Bus Stop Winter

Clumps of snow gradually fall onto the street signs, garbage cans, and piles of shoveled snow and slush. A few large bumps appear in the snow on the right side of the street directly ahead of me; at seven a.m., most people are not awake yet to brush off their cars and go to work. The only living thing, except for the snow, is we who wait at the Fowler High School bus stop every morning. And yet, we seem to be out of it, still locked inside our own dreams rather than at the bus stop, entranced by the ever-falling whiteness that conceals my home in Syracuse. Maybe I haven't woken up yet, but it seems like everything that was once human is now buried under a massive white canvas, and I'm standing in the cold waiting for the bus to take me away.

At the corner diagonal and to the right of the one on which I stand is the bus stop for Henninger High School, our high school's rival. There is never any tension between our bus stops, in fact, we rarely acknowledge each other's presence. They are on Fowler territory anyway - school districts are divided by streets - so very few Henninger students are at that stop. Their corner is directly in front of a store with large barred windows, beer signs, and announcements for Marlboro cigarettes. Many corner stores especially known for being owned by Middle Easterners who sell cigarettes and cheap dutch cigars are sprinkled throughout Syracuse. I can only see the one across from me, and it is one of few corner stores within a five-block radius that are open this early in the morning. The store is at the bottom of an apartment complex and to the left of that, directly in front of me, is another apartment complex that is home of a cheap and unprofessional looking garage where a few of my old boy friends supposedly work. The other two corners, mine and the the one to the right of me, also have apartment complexes, but the rest of these streets have one and two-story houses. The streets that divide my stop and the Henninger stop are at the bottom of a hill, and they seem to stretch for miles ahead of me. The four roads that branch out from my bus stop all angle upwards, and I am stuck at the bottom of a bowl covered in snow and ice.

“Yo nigga, I got mad fucked up last night!” some guy in a black Carhartt hooded sweatshirt too big for him said while waddling over in his sagging jeans towards another guy wearing the same outfit. He lit a dutch, continued with the story, and the smell of marijuana tickled my nose. Most of the discussions among people at the bus stop were about the recent beefs people had and the fights that went down, so it was a nice change to hear about a fun party. The two guys speaking did not have on a backpack or any papers in their hands. They didn't even look familiar, which led me to believe that his probation officer told him that he needed to make his monthly appearance at school. A lot of people disappeared and came to visit once in a while, but usually once people stopped they didn't bother to come back. Most of the girls that used to stand at this bus stop have dropped out and had children, and most of the guys have gone on to deal drugs.

I am one of about few people wearing backpacks, and the rest who outnumber us are in a little group gossiping. Those of us who are wearing backpacks stand alone, patiently waiting for the bus while either trying to ignore the loud chatter or listening to music. Most of my friends live within walking distance of Fowler, and my friends who live near me usually get rides. During the winter, the bus arrives anytime between 7:15 and 7:45 a.m., meaning that I have to leave my house at 7:05 and hope that I don't have to wait for too long. I never bring a watch with me, so I am unaware of the time. All I know is that the bus always takes much longer in the biting cold, and is sometimes late.

I lean against the Stop sign and take a deep breath of the cold, charcoal-scented air. My finger turns up the volume of my cd player, and the fast, crunchy guitar riffs and double bass drums from Fear Factory's song “Corporate Cloning” match the speed I wish I was moving.

The half hour wait early in the morning seems like another day, another mandatory ritual that I have to endure in order to arrive at Fowler's front doors. Yet, still, I am going nowhere. The bus takes me away from the snowy world, leaving track marks on the white canvas in case I need help getting back home. But I somehow end up back to that same place, at the same time, and there are no track marks. No evidence of my departure or arrival, and no change in my daily life to make me feel like the next day will be significant, worth living. Footsteps and track marks are filled in with fresh snow, giving the illusion that Syracuse was untouched by human influence. Snow is persistent at covering any evidence of change.

Winters in Syracuse drag on for about seven months a year and makes standing at the bus stop more difficult. I am always too cold and frustrated that my jeans are wet for the rest of the day. Falling is a constant fear of mine while walking down to the bus stop, or walking on slippery carpets that have exceeded their slush-holding capacity. The snow is an inconvenient presence that makes my daily routines even more frustrating. I am always in a rush to leave my house in the morning because I need to get to school, do pointless homework, and have superficial conversations with friends. But the snow always slowed me down as if to torture me more. The monotony of my life wasn't bad enough.

Even though my relationship with snow is often rocky, I always enjoy my waits at the bus stop more during the winter than in any other season. Snow covers the streets that were once littered with beer bottles, used diapers, cigarette butts, and papers. What was a rundown and filthy looking city is now a glistening white castle. Snow lights up the city and gives it a brightness it doesn't have during any other season. During the winter time, people stay inside, and when they do go outside they are too focused on staying warm to worry about anything else. Syracuse is a violent and depressing place; the people are poor, or at least always in need of money, and there are few opportunities to make money. Because a lot of people don't have jobs or aren't in school, they loiter in the streets and start trouble. When heat first breaks through the snow and ice leftover from winter, all sorts of crimes are committed in the streets. The news has nothing but negative things to share with people whose eyes are glued to the television. A homicide here, a gang rape there.

I was jumped on one of those nice days with my friend. We decided to get off the bus on the block before my bus stop so we could walk. A black guy about my age came toward me, “Hey mami, why you walkin' like that? Why don't you come sit on my dick?” I tried to ignore him as the rest of his gang started crowding around us. I kept walking while they continued to push and harass me. They punched my friend in the face, “Why don't you help your girlfriend out? What, you don't like her?” We were followed up to the corner store and then they decided to go bug someone there. The police didn't care. We weren't seriously injured. They had more serious crimes to deal with anyway. During the winter, I don't have to worry about getting jumped or gang raped or murdered because everyone is inside. With snow came safety and quiet streets.

I waited at the bus stop in a blizzard one morning during my freshman year. There was probably a foot of snow on the ground, but the news hadn't said anything about a snow day before I left. Twenty minutes passed. “I'm too black for this,” a girl exclaimed while brushing off the snow on her hood, implying that Africa never got cold. There was a surprising number of people at the stop that morning, maybe ten or twelve people. We stood there, attempting to fight off the snow for another ten minutes. Everyone slowly vanished from sight, exclaiming that school wasn't worth the wait. Luckily it wasn't too windy outside, or else I would have nearly frozen to death. After about an hour, it was just me and Dante. He turned towards me, peeking out of his snow-covered hood, “Do you think it'll come?”

We were tempted to leave, but we both didn't want to go home. We had nothing to look forward to. When the bus finally came about forty-five minutes later, it was empty. We stepped into the bus and were immediately warmed up. We walked straight to the back of the bus and sprawled out, the right side was mine and the left his. The bus drove slowly, but I didn't care. As long as I was moving away from that world of white oblivion, then I was happy to wait to make the transfer to yet another world, and another.