The Colors of the
Morning
People often ask me why I don’t have a car. There are many reasons. I don’t like what the burning of so vast a quantity of fossil fuels is doing to the planet, I’m uncomfortable with the noise and the congestion, cars can kill you on the spot, I enjoy the exercise of walking, I don’t afford one, considering the few far places I go, there are usually other people that I know going the same way who don’t mind picking me up, I take cabs, I have no idea how to work on one, I don’t want one, and, most importantly, I don’t need one.
It amazes me how adverse so many people have become toward taking public transportation. I know people who have lived here in New Orleans all their lives and have never taken the St. Charles Streetcar. Not even for pleasure. Don’t even mention a bus. There is a stigma attached to the busses that translates to “only the blacks take the bus.” Most white people will stand in line in the summer heat for more than twenty minutes to catch a streetcar but won’t even consider riding on an air conditioned bus. I have been taking the bus since I was in high school in 1976. It can’t be and isn’t all that dangerous.
There are a lot of wonderful things that I gain. Every day, when I leave the house at six o’clock, I see the colors of the morning. The bright, iridescent pinks and blues and hues of tangerines and orange and all the indescribable irreproducible formations of clouds that display themselves on nature’s canvas almost every morning. As I reach the bayou, I nearly gasp at the wonder of it all. If I didn’t have to be on time, I’d sit there and watch it till it disappeared. I wish I could capture it. But I know it’s impossible and relish in the thought that I can see it all again tomorrow.
It irritates me when I come across people who are bored with life. I think to myself, “Goddamn, look around you! How could you be bored? What’s wrong with you? You are in an amazing position! Look at the universe, look at the rarity of our existence, look at people!” Then I realize it’s probably useless and go on sipping my beer.
The better part of public transportation is the ride home. Everyone is glad to be off of work. They’re relieved and relaxed. The Canal Streetcar is a smile inducing experience; the grinding halts and starts and the smooth coasting metallic rhythms. The car is moving in the same direction, yet each person is in their own reverie; looking out the window, staring off into the distance, reading a book, talking quietly amongst themselves. I can’t help wonder what’s going on inside all those minds. It’s a sense of community. The Hispanic, the Black, the Old Lady, the Children, Me.
People often ask me why I don’t have a car. There are many reasons. I don’t like what the burning of so vast a quantity of fossil fuels is doing to the planet, I’m uncomfortable with the noise and the congestion, cars can kill you on the spot, I enjoy the exercise of walking, I don’t afford one, considering the few far places I go, there are usually other people that I know going the same way who don’t mind picking me up, I take cabs, I have no idea how to work on one, I don’t want one, and, most importantly, I don’t need one.
It amazes me how adverse so many people have become toward taking public transportation. I know people who have lived here in New Orleans all their lives and have never taken the St. Charles Streetcar. Not even for pleasure. Don’t even mention a bus. There is a stigma attached to the busses that translates to “only the blacks take the bus.” Most white people will stand in line in the summer heat for more than twenty minutes to catch a streetcar but won’t even consider riding on an air conditioned bus. I have been taking the bus since I was in high school in 1976. It can’t be and isn’t all that dangerous.
There are a lot of wonderful things that I gain. Every day, when I leave the house at six o’clock, I see the colors of the morning. The bright, iridescent pinks and blues and hues of tangerines and orange and all the indescribable irreproducible formations of clouds that display themselves on nature’s canvas almost every morning. As I reach the bayou, I nearly gasp at the wonder of it all. If I didn’t have to be on time, I’d sit there and watch it till it disappeared. I wish I could capture it. But I know it’s impossible and relish in the thought that I can see it all again tomorrow.
It irritates me when I come across people who are bored with life. I think to myself, “Goddamn, look around you! How could you be bored? What’s wrong with you? You are in an amazing position! Look at the universe, look at the rarity of our existence, look at people!” Then I realize it’s probably useless and go on sipping my beer.
The better part of public transportation is the ride home. Everyone is glad to be off of work. They’re relieved and relaxed. The Canal Streetcar is a smile inducing experience; the grinding halts and starts and the smooth coasting metallic rhythms. The car is moving in the same direction, yet each person is in their own reverie; looking out the window, staring off into the distance, reading a book, talking quietly amongst themselves. I can’t help wonder what’s going on inside all those minds. It’s a sense of community. The Hispanic, the Black, the Old Lady, the Children, Me.
