Sometimes I'm just a sucker for a cab ride. Beats taking Muni, even though we do have a pretty good transit system here in The City. But if I have a suitcase, plus some extra bags, I'd like to be dropped off at my front door, thank you very much.
So, here I was, getting into the cab after a long weekend of house sitting over in a posh little neighborhood (yeah, life is hard). The cabbie was a gentlemen, putting my suitcase into the trunk for me, and opening my door. Once he knew where we were going, we were off.
He was listening to KOIT, the "lite rock, less talk" station. Not only was he listening, he was singing along (even though it was pretty apparent he wouldn't be auditioning for anyone, anywhere, anytime soon). The station was playing Roxanne's "It Must Have Been Love (But It's Over Now)." (For you cinematic folks, you'll recognize it from one of the final scenes in "Pretty Woman".) It wasn't exactly a song I wanted to hear, given that I had only just ended a connection a couple of days before, but I didn't get much of a chance to dwell on it since my cabbie decided to start a conversation.
"You know, when she say, 'It must have been love and it's over now'? That [sic] not love, that [sic] sex she's talking about. Real love doesn't end, it's when the sex is over, and they're all, 'You son of a bitch! You broke my heart! I'll kill you, motherfucker!'" I have to explain something here. It turns out my cabbie was from Vietnam and had been living in the City for 30 some-odd years. So picture an older, Vietnamese dude who's been singing along to the radio to this sappy piece of 80s music, with this now coming out of his mouth. Yeah. I couldn't help but laugh. It really did break the ice, though.
"Jesus Christ! Would you look at these houses?!" He was pointing to some nice homes along the main street. They weren't mansions with security gates around them, but they were very definitely owned by the more affluent. "Can you fuckin' believe that? Those are single family homes, too, you know? Jesus! Who the hell needs all that?" (These may not have been his exact words, but they're pretty close.) I asked him where he lived. Turns out he's lived in the Bayview pretty much ever since he moved to San Francisco. For those who are unfamiliar with SF neighborhoods, the Bayview/Hunter's Point area is notorious for gang violence, drugs, theft, and other crimes. Parts of it have been gentrified, but the problems of poverty still remain. A large portion of the population is African American.
"Yeah," he said. "I don't like it much, but the rent is cheap." I could imagine. "Lots of crime, though," he pointed out. I told him I knew, and that I had worked in that area a few years back as a tutor for middle school students. "Yeah, it's tough living there. You don't wanna be around at night. Lots of crazy shit happens. You get robbed right in front of your house! You know why? Cuz when you're in front of your house, your guard is down. Shit, when I'm out driving in this thing, I'm always aware of what's around me. But when I'm home, late at night, I forget to think about all that." Turns out, he had been robbed a few times in his own house. Some teenagers had come in with guns once and took a bunch of his stuff. "And they weren't more than 14 or 16 years old."
There's no doubt that this is tragic, both for the victim (my cabbie) and the fact that the perpetrators were so young. As much as I felt for my driver, having worked with some of the kids from that area, I knew that these young boys he was talking about weren't just heinous criminals without a conscience. Ok, I didn't know 100% that that was the case, but I had a feeling. I attempted to talk about the root causes behind their behavior. A lot of kids from disadvantaged neighborhoods will take up the gun because it's easier for them to believe they have more power that way, rather than believing that they have something to offer the world. (*Cue "Dangerous Minds" theme.* Yeah, I know, I'm a white lady talking about this like I've lived it. I haven't, but I've caught a glimpse of what they go through and how they see themselves. It ain't pretty. I'm not offering it as an excuse for their behavior. Excuses are what allow things to stay the way they are. Reasons can lead to a closer examination, and hopefully change, of a situation. Which is what I was offering to the man driving me home from my cushy little gig.) I told him about how there's this image that young black men can take up about what a real man looks like, i.e. one who uses violence as a way to dominate and have control. Or that some young men become involved in that life out of fear for their own life. Well, let's face it...fear pretty much lies at the heart of all violent acts. (If you need further evidence of this, watch "Bowling for Columbine." Again.)
"You know what I call that? I call that an excuse," he replied to my sociological musings. "People make choices. They know what's right and what's not. Take me. I lived in a poor neighborhood all my life. I had a dad who would drink a lot and beat me every day. But I never thought that my life would be better if I went out and shoot [sic] somebody. So, saying it's because of where you come from, that's why you do those things, that's just an excuse." (I'm paraphrasing here.)
I respectfully disagreed with him, and tried to point out that I wasn't making excuses, but instead trying to acknowledge the way things were, the reality for the kids in Hunter's Point and other inner cities. "What it comes down to," he said, "is that a human being is a human being. No one is different. We're all human, we all make mistakes, but we can all correct our mistakes, do the right thing."
"Well, that may be true to an extent," I conceded. "But, people will do what's familiar to them. Someone living in a rough neighborhood may want to do the right thing and have a better life, but if all they're told by the people around them or society in general, that they're a thug or should be one or are expected to be one, then the likelihood is that they will take that path."
"It's true that people do what they know. That's true. But take me for example." I stopped him momentarily to tell him to turn on the next street. "Yeah, I used to drink a lot. Every day. I was an alcoholic. I went to meetings and all that shit. Then, one day, I just said, 'No, I'm not doing this anymore. I don't want to be like this.' And I quit."
I acknowledged that this was great for him, and that it was indeed possible for people to change. "They have to want to change," he interrupted. I agreed. But there was the additional problem of wanting to change, and others around you not wanting you to take that path. I would have gone on more, but we were getting close to my house and I had to give him additional directions to make sure we ended up in the right place.
I don't think either of us really changed our perspectives. I'm a bleeding heart liberal (might as well be honest) and while he was not a man of privilege, based on what he told me, his own personal experiences led him to his beliefs. More than that, the experiences led him to hold true to those beliefs. It was almost as if he changed his point of view, he might invalidate his own experience. He seemed to have the mentality of "Hey, I made it out ok. Why can't other people get their shit together?"
There's no question that our own experiences lead us to have a certain perspective of the world. That's fine, it creates us and can, in a way, create the environment in which we live. But there's more to it than that. If we only hold to our own truth as "the truth" then we miss out on whole other perspectives that could be just as valid, and could, in some cases, add to our perspectives. I'm not a pure relativist and believe that everyone's truth is all truth, nor do I believe in some one, objective "Truth." It's something in between those two extremes. It's the belief that there is truth to everyone's experience, and truth within our own, and that somehow some kind of blending occurs, or can occur through dialectic and/or shared experiences. This blending or amalgamation is not "Truth" or even moving towards some "greater Truth", but instead is just another piece to creating who we are and who we shall be.
I wonder what my next cabbie will be like.
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