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Minority of one
Sometimes we stand out no matter who we are.
Twice in my life I’ve been totally alone while still surrounded by people. Both on buses. First time was at age 14, on the way home from an ice rink, when I told my friends I didn’t like the song which had made them all go mental on the rink. It was Sisqo’s “Thong Song”. My mate Ger said “That puts you in a minority of one”, and others nodded. No big deal.
The second time was on the route X2 bus in Washington. Bigger deal this time. At least the first time I could enjoy the sound of others laughing at me. The X2 was to take me from Grand Central Station to the location of my hostel, where I was to spend three nights. The advertisement for the hostel had described it as a certain number of blocks away from the Capitol building, maybe 30, which sounded a small enough distance to one not familiar with blocks. Apparently, though, a lot can change in a few blocks.
I hailed down the X2 no problem. I was in a white t-shirt with navy shorts, sandals and a green rucksack. I couldn’t have been any whiter, or looked more of an outsider. The driver was black, as were his passengers. Except me. I took the first available seat right by the one you’re supposed to give up for pensioners, because the guys at the back looked least pleased to see me. Everybody else just looked embarrassed for me. Ger’s words “minority of one” did laps around my head thumping my skull from the inside.
I was paralysed by fear and vulnerability, simply because I stood out. I knew that being a raging liberal, all up for equality, counted for nothing. I was disgusted with myself for being so afraid of other humans, but in the same instant, desperate for an escape hatch, or a transfer onto a regular bus back to my comfort zone.
I counted the 30 blocks and the street numbers. No whites, sinking feeling. I hopped up when I thought it was my stop. I thought to ask the driver was I correct and showed him the piece of paper with the hostel address. In that instant though, I made the biggest scene imaginable as a queue to alight formed behind me, unable to pass my wide-load rucksack.
“Do you mind” called one lady and I practically triple jumped off the thing. “Soon as he turns his back…” I heard one older man say to the driver as I stepped off and didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Heeding the warning, the driver came onto the pavement with me, snatched the address again and walked me 50m down the road ‘til he could point to the hostel. Who knows what one-liner he mustered up when he returned to his bus, but he deserves any great round of laughter for his kindness.
Nothing happened to me in three days. When I left my wallet on the platform at Foggy Bottom underground, it was handed to the inspector. Nothing can justify my immediate fear. But nothing but experience, even one so brief, no book, no film, no degree, could substitute for actually being a minority, even for a few minutes.
It’s a fear we need to understand. We think a black person who steps onto a bus full of white people ought to feel fine, sure we’re not a menacing crowd; a gay couple who enter a club full of raging heterosexual scoring ought to feel fine, sure we’re all very accepting these days.
But it’s not menace or feeling not accepted. It’s feeling alone.
By: John Moriarty
