She doesn’t own a dress, her hair is always a mess
Meet Virginia, Train
If you catch her stealin’, she won’t confess
When I went to college, I relied on public transportation. I didn’t get my license until I was twenty three due to the one-two punch of untreated ADHD and dyspraxia (coordination disorder), but I couldn’t afford a car anyway. It wasn’t the first time I used public transportation. We moved across town when I was a freshman in high school. If you’ve ever read “Resting Witch Face”, you might suspect I don’t enjoy public transportation or even walking. While I think we need to expand and improve public transportation and reduce car use, I don’t think one of the staunchest advocates I know appreciates how daunting and even scary public transportation can be for girls in particular.
I sometimes think back on some of the bad and even dangerous situations I found myself in, especially when public transportation wasn’t an option. It’s hard for people to move through this world safely and affordably. I can’t remember anything particularly noteworthy about my high school bus rides except for the time I found a puppy at my stop while I waited for my mom to pick me up (and yes I got to keep her, but that is tertiary to the point).
Tucson was another story.
One regular was a blind man with a seeing eye dog. People would try to pet the dog or parents would tell their kids to go pet the dog, and he’d have to get stern with them. Some had the audacity to get huffy about it. I knew you weren’t supposed to bother seeing eye dogs, and I don’t think anyone even told me. And everyone should know better than to tell a kid to pet anyone else’s dog, whether it’s working or not (I taught my kids you always ask permission, unless it’s a working dog in which case you don’t do anything at all). I wondered how exhausting it must be dealing with mean ignorant people on top of physical challenges.
Other regulars had mental or developmental disabilities. Some seemed to have an actual destination. Some just rode around aimlessly. Someone later told me that Tucson had insufficient services so desperate families would buy them bus passes and send them on their way. Once a regular with developmental delays exited the bus. His pants started to fall off while he was running for the next, holding his lunch box with one hand and his waistband with the other, and I remember people on the bus laughing. Instead of putting my problems in perspective, it made me feel that much worse because I didn’t know what I could do to help when I could barely take care of myself.
(I wasn’t the picture of mental wellness in those days. There’s a misperception that people do or want to do certain things because they don’t like themselves and think the world would be better off without them, but even at my lowest point, I still liked me even if everyone else thought I was a loser. I think that’s part of what infuriated them. I kept going out of spite.)
I still remember another regular by name. I always think of Virginia when I hear that song. She was known for glaring, yelling, and swearing, but I never understood anything she said. I just know that when she looked at you, there was no light behind those eyes, only fury. Once she wanted the thermus of a different man with developmental delays, and they almost had a physical altercation. Another time, the bus driver had to get stern (but fair) when she was yelling. I didn’t realize at the time, but I think that bus driver contributes to the DNA of a taxi driver that appears in Drama Queen. She was tough, pretty, and I always felt safer when she was behind the wheel. I have a lot of respect for bus drivers in general, especially after having kids and finding out how distracting they can be when you’re trying to drive. Anyway, she knew Virginia by name. I think the others did, but only she addressed Virginia – it was probably why Virginia listened.
I felt sad for Virginia, and scared of her, but I never once thought the situation would be improved by violence. I just wanted her somewhere safe and cared for. I’d be even more scared of anyone who felt differently and acted upon it, or cheered on those who did. What happened to Jordan Neely on that NYC subway and how too many responded makes me ill.
I never met Virginia. None of us had, not really. What was her story? Had she always been that way? If not, who was she before? What happened?
Deep down, I think what most upset people about Virginia is the way in which she held up a mirror to society. She represented our failure, and our shame, but she was a person not a symbol.
Jordan Neely was a person, too. I don’t want to reduce him to a symbol, either, but the way someone killed him and others cheered feels pretty damn symbolic of the way in which many people would rather hide our shame than confront it – or worse, turn our failings into something to celebrate.
