The last time I visited my grandpa he thought I was a man who was “dressed sharp.” That felt kind of nice. I can recall twice in my life where he’s spoken aloud, to anyone who was around, that his first adopted family didn’t want him, he was taken back to the orphanage. This happened before he was two. I think about this a lot in the context of his adult life, his problem with control, how he wouldn’t allow my grandma to go shopping or hang out with friends without his permission. I remember driving them and my narcoleptic, racist great aunt (rip. White people: how does one grieve the loss of a racist relative?) to Colorado, which was something of an adventure, and also contained the first time I blew up on him after his constant verbal assault on my grandma. He cried, he swore he would try to do better, he never did. Can empathy change shape when a person like this, like my grandpa, requires constant care and attention in his remaining years? Is it a question of “deserving” empathy?
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There is something like hope, mixed with a vision for a better now, mixed with something like rage, that has me convinced to stick around driving a bus for a city whose leadership does not like public transit. Or poor people. I don’t know what late stage empathy really means, maybe it’s more a feeling of “there’s gotta be change soon, right? ..right??” I share this because- in the midst of all the horrifying things going on on a global and national scale- it’s feeling like an endless struggle uphill to get a safe and accessible and efficient system going that helps people to thrive, but so far one accessible bus stop has been installed out of the struggle. And I’m proud of that. Even if they took the benches out first. Anyway. This image is something of a placeholder and memorial and fuel to keep pushing for good change and a “never stop caring” attitude, no matter what the future holds.
