When and where I grew up, no one locked their doors. I don’t mean house doors. That’s not that unusual. Not even now. I mean car doors. Not only that, but people even left their car keys in the ignition. I was in college the first time I encountered a car with its lights on in a parking lot, and I was shocked to find that I couldn’t open the doors to turn them off. I stood there. Like…. now what? How am I supposed to help this person if they’ve locked their doors?!
(For those of the latest generation who’ve no idea what I mean: cars didn’t always turn their lights off automatically. A car’s battery would drain if you left the headlights on. If you saw this situation, it was considered polite to open the driver’s door and turn off the lights. And, ahem, close the door and walk away. Seriously. Just walk away.)
I wonder if the reason that lights turn off automatically now is because people started locking their car doors and that assistance could no longer be given.
Mickey, my trike
In early April 2017, my kids and I biked to the BART (our underground or subway) station in our suburb at 9:00am on a Saturday morning. We locked our bikes, in my case, my electric trike, “Mickey,” in plain view of the BART police car parked a mere 20 feet away.
We were gone for 90 minutes. Likely just enough time that the police officer made a few rounds of the parking lot, went down into the subway to check on things, maybe went to the restroom once, if that.
Electronic control clipped
During one of those moments, someone came up to my bike and used wire cutters to remove the electronic controller – rendering the electric assist on my cargo trike useless. I didn’t understand this because the little electronic controller is useless by itself. They didn’t steal the battery or the motor, so why bother?
When I filed the police report, though, the officer explained that sometimes the thief disables a bike quickly in hopes that the owner will have to leave it overnight. The thief comes back at night to ransack it. Fortunately, for me, I was still able to bike it home. Unfortunately for me, my trike’s electrical system is an older model, and my bike mechanic cannot find the now discontinued replacement part. To replace the entire electrical system will cost hundreds of dollars. Mickey has been grounded ever since.
After hours of cursing silently in my head, what I am left with are a couple things. One is the dilemma of what I do with my now non-electric trike. This is the second time that Mickey has been grounded. The first was when we were “doored” a few months earlier. It took a couple of months to get her repaired because she’s European, and there are few resellers of her on the west coast. I bought this obscure vehicle because it uniquely met my and my family’s needs. I justified the expense because I don’t drive a car. I jokingly refer to her as my minivan. I had not planned for how difficult both basic and substantial mechanical work would be. I now wonder if it makes sense to pour money into repairing her again only to find myself in need of another expensive repair later. To me this is the definition of a luxury vehicle. It’s not necessarily the initial cost that makes it luxurious. It’s the ongoing cost.
This idea of “luxury” is the other thought that keeps circulating in my head and makes me reflect back on the difference between the behaviors of the people when/where I grew up and when/where I now reside. Of course, I am frustrated with the thief who so blithely crippled Mickey. It’s easy to blame the thief’s action on the anonymity of an urban environment. The thief doesn’t know me or my circumstances. They have no idea that this trike is effectively my car. But it’s more than just that. Even in rural Indiana, not everyone knew everyone else, and even if we did go to church with or bought groceries from or exchanged pleasantries in the post office with, we had no idea people’s back stories and circumstances. What does stand out from then/there and now/here, however, is the scope of the difference between those who had and those who did not.
Back then in rural Indiana, the wealthiest folks in the county maybe had brand new cars, but they were still only Chevys or Fords. Their Sunday bests were bought at JC Penney’s or Sears not at Nordstoms and certainly not tailor made. The poorest of us were ashamed of our hand-me downs and government cheese, but we were still greeted and welcomed and acknowledged on the street.
I recall watching John Hughes’ films and his regular portrayal of overly-privileged anti-heroes and under-privileged champions. I honestly thought that this was a Hollywood construct. Something on par with the Bogey Monster or the Easter Bunny: in it there might be a good story, but definitely not a hard hitting expose.
Then I moved to the San Francisco Bay Area where the extremes are indescribable and incomprehensible. San Francisco, Oakland, Berkeley, and the surrounding suburbs are replete with lavish luxury and utter destitution. And the gross distance is not only calculable in cost. It is calculated in compassion and acknowledgement of people as humans.
When I was younger, perhaps because I had only seen this portrayed in movies and televisions, the idea of having servants was mind-boggling. I subconsciously abhorred the notion and looked down on people who could not do things for themselves. Seriously, who cannot weed or mow their own garden? Or clean their own toilet? Or (period piece) pour their own tea or (period piece) button their own gown? How could people demean others this way?
Now living in a white collar, working class suburb, I see things differently. I now find myself employing people to take my dogs for a walk in the middle of the day when we are all at work. I pay someone to tend my trees and meager back and front yard. We have cleaners who keep us from living in a cess pool. Because time is so scarce each weekend not only for me and Sandy, but for the boys as well, our time has become a commodity paid in service providers. It’s the trickle down theory at work. Only it still makes me feel horrid. I don’t feel superior to my gardener or my dog walker, that my work is of greater value. It’s just the work that I can do. (I’d be a miserable dog walker and an even worse gardener.) I hope they know how much I appreciate them. I hope that I they invoice us at a rate that adequately supports them to live in this arena.
I see how privileged I’ve become, and it seems surreal to me. Somewhere – likely even before marrying Sandy – I managed to find and cross bridge over a socio-economic moat. But, I know that my sons and my husband (who have never known anything but the Bay Area’s strata) envy colleagues and fellow students with vastly grander homes and lifestyles.
How easy it is for us – even those who have jumped one fence – to peer over the next fence at those who have more and to imagine what their life must be like. We covet so readily.
How difficult it is for us – even those who have come from the other side – to look back at those with less and empathize with their situation. The more destitute the less it is we even see them as people, because it scares us. It frightens us to picture ourselves with less. So we build walls between us and lock those gates and give keys sparingly knowing that we can always change the locks if we need to.