an awkward moment on the bus

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Local and regular readers will know this, but my neighbourhood is home to, I think, the largest population of Hassidic Jews outside Brooklyn. Or is it Toronto? Or is it ultra-Orthodox, or Orthodox, of whom the Hassidim, or Chassidim, are only one group? Anyway, let us just say it is a very mixed neighbourhood, with a preponderance of long black coats and hats, and we all seem to rub along pretty well I’d say. I love it.

So there I was on my way home from work, coming over the crest of Stamford Hill on a bendy bus, & I sat down on one of two seats together, next to a young woman. Next stop, the woman sitting on the two seats next to each other across the aisle from me (isn’t English wonderful?) got off, leaving the two seats empty. The girl next to me was chewing gum rather loudly; I thought of moving, but then couldn’t, quite frankly my dear, be arsed - so I stayed where I was.

Just then a little boy got on, small & thin, milk-pale, maybe ten, with his long blond side curls very thoroughly tucked in under his yarmulke (his mother’s done that, I bet - they were so tight, I found myself having a train of thought about whether that’s the rule for him going out on his own, because unfortunately we don’t all rub along that well), and a serious expression on his face. He sat, or sort of perched, on the outside of the two seats across the aisle from me.

Next stop: on gets a stout middle-aged black lady with her bag of shopping, and makes to sit on the inner one of the two seats, that is, the opposite number to the one where the girl is chomping her gum. The boy moves to let her in; she takes her seat by the window; and — guess what. He goes over to the other side and stands there, nervously and uncomfortably, holding on to the pole. He is frowning. Why did he get up to let the lady in and then not sit back down? She’s not that large - I mean, there’s room. Is it because he’s been imbued with racist ideas about non-Jews, or even about black people? Is it because she’s a woman? Is it just because he’s a little boy and she’s a large person pushing sixty?

He looks full of consternation but beyond that it is hard to read.

I am surprised; the middle-aged black lady, clearly a matriarch herself, not unlike the worthy ladies Kei Miller writes his lovely poems about and not in the habit of being spurned by children, is surprised. She looks at me. I look away with an expression both mournful and non-committal, and glance at the boy: he’s leaning nervously on a rail, worrying at his lower lip. The lady sits on the seat, not wanting to look like someone who’d kick a kid off a seat. At my stop she looks at me again. I don’t really feel like meeting her eye over this - after all, he is just a kid, & it’s unclear - so I make a little mouth and try to look sympathetic from afar as I step out into the air.

Hmm. Sad, though. Because no matter what the little drama was about, it didn’t leave anybody feeling any happier.

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