"A stranger in a strange land – commuting in America Traveling through space and cultures"

A stranger in a strange land – commuting in America

Traveling through space and cultures

Most every weekday morning at approximately 8AM, I make the commute from my home in Silver Spring, Maryland to my workplace in Columbia, Maryland.  Because I.R.S. tax forms require that I know this distance, I can tell you that it is 22 miles, one way.  Of course, necessity requires that I reverse my course at the end of the day, driving yet another 22 miles back home.

There are some variables to this journey.  I could not make this 35 minute, solo drive without a thermos of rich, comforting Columbian 7-11 coffee which is offered at the bargain price of $1.39.  So, after traveling a mere four miles from my home, I arrive at the oasis known to all, simply as 7-11. Here, every morning without waiver, I fill my thermos and interact with various Nigerians that keep the coffee pots brewing for me and other kindred souls. 

Once a week, I am required to alter my route so I may visit the rock-bottom priced Shell gas station to fill my miserly 13 gallon gas tank – with only a slight deviation to my normal route. Occasionally, and always on the return leg of my commute, I may motor my way in the off direction of the Costco for bulk supplies or to my favorite “mom and pop” hardware store to procure the necessary doo-hickey of which I find myself in need.

It is quite an interesting and textured landscape.  It represents 6 hours of my life weekly.  It is utterly fascinating.

One would think, quite naturally, that such a repetitive routine would become . . . well, boring.  That may be true for most, but not for me.  You see, I have always taken driving very seriously.  To be serious about one’s driving is to not only see, but to sense everything.  Yes, I take it very seriously.

So there I am, every weekday, motoring up and down Maryland Route 29, surrounded by other motorists, most of whom, thankfully are traveling in the opposite direction thereby making my commute all the more stress-free. Nonetheless, what I see and sense each morning and every afternoon causes me to continually pause and think.  Often I feel that I’m a stranger in a strange land.

James Poniewozik, a writer who grew up in Detroit said of Americans, “your car . . . is you. It expresses your aspirations, your taste, your social class and your virility (or your need to compensate for same)” (2004, para 1).

My car, by which I really mean truck, was chosen by me and my 11 year old son one Saturday as the perfect vehicle to go camping and haul stuff with.  It was to my eyes, fashioned with simple and elegant lines and was stingy with gas – gotta like that and then, gas was still relatively cheap. But, most of all, it was for me a “poor man’s” Chevy Suburban to which I aspired. But the Toyota Tacoma I purchased was deemed by the masses and industry experts as “reliable” and it was what I could afford.  That might be very telling.  Indeed, It expressed my “aspiration (within budget), taste, social class and virility”.

Now, imagine the diversity within which I am infused for those six hours every week.  Here’s the cast of the characters and the curiosities I encounter.

The most aggressive and therefore risky drivers are invariably the ones who drive vehicles worth at least four times as much as I paid for my truck. That seems very odd to me.  Don’t they have far more to lose should their risky behavior entangle them with another unarmed missile?  Perhaps, I think, as Poniewozik does that their motorized bubble is really a symbol of their virility and their actions need to mirror that. 

By contrast, I also see ordinary, “common man” types on foot, negotiating the grassy shoulders of the roadways as they make their way to the “express” bus stop.  Typically, these denizens are either Hispanic or African-American.  Any yes, there is an occasional Caucasian.  As I see and sense these individuals, I am thankful for my blessings.  I cannot imagine living within the suburban sprawl and having to depend on erratic public transportation in all seasons while my livelihood depended on it.  In truth, I could not do my job without, as they say in job advertisements – “a reliable vehicle”.  I reflect upon the affluence I have been afforded mainly through the sacrifices made by my parents – for them, education was everything.  Then of course there’s the matter of good, old fashioned hard work.

I also realize, despite these blessings, how easily it could have been me, navigating the path to the bus stop. The longtime slogan of General Motors was once, "It's not just your car, it's your freedom." And it's not just your freedom. It's your soul” (2004, para 1). Indeed.

On my drive, I notice the generations.  There are, as the Jewish would say in Yiddish, the “bubbulas” – the old people – the very old people, some of whom should no longer be driving.  I say this cautiously, as I myself am approaching bubbala status.  These individuals, in the winter of their years, tend to drive 15 or more miles per hour less than the flow of traffic and keep ultra safe, eight car length distances between themselves and the vehicle ahead of them.  Their depth perception is compromised as is their reaction time.  They drive extremely slowly. But, they are wise and prudent. 

Then there are the GenXers and the GenYs, not to mention the Millennials. These drivers scare me to death. They act without thinking – oblivious to possible outcomes.  They have animated cell phone conversations as their knees, steer a vehicle that is zipping through space and time at 60 mph or more.  Worse yet, they prefer to text message one another rather than converse.  This means that their weapon of mass destruction occasionally flies unmanned, traveling just as steady and straight as its suspension system will allow – a sort of auto-pilot. 

I wonder, as I observe drivers such as these, as to their benefactors.  Usually, I can imagine the possibilities, based on the make and model of their “ride”.  Parents tend to also pick “safe”, “reliable” and “practical” cars for their children.  When I observe these situations, I remind myself of my own foolish beginnings. 

Then there are “tricked-out” rods and their commanders.  Most always, the drivers of these vehicles are individuals of Hispanic or African-American features and combinations thereof. And yes, I do observe the occasional “good ol’ boy” pounding his rusting, cast-off truck up and down the byway.  His vehicle screams seer power, not looks!  The driver say by his choice of ride, I may not be pretty, but I can whoop your ass if you dare give me cause. 

Regarding the formerly mentioned groups, those Hispanic or African-American, I sense very distinct differences.  The Hispanic riders ooze machismo – it’s all about understated appearance.  This is despite the shinny, animated spinners on all four wheels.  They also seem to drive physically low to the ground with one shoulder dipped, and, above all else, with a forced, but casual nonchalance. 

Occasionally, when our eyes meet on the road, I sometimes sense evil. I do not feel in those moments that I am in some way profiling these drivers.  But, on these rare occasions, I sense from their glance a chilling darkness within their soul – the droopy, vacant gaze of distain.

 I’ll counterpoint these drivers with their bus walking counterparts.  In eyes of the latter, I most always in see a proud determination to complete their rounds – no matter the difficulty.  I’m reminded of my grandfather who hopped a steering vessel, departing from the harbor of Reggio di Calabria in Italy – striking out for America with little more than the clothes on his back and, at best, two lire to rub together. In his new homeland, he found himself walking to the coal mine in West Virginia six days a week until Black Lung laid him eternally to rest. But, not before fathering thirteen children, all of whom had the opportunity to attend college. 

The walkers, I understand.  The low riders I do not.  They seem to have too much for little purpose.  Perhaps it is my prejudice or proclivity, but the low riders never appear to be dressed for work.  Prejudice, admittedly, may taint my conclusion. Erika Prosper, the Director of Strategic Planning at Garcis360 Communica, based in Texas, says Hispanics indeed “value price and style above safety” and “58% of them are under 35 years of age” (2004, para 3). But most surprising to me is the statistic that, on average, a Hispanic buyer will consult “4.2 sources before purchasing a vehicle” (2004, para 6).  That is 3 times the national average. They devour knowledge. Even more telling, according to a survey conducted by American Demographics,  is the data that shows this group “associates quality of life with a new car” – how American!

For all the diverse groups, there exists a subset of a homogeneous blend of all cultures, generations and genders – the law breakers.  This is by far is the most depressing part of my commute. I am thankful for those who heeded their driving instructor, the DMV tester, the State Trooper and the Judge.  They obey the law either through fear, acquiescence or an acquired understanding that when many share their road, there needs to be a few conventions that keep us safe and sane. I place myself within this group because driving within the law is no less important than the Magna Charta or our own Declaration of Independence. Both prescribe rules to assure us of our freedom to do as we please with little fear.

Then there is this sub-set – the lawless, careless and dangerous.  They are the ones you cannot, ever, ever trust.  If one comes upon them, they should turn the other way or give way immediately.  These motorists are the ones, who despite the roadside warning that the lane is ending, will with unyielding determination, disregard their civic duty to “yield the right-of-way” and nearly collide with another rather than surrender the supreme position in the food chain.  And, yes, these individuals most often steer vehicles worth almost as much as a house. Their hair is superbly coiffed and their eyes steely.  Avoid them. 

Likewise, the vehicle coming up fast from the right and to the rear of your vehicle – “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” Despite your gracious, flashing signal, acknowledging that they may have “your” lane; they will accelerate even faster to slip by you on the deadly right – otherwise known as the blind-spot. I could go on, but this class of non-citizen is sufficiently evident and easily identifiable.

But it’s not all driving.  Remember the “oasis” – the 7-11?  Here is a place where drivers cast off their mechanized extensions of steel and become all too human again. 

The simple and routine act of pulling into a parking space in front of the store triggers enlightenment.  That waxed and ultra -shinny SUV?  Why is it parked at the curb?  It’s a fire lane.  Truth be told, if there were a fire, I’m confident the SUV’s driver will be the 1^st to hop in his vehicle and pull away.  It is rather the nature of this selfish act which confounds me.  Resting one’s larger than life vehicle at the curb makes it all the harder for others to come and go from their designated parking spaces.  I think drivers such as these are either oblivious or they couldn’t care less.  If they’re oblivious, there’s hope. They may learn.  If they couldn’t care less, what else don’t they care about?  Should someone fall on a subway track, would they be the last person to act – not even to alert the staff?  Likewise, would they pocket money given to them in error by a clerk just as mean, old Mr. Potter did in the film, It’s a Wonderful Life?  I think “yes”, they would.  I would not be comfortable sitting at the same dinner table with individuals such as these.

In the store, however, my spirit is always renewed.  The store is owned by a franchisee who is Nigerian.  It appears that all of his staff is Nigerian as well.  I may not be scientific for me to draw the conclusion that “all Nigerians” are nice if not exceeding gracious.  But, based on my morning routine, this is the conclusion I’d be compelled to make without any dissenting information to the contrary. 

There are three men and two women within that store that are constant.  Each speaks English relatively well to various degrees, but each is fluent in kindness.  Unlike most associates in a retail store, when one of them asks me “how are you?” they refuse to continue until I assure them that all is well and that I am fine.  It’s not just a courtesy.  It’s genuine interest.  Or, so I choose to believe. 

In my goings and coming from this place- all within the space of five minutes or less, I see the iHOP waitress or member of the wait staff hustling across the adjacent parking lot and into the store. At first, I thought it odd.  If one works at a restaurant, why would one need to go into a 7-11?  Then, I watched and observed – for a pack of smokes, a packet of Tylenol or a bottle or two or more mini bottles of “5 Hour Energy” drink.  Again, I recall my Italian grandfather who literally worked himself to death. I understand. 

I can also see as I exit the store in approach my truck, the column of full sized Verizon trucks making their turns onto the road.  Freshly dispatched from an unseen warehouse nearby, they ramble down the service road like an army off to the battlefield.

Occasionally, there’s a homeless person standing on the outside of the building, near the front door with no particular purpose or urgency.  Sometimes, on line, I notice someone ahead of me, one with so little, who is “boxing” their dream with the next draw of the lottery.  And, sometimes, an old woman, disheveled and scattered fumbles through several envelopes, all bound tightly with rubber bands, to extract the coinage need to purchase a donut.  It’s all there – in the world market, my 7-11.

Leon Mandel said that, “the car is the lens through which we see the world. No bad lens, no bad way to see the world”.  I mostly agree.  If it were not for my pondering mind, I might be better able to embrace the non-judgmental notion that “we are what we are” – without good, without bad.  We are all doing, hopefully, the best we can.  This is the world that I observe as a stranger in a strange land on my journey up and down the highway called Route 29 in the counties of Montgomery, Prince Georges and Howard, each located in the state of Maryland within the United States of America on the planet earth of the Milky Way.