanksgiving and Hannukah
(coming, wondrously, together.)

Little Rock, On the Way Down

[the 15 minute spill]



"Racism is not about bad manners, but a system of privilege, discrimination and brutality embedded in American society and across its institutions that operates to exclude, demean and restrict. It does not need a pointy hood and burning cross to work ...." from article, "George Zimmerman and the American Way," Gary Younge, The Nation, Oct. 7, 2013.


Smokers of course spilled out to be yelled at by bullying driver that he’d told us where to go but hadn’t 1:00 o’clock am October 24, 2013 a few of us but several in line tickets ready ready to board bus so he yells at them too to get inside like an old time white overseer yelling at them without saying anything at all in normal human tone and so with varying looks of confusion the line becomes those several, mostly women who are tired and confused and so very tired of being mistreated going where they can only guess he wants them

But one got inside the bus, I guess what she thought the bully meant by inside because when I’m back inside myself beside this non-stop talker

This really mean bus driver steps up in the coach to yell out, “Who got on this bus? It was a woman! Who was it? You’re not riding my bus! You’re not riding my bus.”

(Later when I tell Greyhound I forget to mention he thinks it’s his bus.)

The guy beside me gives me the time: 1:05 am. I write down the bus number. His bus number, but he’s no badge on vest with his driver number or name. The guy, Tom Something, starts mumbling how the driver has every right to do anything he wants

Only later will I say, “The Klan thought they had the right to lynch people, too, but …”

But by that time the woman behind me has heard enough of my protest since I didn’t do anything at the time, at 1:05 am, either, as none of us did

Because there she is, following him to the front, a young woman, yes; a woman, yes; with gray flannel hoodie covering much of her face but yes, she’s a woman – he knew that – and she doesn’t speak, even now, but is only able to moan a little, following behind him, him yelling the whole time that she’s not going to ride on HIS bus

And then we’re gone, as quickly as these who were in line are let on

And nobody speaks as the wheels start turning

Until, at each stop afterwards, the women do; the men watch; the women say things like, “It was cruel.She ran into the bathroom, crying; she didn’t have any money; it was her first time to ride the bus.

Oh, one young androgyne says, “He couldn’t have done that to me, because I’m military.”

So lovely, this one, but s/he didn’t stand up except to speak in front of these male passenger who listen, during subsequent stops, listen. And always back on, I have to listen to the fat born-again Tom Something. say the driver had every right

And I have to leave that bus number in a book I left on board

But I came off with “Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander” in my mind, and “George Zimmerman and the American Way” in my back pack (Save The Nation)

And the driver’s name, then a number to call, then long days trying to write or call Greyhound so that finally I could tell what he did, and they let me raise my voice in telling it and they let me mention all of what can happen to a young black woman with no money at a locked-up station in dark Little Rock and they let me tell them everything I could, even that I was ashamed of myself and all of us

Or anyway a young woman did, the same young woman who sent me a form letter thanking me for taking time out of my busy schedule to report an abusive driver from Memphis to Dallas

But it’s the American Way, you see.

Nearly three weeks later, I still wonder what happened to this young woman. I still feel guilty that not a one of us stood up for her in time to save her from a lonely and possibly dangerous night and, worse, the knowledge that she can be excluded from a bus ride she paid for, that she can so easily be denied the freedom of movement.

I'm still looking back at "George Zimmerman and the American Way", article by Gary Younge in the October 7, 2013 issue of The Nation. I'm still waiting to get a copy of Thomas Merton's Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander. My own.

I'm still wondering if Article 13 of the Declaration of Human Rights is applicable to this of what happened in Little Rock on the way down.

Article 13 of the Human Rights Declaration

I discover today is "Freedom to move from country to country." Thus I begin using this blog spot I sat up years ago but never used. I think I didn't like the title, after all. But this will do. It's right enough. I recently returned to Texas from Vermont. There's something I've been trying to tell about that happened on this trip. It's important enough to put somewhere. I'll put it here.