Len Bordeaux. Photo by Lynn Brevig.

Three Brothers

By Len Bordeaux

I saw three of my Black brothers on the bus today.  The first appeared suicidal: from the other side of the street he stepped directly in front of the approaching bus and zigzagged toward the bus stop where I was waiting with my laden shopping cart.  His odd behavior and unkempt hair suggested to me that he might be confrontational, so I was relieved when I sensed him pass me quietly as I was getting my cart and shopping bags organized in the sideways-facing seats near the front of the bus.

Brother Two entered next, walking quickly and efficiently, paying his fare while talking in a friendly way on a cell phone.

As I watched the midrise buildings of Seattle’s University District go by, my thoughts were still circling around Brother One in a hazily judgmental way.  “He’s probably on something” was the most persistent thought, but I didn’t dwell on that.  It was commencement day at the University of Washington, and I was also thinking about getting home before graduation crowds snarled the traffic.  The heavy negative soundtrack didn’t kick in until Brother Three staggered on.  His face had a panicked look as he frantically hung on to his pants with one hand.  They were already down to his knees, and he appeared afraid that they might fall around his ankles and trip him.

“What is it about Black people?” was the go-to thought.  I was one of only a few whites on the bus.  The other passengers were brown except for the three Blacks, and all the others were just quietly riding the bus like “normal people.”  I didn’t want to do this stereotyping.  I caught the thought as soon as it arose, embarrassed that I can still experience such profiling, so I settled in for a conversation with myself:

“Now you know, not all Blacks are like this.  Brother Two, still chatting on his phone, seems nice and friendly.”  (Although when he got off a few stops later I noticed that he was the only person on the bus not wearing a face mask – so still not ‘quite correct.’)  “Roi-Martin, Dan, Charles and Wallace (Black friends) don’t act like One and Three.  Neither, I imagine, do the many Black writers I have read and musicians whose music I have loved.  And goodness knows there are plenty of repulsive white folks!”

I reasoned on and on like this as we passed Husky Stadium, and I soon realized that we had made it beyond the danger zone where graduation traffic was likely to be a problem.  For years now I have been educating myself, trying to understand why race in America is the way it is.  Why do we see each other the way we do?  Feel what we feel, say what we say, and treat each other the way we do?  I have joined a beautiful bi-racial group of folks for “Conversations on Race”.  We meet a couple of times a month to talk about race and learn from each other.  I have also been reading memoirs and US history where I have learned parts of our past that were not taught in my high school and college history courses.  I am learning a tiny bit of what I had not understood at all before about longterm effects of slavery and Jim Crow.  If, as seems to me to be the case – but without any hard data to back this up – a disproportionately high percentage of Black folks in the US suffer from addiction and mental illness, there are historical reasons for that.

As the bus began to move beyond the University District into the quiet, green neighborhoods of northeast Seattle, I noticed a pungeant, unpleasant odor.  It smelled like some kind of smoke.  I looked around but didn’t see anyone smoking.  The windows were closed so it seemed unlikely the smell would be coming from outside.  Anyway, the smell felt close and intimate and soon my lungs began to feel unpleasantly pressed on.  I shrugged it off until a dark hump caught my eye behind a seat a couple of rows back on the other side of the bus.  I realized Brother One had hunkered down and pulled a heavy blanket over himself.  There had been newspaper accounts recently about crack smoking on city buses and the transit authority’s policy of non-interference.  My imagination went to work.

I tried to feel love for Brothers One, Two and Three.  Brother Two without a face mask was pretty easy, but the others were a real challenge.  “Don’t try to like them,” I thought.  “Their behavior is not likeable.  Just love them.”  I couldn’t do it.  Not really.  I could, in an intellectual sort of way, imagine loving them, but there was no heart connection.

Part of my Buddhist practice is to radiate thoughts of loving friendliness to all beings.  I start with myself, then move outward – first to those I am close to and then through increasingly challenging rings: first my parents, then my teachers, relatives, friends, friendly beings, neutral beings, difficult beings, people suffering harm from those abusing power, and finally those people abusing power and causing harm to others.  When I picture “difficult beings” I often think of people I have encountered on a bus or near a bus stop, people who have approached me with anger or inappropriate touching.  I think, “May you be well.  May you open with friendliness to every contact just the way it is.  May all your actions be motivated by friendliness.  May you manifest the causes of peacefulness and quickly realize the end of suffering.” I did this practice this morning.

And yet, the best I could manage with brothers One and Three was a subtle softening of the heart.  I wouldn’t call it “love.”  I cannot say I freed myself from judgment, but I did wish them to be well.  I guess that’s a start.

Brother One recognized his stop and pulled the cord just in time to alert the driver, and he exited through the rear door.  Perhaps if I had been filled with goodwill I would have felt nothing but wishes for his wellbeing.  Instead, I felt relieved that he had left without incident.  I snuck a peek to check up on Brother Three.  He was stretched out across the back seat of the bus, perhaps sleeping peacefully.  He was still stretched out when I got off.

Reflecting back at home, I considered what had happened.  I took the bus to go shopping; some other people got on and got off.  That’s about it.  But all this mental drama!  My mind was filled with my stories of how it should be: he should do that, not this.  I should think and feel that, not this.  But that’s not the world.  Maybe an ideal world would be like that.  But I’m living in this world, and I’m learning that peace in this world comes from laying down the arms I have taken up against the way things are.  My chance to love those brothers while they were with me on the bus is now gone.  All I have in this moment is this ability to reflect back, to try to imagine the pain and the reasons for the pain that might lead a person to dull himself so that he only stumbles through life.

The capacity to reflect and imagine – to be aware of our thoughts, emotions and reactivity – is no small thing.  It can contribute mightily to our experience of improved conditions.  If I had suffered the same pains that my brothers have suffered, would I be able to navigate life as well as they do?  I am grateful to have this moment to nourish compassion.  Next time I ride the bus with people who challenge my capacity to love … who knows?  But whatever thoughts may arise is not the point.  What is useful is simply to notice what arises, be peaceful with it and allow it to cease.

Len Bordeaux has been studying and practicing Buddhism in the Theravada tradition for over 20 years.  His primary teachers have been Bhante Henepola Gunaratana, Rodney Smith and Ajahn Sona, though he is fortunate to have received instruction from many others.  He lives in Seattle.