I HAVE been living here in Winnipeg for about eight months
now, and I am proud to say that I have been to different places by
riding a bus, and not by driving a car. Of course, that does not mean
that I do not know how to drive; or like my mother, am too scared
to drive. In fact, the reason why I take the bus to work is simply
because my family does not own a car yet.
But there is something different happening every time I take the
bus. It is when I get on that orange-and-yellow vehicle that I meet
people of different races, and of different points of view. Fellow
passengers would talk to me about how I look (because some think that
I am Chinese, which is quite weird, if you ask me), and some would
ask about my age (some think that I am too young to be legal, others
say that I look old). Most of the people that I met are old ones.
They talk about life, about money, about family -- those things that
I rarely hear from teenagers like me. But there was one girl, not
really far from my age, that made one of my daily bus rides different
from the others.
It happened one time I was waiting for a bus that was going downtown.
I was listening to my portable mp3 player when a girl around her twenties
approached, asking me when the next bus will arrive. Apparently, we
were going to ride the same bus, so I told her the time. She waited
beside me. She sported a hairdo that was beyond my imagination --
tiny and intricate braids and dyed in different colors. Her face had
three piercing; one on her nose, one on her cheek and another on her
lower lip. Her ears were studded with earrings, and she wore a green
sports bra, denim Capri and yellow g-strings. I can tell because her
pants were too low on her hips and her underwear was visible.
I was quite reluctant to talk to her, so I pretended that I cannot
hear her. I flooded my ears with music. But she was nice enough despite
of her "unique" features, so I gave in and we had a short
conversation. I learned that she was a Grade 12 drop-out and had different
jobs with that. She learned that I am a Filipino, and so she asked
me a lot of things about the Philippines: how the government works,
what traditions the Filipinos practice, and how the country looks
like. I smiled with pride, and despite the fact that I did not like
how the current administration "manages" the country; I
talked about its other endearing qualities with much enthusiasm. Never
had I felt that good by just talking about my country.
I gave her a brief background about the Philippines, and told her
how the current government works. She might have sensed the bitterness
in my voice, and then I saw her smile and told me that things happen.
It is sad, she said, but we Filipinos should not lose hope. I was
stunned and looked at her. How ironic to hear such words from a Canadian
-- someone who is very much unlike me (and the rest of the Filipinos
here) but can actually sympathize with what I feel. We should not
lose hope .It played on my mind over and over again. I wished it was
a kababayan who said that.
Our conversation did not last that long, for she had to go to different
place. We bid our goodbyes as she went down to the nearest bus stop.
She might look different than what I would have normally expected,
but she turned out to be a really good person. That was a conversation
I was craving for in a long time. And now, I am hoping that I can
meet her again at the bus stop, hoping to have another of those intellectual
conversations we have shared. Because of this experience, I know that
my bus rides will never be the same again.
