Horror and redemption on the bus

When my son was young and saw something that frightened him, he would ask to watch a Winnie the Pooh movie in order to wash away the scary images. After reading "A Long Way Gone" by Ishmael Beah while riding to and from work on the bus, my next book will need to be the adult equivalent of a Pooh movie.

In January 1993, Ishmael Beah was 12 when he was separated from his parents during the Sierra Leone civil war. He wandered for more than a year with other displaced children, narrowly escaping death several times. Eventually he was impressed into service in the Sierra Leone army. He fought for more than two years in the jungles of the west African country. Then one day a UNICEF truck pulled into the village where his army unit was staying. Without explanation, Beah and 14 other boys were told by their commander to put their weapons on the ground and board the truck. Beah was 15 and he had become so immersed in fighting and killing that he couldn't imagine doing anything else. Roughly a third of the book tells of the heroic effort made to restore some measure of humanity to Beah and the other child soldiers. Recovery for Beah took two years.

The movie Blood Diamond involves the same period of Sierra Leone's civil war. Blood Diamond was hard enough to watch. I can't imagine a realistic movie about Beah's life -- the horror Beah witnessed, the brutal acts he committed as a child soldier, the ubiquitous cruelty.

Beah's memoir is riveting. Or it is heartbreaking. Or it is terrifying. Mostly it is inspirational. But it is decidedly not for the faint of heart.

***

Personally, I was impressed that UNICEF played a role in saving the child soldiers. My favorite football team (soccer for you Americans) is FCBarcelona. Unlike nearly every other major professional football side, Barcelona has never sold advertising space on its jerseys. Last year, Barcelona signed a five-year deal with UNICEF in which Barcelona pays UNICEF $1.9 million a year for the honor of having the UNICEF logo on its uniforms.

The art of getting settled

I know why the dog circles several times before finally laying down. In a previous lifetime, the dog was a transitarian. A transitarian just can't get comfortable immediately.

Or so it seemed this week.

I've rearranged some prework morning activities, which has left me ready to leave for work at 8 a.m. instead of 8:30. Rather than puttering around the house for a half-hour, I've been going to work early and devoting some of that extra time to walking.

Having used the 30 line bus the previous week, I decided try it again.

Monday and Tuesday worked well. I arrived at Sac State on the 82 bus. The 30 bus was parked and waiting. I got off and walked over to the 30 bus and boarded. Better than the torment of just missing the early train at the 65th Street station and waiting for the scheduled connection 15 minutes later.

This was looking good. The transitarian circled again and considered committing to this route. Then Wednesday arrived and when I got off the bus at Sac State there was no 30 bus waiting. Before I figured out I could just get back on the 82 and take the train, the 82 bus was gone. So I sat down on a bench and waited.

Shortly a DASH bus -- the special 15 minute service for J Street -- arrived. The driver got out, shut the bus doors and left. So I waited.

Eventually the DASH driver returned, and as she walked toward the bus, I got up and walked over to join several passengers waiting outside the closed bus doors. But the driver stopped before she got to the bus. The passengers and I watched her, but she kept her distance. She didn't move and she didn't attempt to explain the nature of the standoff.

The puzzle was finally solved a couple of minutes later when a 30 bus pulled up behind the DASH bus. The DASH driver silently motioned the passengers to board the other bus.

So on Thursday I approached Sac State a little apprehensive. I reassured myself: If the 30 isn't waiting, just continue to light rail. But the 30 bus was there. I exited and hurried to it.

Just as I boarded the driver closed the door and started off. I nearly toppled into a seat. This was new. On the trips Monday and Tuesday the driver had waited several minutes before starting.

So I circled again Friday.

When the 82 bus arrived at Sac State at 8:49 there was another bus waiting, but the "Not in service sign" glowed in the rear.

Remembering Wednesday, I wasn't comfortable waiting for the next bus. I decided to stay on the 82 and take light rail. As the 82 bus left Sac State a DASH bus and another bus were pulling in. The second bus didn't have its rear sign illuminated.

It was too late to change my mind. I had the 30 bus schedule in my backpack, but it didn't matter now. I should have consulted it before the 82 arrived at Sac State.

The rest of the trip to work was uneventful. At my office I pulled out the 30 schedule and discovered that the next 30 bus leaves Sac State three minutes after I arrived. The second bus I had seen as I left Sac State was undoubtedly the 30 bus arriving.

And so the transitarian circles, seeking that comfortable spot.

Culture war on the train

It was late and I was tired as I boarded the last Folsom-bound train at the 23rd Street station. A crowd was gathered around the landing inside the car, listening to a black man singing. I made my way past the singer and his audience to the forward mid-car door.

As the train started up I made eye contact with a middle-aged white woman seated by the door. She shook her head. Obviously, she didn't appreciate the performance.

The guy was facing the wall in the center of the car. With one hand he tapped out low notes and with the other he used something to tap out high notes. He was singing a pleasant melody when I boarded, accompanying himself with an intricate rhythm of low and high taps.

This was not your average kid rapping on the train. This guy had skills. He looked to be in his 30s. He was dressed in a t-shirt and pajama-like baggy pants.

And then he shifted to rap and the melodic song was transformed into a discussion of servicing in the agricultural sense and the need for Vaseline and on and on.

The man's immediate audience was roundly cheering each turn of phrase. The remainder of the mostly white, middle-class passengers were at best pained and some were visibly steamed.

I have a 15-year-old son and when he plays rap loud enough that I can hear it, I tell him to turn it off. He says I don't understand. I tell him he doesn't understand. It's your standard parent-teen understandoff.

Why can't rap be good without being so misogynist? My son argues that rap without the sex isn't rap. Too bad.

The guy finished his song as we pulled into a station. As the doors opened a security officer boarded at the front of the train. A middle-aged white man with gray hair near the door got the officer's attention and complained about the singer. I could hear him telling the officer that the singer was pounding on the walls. That was a bit of a stretch, I thought.

The officer walked to the middle of the train and talked with the singer. I didn't hear what was said. It appeared amicable enough. The singer and the officer got into a discussion of whether this was the last Folsom train. The singer wanted to ride to Folsom. He understood the train just stays a couple of minutes and then returns. I gave the singer a copy of the train schedule I keep in my backpack. He took it and consulted it with his audience and then returned it, thanking me.

As the train continued toward Folsom the officer returned to the front of the train and watched. Nothing was happening and so he got off at the next stop.

When the train pulled out of the station the singer decided to visit the front of the train.

He was smiling, but this was culture war with attitude. As the singer walked toward the front of the train he started talking to the passengers as a group, a group of while Folsom residents. He suggested white Folsom residents just don't understand. He reached the front of the train and started back, directing some of his words to the man who had complained but mostly to the passengers in general. He explained that he was a professional singer and this was how he made his living. This is what he does. This did not appear to impress any of the white Folsom residents riding home on the train.

As he walked back to the middle of the car, the singer said, "I'm Robin Hood, I take from the rich and give to the poor." As he passed me he leaned over and, with a conspiratorial whisper, said, "I'll split it with you" and laughed. I smiled.

Unfortunately, the singer's remaining audience was egging him on and he started a discussion of lollipops and licking and I was fairly certain he wasn't talking candy. This wasn't going to stay nice.

And then my stop arrived, and I was relieved to get off.

The black singer and the white Folsom passengers live in separate worlds. Even light rail can't span that divide.

Hope and life

UPDATE: After I published this blog post Trevor's mother announced that Trevor had died this morning at 8 a.m.

---

On April 4 I posted a story about Trevor Kott and his need to find a life-saving bone marrow donor. Now it appears Trevor won't make it.

I don't know what to say.

I couldn't be a bone marrow donor and therefore couldn't be tested, but I donated the $52 cost and convinced the wife to have the test. I was able to encourage another blogger to post about Trevor's plight and she was tested. Perhaps others joined the bone marrow registry.

I wanted to do more.

People can still join the National Marrow Donor Program and get a cheek swab test. The cost is $52 per test. There are programs available to defray the cost.

Maybe another child will benefit.

Each day, my bus goes by the Morse Avenue Kaiser Hospital where the doctors did what they could for Trevor. I've never met Angela and Bob Kott, Trevor's parents. But the picture of their son captured me.

trevorkott.com

Weapons on the bus

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but the printed book can only go so far to protect your personal space from a determined intruder.

The young man boarded the bus and sat down near the front. His expression and demeanor, his tentative nature, identified him. When I was a child I would have described him as retarded. He reminded me of an elementary school classmate. When he would attempt to do something and get it wrong, he would often get yelled at by the other kids. He would invariably wag his finger at his tormentors and loudly reply with a Daffy Duck lisp, "You didn't specify," spraying spittle on anyone standing too close.

Some of the "...short of a load" analogies meandered around my mind as I tried to come up with an acceptable description.

After a stop, he got up and slowly walked toward the rear of the bus. He was clearly looking for something and apparently found it in the seat immediately behind me.

He sat down next to a young woman. This bus will eventually fill to standing-room-only with Sacramento State students, but at this point of the route several vacant seats were still available. While this guy was clearly a functioning member of society, he obviously didn't understand the needs of others for personal space.

I could hear some of his attempts to start up a conversation, but not enough to lure me away from my book. But apparently the arrangement didn't work out to his liking and a few stops later the guy got up and this time moved back toward the front of the bus. He eventually settled next to a young woman seated across the aisle and in front of my seat.

The woman had a small paperback book that she focused her concentration on in a vain attempt to protect her personal space.

The young man would say something. I couldn't hear what. The woman would offer a one word reply and a polite smile, but her efforts to use her book to protect her private space were not having the desired effect.

The guy would slowly scratch at his hair, apparently in thought. The haircut looked recent. It was closely sheared on the sides, rising to a stiff flat-top. He wore wire rim glasses. He would look down and then stare at the woman. He would try a line and then return to his self-protective position with his arms tightly wrapped around his chest.

Eventually the guy's stop arrived and he got up and exited. Soon the bus was full. A Sac State student with two backpacks squeezed into my seat.

I focused my concentration on my book.

The Transitarian diet

The Sacramento Bee front page attempts to tease readers inside the paper with a list of 'FIVE STORIES TO TALK ABOUT TODAY." One of those stories fit right in with my thoughts about the Transitarian Diet.

"FIT OR FAT? Dieting doesn't work in the long run, study says." The page A8 story goes on to repeat the obvious: The only way to lose weight and keep it off (short of surgery) is to eat less and exercise more.

The No. 30 bus arrived this morning at 21st and L streets at 9:10 a.m. The walk to 21st and Q streets and up to my office on the third floor took 10 minutes.

When I first started riding the bus I didn't appreciate that walking was a benefit of using transit. I figured that if the bus didn't drop you off in front of your destination, then it was somehow less than optimum. Today, I realize I was wrong.

Don't get me wrong. I consider it a bonus that the bus picks me up a half-block from my front door and the light-rail train drops me off at the corner of the building where I work. But that's not required. In fact, I'd say I'm spoiled.

As a New Year's resolution I promised I would walk each day for at least a half-hour. In February I started leaving the car at home and taking transit to work. I don't usually keep New Year's resolutions, but I've found that walking during workdays and stress-free commutes have been helpful for both my physical and mental health. For instance, I have gone from a six-cup-a-day coffee and tea habit to just two cups a day -- one on the way to work and one during my afternoon walk.

It has only been recently that I've appreciated combining the commute to work with a nice morning stroll.

The Transitarian Diet is great. What other activity offers an opportunity to reduce stress and increase physical fitness? If we could just convince people that riding the bus is a cool, healthy habit, we'd have standing-room only on transit.

'Bury Us Upside Down' on the bus

Finished yet another book riding Sacramento Regional Transit to and from work. I'm going to need another bookcase.

"Bury Us Upside Down" tells the story of a secret Air Force unit officially known as Commando Sabre, but known to the crews as Misty. The all-volunteer F100 jet squadron operated between July 1967 and October 1968 as fast FACs -- forward air controllers -- looking for bombing targets along the Ho Chi Minh Trail in North Vietnam and Laos.

The book offers a richly detailed view of the life of fighter pilots. The book also does a masterful job of illustrating the plight of wives left behind when Misty pilots disappeared.

What emerges from the book is a picture of pilots who rode a line between legendary and notorious. But it also offers an allegory for the war in general.

The futility and the bravery, the dedication and foolishness of the Vietnam War are illustrated by the tale of what was supposed to be a routine final mission of pilot Chuck Shaheen.

Riding in the backseat for that Misty mission was Dick Rutan, who would years later become famous for circumnavigating the world, nonstop, without refueling.

The pair went north looking for targets. Eventually they spotted a lone truck with a small supply area nearby. The Misty jet marked the target with smoke, and three Air Force fighter bombers made three separate passes at the target. Nobody touched the truck.

Shaheen decided he'd show them how to do it. He instructed them to hold high and dry while he made a final strafe pass. Then they'd all go home together.

Shaheen emptied the jet's guns, covering the truck with 20mm rounds. As he pulled up from the strafing run his jet was struck by antiaircraft fire. Shaheen was able to get the burning jet over the water of the Gulf of Tonkin before he and Rutan had to eject. Both were rescued and unharmed.

On that day, the United States traded one multimillion-dollar jet and nine loads of bombs and risked the lives of two officers in exchange for one truck. That was the story of the Vietnam War.

The pilots did a lot of drinking in the officers' club to let off steam after the dangers of the day. The title of the book comes from a favorite drinking toast:

When our flying days are over
When our flying days are past
We hope they'll bury us upside down
So the world can kiss our ass.

Open mike day on the bus

Today's bus driver wins the prize for showmanship.

I had an appointment at 8:20 a.m. at 30th and P streets. Using Sacramento Regional Transit's new trip planning Web site -- infortp.sacrt.com -- I discovered I could take the 82 bus that leaves American River College at 7:19 a.m., switch to the 30 bus at Sac State and get dropped off near Alhambra and L Street.

When I boarded today's bus I was surprised to see every seat had at least one passenger. This was one of the older buses, so I took a spot on one of the side benches at the rear. The reason for the crowd became obvious at the very next stop. This bus delivers students who attend Mira Loma, which is just two blocks away.

The driver said, "See you tomorrow" to the students as they disembarked.

As the bus pulled away from the stop, the driver announced the names of the next three stops. The regular riders, especially the Sac State students who would be riding the bus for another 30 minutes, may not have appreciated the superfluous information, but I thought it was great.

I've never been on a bus where the driver did more than mumble the stops, usually just the next one and then just in time to watch it go by.

After the bus had filled with Sac State students, the driver decided to announce a pop quiz.

"All you Sac State students," the driver said. "If a doctor gives you three pills and tells you to take one every half hour, how long will it take to take all three pills?"

When no one yelled out an answer, the driver challenged the students again. This time he caught his fish: A woman passenger said, "An hour and a half."

"Wrong," said the driver.

Several other students, realizing the trick nature of the question, quickly offered the right answer: One hour.

An argument ensued about whether that was too much of a trick question to be a valid test of the students. I suppose you have to be familiar with counting systems that start with zero to understand why there was no trick. Take the first pill (zero). Wait one half-hour, and take the second pill. Wait a second half-hour, and take the last pill. Two half-hour waits; one hour.

I'm tempted to ride this bus again to see if this is the driver's standard floor show.

I got off at Sac State and was walking around the 82 bus looking for the 30 bus when it pulled up at the outer lane of the bus stop. I'm pretty sure the 82 bus driver had some comment when I dashed in front of his bus as he was pulling away, forcing him to break. Fortunately, he didn't have the outside speaker on.

At 8:17 I got off at Alhambra near L Street. I arrived at 30th and P streets 8:25 a.m., fashionably -- but not too -- late for my appointment.

Old habits, new priorities

The 82 bus pulled to a stop at the 65th Street station five minutes early at 9:18 today, just in time to catch the train downtown.

Since catching that train put me 15 minutes ahead of schedule, I got off at 29th Street and walked down R Street toward the 23rd Street station. I wanted to check on the progress of the residential complex being built on R Street next to the tracks.

A Feb. 27, 2006, Bob Shallit column in The Bee described the "Alchemy at R Street" project as a "Pedestrian-friendly project with 'pop' planned on R Street corridor." Shallit's column explained that the complex that stretches along the light rail line from 27th to 26th streets will include "15 town-house and work/live rental units along with a ground-floor cafe in one building, and eight detached for-sale homes, ranging from 900 to 1,200 square feet."

As I walked and sipped the coffee I had prepared before I left home, I was thinking about the front page article I read in this morning's Sacramento Bee. The headline announced, "Rising gas prices spark grumbles but little change in driving." The story's lead example was a guy who commutes from Gold River to Tracy.

There's nothing much short of high-speed rail that might make a commute from Gold River to Tracy a transit experience. And high-speed rail is about as likely as changing the habits of a guy who is willing to devote that much of his day to his solo ride to work.

But what if you could get more people to see the benefits of downsizing and moving closer to work? You're not going to raise four kids in a 1,200 square-foot home with a single-car garage. But what about a young couple or an empty-nest pair? From the front of the Alchemy at R Street complex you can see the Safeway store tower in the distance at 19th and R streets. The complex is two blocks from the 29th Street light rail station and its multiple bus line connections.

The whole R Street corridor is turning into a transitarian's dream.

I've got three, maybe four years before I'm an empty-nester. Perhaps by then I will have convinced the wife to become a transitarian. Maybe I could trade becoming a vegetarian for her abandoning her fixation with large swaths of suburban lawn.

Guilty pleasures

Today's Sacramento Bee has a commentary by Daniel Weintraub under the telling headline:
Governor: Environmentalism for the manly man.

It seems the governor wants to change the image of the environmental movement. He wants to push aside the scolds and replace them with optimists. Instead of using guilt to push people out of their SUVs and into environmentally friendlier autos and transit, the governor wants to encourage the sort of technological innovation that will allow people to keep their SUVs.

That is what you have to do. You have to make things cool, you have to make things sexy and cutting edge. And so we don’t have to take away the cars from the people, the SUVs, the Hummers, and the muscle cars. No. That formula is a formula for failure. Instead, what we have to do is make those muscle cars and those SUVs and those Hummers more environmentally muscular.

I am reminded of the difference between factory farms and free-range ranching. A vegetarian may approve of moving away from factory farms, but killing is still killing. A transitarian approves wholeheartedly of the efforts to reduce the toxic nature of SUVs. But transit must remain a major component in any realistic plan to cope with the full range of problems created by California's overreliance on the single-occupant vehicle as the principal mode of transportation.

For a transitarian there's nothing to cheer in pimping Arnold's ride:

What we did was, we took a 1965 Impala and we made it into a lowrider, but not an ordinary lowrider. We dropped in an 800 horsepower engine that goes from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds. I mean, really very powerful. But what is unique is that that engine is powered by biofuel. That means it emits 50 percent less greenhouse gases, and it goes twice as far.

Please, who needs an 800 horsepower car on a gridlocked freeway system?

The governor's basic idea is great. And if his acts matched his words I might cheer when he says:

So, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think that any movement has ever made it, or has ever made much progress based on guilt, because guilt is passive, guilt is inhibiting, and guilt is defensive. You remember the commercial a number of years ago of the Native American that has seen what we have done to the environment, and then all of a sudden a tear runs down his cheek. Well, you know something? That approach did not work, it was disastrous. Successful movements are all built on passion, not on guilt. They’re built on passion, they’re built on confidence, and they’re built on critical mass, and often they’re built on an element of alarm that galvanizes action.

But this is the same governor who has proposed cutting state funding for transit in order to focus on highway lanes. That's simply wrong.

You can read the governor's full speech here.