Slipstream

I ride San Francisco’s MUNI train, the L line, toward its termination point at Embarcadero station, in a car that’s surprisingly empty for a midmorning Thursday, given this cutback economy.

At the Van Ness station, a group of older teens boards the train. I notice them only because one announces, “I sit here. I sit here,” as she plops down on a seat that faces the aisle.

The rest of the teens soon follow her example and fill the nearby seats.

They are a group of kids with Down syndrome, apparent by the broad heads and round faces and short necks that they each share to varying degrees.

A man then enters the train and sits in the middle of them. At first I think this odd, given all the other empty seats. But then I realize he’s with the group, that he is, in fact, their guide or coordinator or counselor.

He’s a tall man with a short dark beard and athletic build. He looks the type more at home playing pro baseball than herding a group of teens—any group of teens. Yet there’s a sense of self-assurance about him, a sense of calm that emanates from his clear eyes and unruffled continence.

When the train starts moving, the boy who sits nearest him clenches his fists as his face stiffens with fear. Yet his movements are almost imperceptible, and if I had not been looking in that direction, I would never have noticed the shift.

The counselor—or whoever he is—also notices. Without saying a word, he places his hand on the boy’s forearm. There’s a sense of strength and tenderness in the way he calms the boy with his touch, a sense of reassurance and patience and compassion.

The boy calms down quickly and the rest of the ride is without incident. When we reach the Embarcadero station, the counselor herds the teens together and leads them out to the platform, his face as calm and assured as when he arrived. I leave the train through a different door and do not see them again.

I walk up to the next level and exit through the turnstile, then climb the last flight of stairs to Market Street. There I’m assaulted by a wall of people who speed along the sidewalks without regard to who they push, step on, bump into, or cut off. Most are part of San Francisco’s business community, the nine-to-fivers racing from appointment to appointment. They talk on cell phones, read text messages, listen to headphones, walk with blinders.

I’m suddenly aware of the way I’m dressed. My shorts are tattered at the edges. My sweatshirt is ready for a facelift. I’ve walked too many miles in my Columbia lightweight hikers. And now I find myself surrounded by Armani suits and Prada handbags and Gucci shoes and Cartier watches with enough gold and silver to supply half the bullion at the US mint up Market Street.

It doesn’t help that I just lost a button on my shorts and hold them together with a safety pin.

When I cross the road, I’m nearly run down by the driver in a Lexus who has little patience for people on foot, despite the Walk sign that opens the crosswalks to pedestrians like me. Two minutes later, the same thing happens with the driver of a Cadillac SUV.

I decide to grab an early lunch at a small diner that advertises Mediterranean food. I walk inside and stand before the counter, studying a wall menu that announces everything from gyros to falafel to hamburgers. The woman behind the counter eyes me impatiently, until I finally order, then she never looks at me, never says anything except how much I owe.

When I tell her I want a glass of water, she grunts an acknowledgement. But when my order arrives, there is no water. So I ask again. With an air of annoyance, she tells me that I’m supposed to grab a cup from the stack and get my water from the soda machine. Then she flashes a look that’s meant to remind me of how stupid I am for not having read her mind.

These sorts of things—the pushy pedestrians, the annoyed drivers, the rude counter clerks—are repeated everywhere I go in the city. The impatience and indifference and intolerance are, in fact, a way of life, as are the attitudes of entitlement and privilege.

Yet San Francisco is only a small slice of the pie. Recently, Tennessee’s Lieutenant Governor Ron Ramsey called Islam a cult. Arizona’s new immigration law lets police detain anyone suspected of being in the country illegally. A Memphis councilwoman received death threats because she supports the rights of gay workers. BP CEO Tony Hayward is expected to receive a severance package worth over $18 million. The latest statistics out of Afghanistan indicate that July was the deadliest month for US troops in our nine-year war. No statistics were provided about civilian casualties.

I walk up to the Powell station to catch the J train. As I start down the stairs, a man knocks into me without saying a word. When I show my transfer to the attendant at the ticket window, she does not look at me, does not acknowledge I’m there. She pushes the button to release the turnstile and returns to whatever she was doing. I head down to the next level and enter a crowded train. I find a teenage girl sitting with her feet up on the seat next to her, the music from her earphones so loud I can hear it even in the din of the station. She never makes room for anyone else to sit down.

As I stand in the center of the car, holding on to a handrail, I think about the counselor on the L train with his gaggle of down-syndrome teens. I think about his commitment and his patience and his compassion. I wonder how he or anyone can maintain such dedication and a sense of purpose in a land that can seem so devoid of any of these.

From people like him, I have much to learn.

 

Tags: California, Down syndrome, San Francisco