I was on the free bus yesterday. My parents have been visiting from the states; first time seeing them in person in eight years. I am grateful to have time with them, and want to ensure they are enjoying themselves. There is some level of challenge, or at least personal concern, given the
I won't digress into my thoughts on Mancunian transport; the fact I was on the free bus back from the museum-formerly-known-as MOSI should speak enough. And this was an improvement on our earlier predicament: to get to MOSI, we needed both free buses, and a lot of patience.
The bus was - as was expected - full to over-full. As I navigated my LO's pushchair towards the door, the narrow passage was blocked by two people. I waited a moment for them to squish aside, or move back, or find some way for me to pass. I eventually said something to the effect of excuse me, or I need to get through, or can you let me pass. One was able to move further into the bus; the other pointed out they couldn't get past my pushchair.
I noted that they could move towards the door. I am well acquainted with bus navigation, and were I in their situation I would have stepped off for a moment, knowing the bus wouldn't leave me behind.
That was not what happened.
"You could say please" they replied.
I looked at them.
"You could say please" they repeated.
I moved the pushchair over and managed to get off the bus.
...
This exchange has been playing on my mind for the past day. Was I in the wrong? Could I have said please? Was I expected to say please? Was I a naughty child being told off by their parent? That's how I felt.
Honestly, the rest of the journey back was consumed by snide replies that don't bear repeating here. I was tired, I am unwell and I am anxious. Anxious about having quality time with my parents. Quality time with my LO. Without coming across as a Nice Guy(TM), care for others is a significant part of my self-understanding. I work in a profession that is supposed to serve, and I have sought to make sure people feel valued. If I receive undue credit I seek to direct it appropriately. If I have a difficult relationship with someone I try to make sure it won't cloud another's experience of them. I finish my services by acknowledging those who have helped in seen and hidden ways.
These are all nice defenses, but of course in that moment someone claims they weren't seen. Maybe what I considered obvious - that it is incumbent for the person blocking the exit to find a solution - is not so obvious to others. There are other ethics at play, and maybe this was just one of those things that crops up, and I shouldn't give it much more thought.
However, today we were in a taxi barrelling through the centre, and approached the same point, and the exchange came back to me. In fact, it was probably just shy of 24 hours since the incident, and although I was not thrown into a tumultuous existential crisis, the memory was there, and the questions arose again, and the subtle humiliation was present too.
At home, after the parents returned to the hotel and the LO drifted off, I thought of David Abrams' "The Spell of the Sensuous," and a section that detailed reprimands in the Western Apache:
The moral efficacy of the landscape - the power of the land to ensure mindful and respectful behaviour in the community - is mediated by a whole class of stories that are regularly recounted within the village ... For the Western Apache ... human events and encounters simply cannot be isolated from the places that engender them. (Abrams, Spell of the Sensuous, 156,162)
I feel as though that place will now be imbued with moral significance. I imagine as I alight the bus, or take a cab, or ride a bike, or set foot upon the pavement, that the tired man trying to get off the bus, and failing his social duties, will return.
Perhaps this comes off as self-pitying; that is not my intention. It is simply the fact that we often forget how events happen in places, and colour the landscape we occupy. Maybe the memory will fade; maybe I will avoid that street. I don't know, but I will know.