Buster, I've Had Enough
He was holding a streetcar captive with his rage against a Muslim. Someone should call him out. Why not me?
I only meant to celebrate the rightness of the morning. Sundress weather for walking Casey, a new friend made along the way. A killer aquafit class had left me flushed and hungry. I was craving a double scoop of Ed’s burnt marshmallow ice cream. If the Queen streetcar didn’t let me down, I’d beat the morning rush.
The streetcar gods were with me. Sunlight warmed my shoulder. I was halfway into a daydream when a loud male voice pulled me back, preaching holy war in Jesus’ name. Muslims were killers, he said. Blood sacrifice was their mission. The preacher sat a few rows behind me—hard eyes flashing, cheeks plump with baby fat. Across the aisle a brown-skinned woman in a niqab pressed her cheek against the window.
People looked at their phones, their hands, the passing scene. A woman with a careworn face muttered under her breath while heaving a shopping cart onto the street. As the doors shut behind her, I saw the calculation she had made. She wouldn’t miss her stop for this affair. Let someone else respond.
Why not me?
I still get fan mail from students and teachers who think I know something about courage in the face of cruelty.
When I was 14, I saw a classmate bullied in my English class. We all knew the day had come for Bobby Craig’s oral report, and we knew he would struggle. The cool kids had it in for Bobby. As he shuffled his feet and his notes, they rose as one, flaunting hand-lettered badges that proclaimed, “THE BOBBY CRAIG FAN CLUB.” A half-smile tugged at Bobby’s lips, as if he thought he’d finally cracked cracked the code of ninth grade. Maybe he couldn’t see the dorky stick figure on the badges, or the glint in the bullies’ eyes as they exchanged knowing glances. Then they burst into wild applause, and Bobby flushed with shame.
I sat with lowered head, wishing the scene away.
The short story I wrote about my silence won a national contest and became a staple of middle-school anthologies. More than 50 years later, I still get fan mail from students and teachers who think I know something about courage in the face of cruelty. They had no idea that I reached age 68 without daring to stand up for decency and kindness. I had gumption on the page and at the podium, but not in front of a man wild with hatred.
The streetcar rattled east toward the ice cream parlor. The woman in the niqab hadn’t moved; her eyes glistened. The holy warrior was spitting fury. I stood and faced him. “It’s time for you to stop. I’ve had enough, and the rest of us too.”
The holy warrior curled his lip. “I have a right to free speech. You’re interrupting our conversation.”
“Conversation? You’re abusing someone with your monologue.”
He sat with his bony knees splayed, his bare arms folded across his chest. The posture of the class wise guy who knows the teacher is about to send him to the office. “Well, then, you’re interrupting my monologue. You should sit down. Jesus said, ‘Mind your own business.’”
I never went to Sunday school. The Serenity Prayer is the only prayer I’ve ever spoken in a church. Rocking with the motion of the streetcar, I thought of what Jesus really said. The holy warrior needed to hear it. “Jesus said, ‘Love one another.’ Buster, I don’t see any love from you.”
Surely someone would be moved to back me up.
I’d never called anyone “buster” before. How pleasingly it rolled off my tongue. Surely someone would be moved to back me up. Of about a dozen passengers, I only needed one to shift the balance between me and the holy warrior. But there they sat, looking at their phones, their hands, the passing scene—anywhere but at the two of us. Minding their own business, as people do in public confrontations. As I did when the bullies ganged up on Bobby Craig.
I was on my own and out of words while the holy warrior raged on. The Muslim woman had one hand against the veiled contours of her lips. Maybe I should have sat down beside her, murmuring reassurance, but it wasn’t clear she understood English or would find my presence any comfort. We had reached my stop. I strode to the door with venom ringing in my ears.
In a Muskoka chair outside Ed’s, my ice cream softened by the sun, I took stock of the difference I had made. Not much, it seemed. The Muslim woman knew one person cared enough to speak up, but the holy warrior thought he’d won. All my life I had focused on results. Ace the exam, win the contest, land the job. Make the numbers if I meant to keep it. This time around, I had failed. At least my courage hadn’t failed me.
Just because no one on the streetcar backed me up didn’t mean those people were unmoved. Maybe someday their silence will trouble them. Maybe they will consider what to do next time they witness a blast of hatred. I still ask myself the same question. Maybe next time I’ll get through to one person. There will be a next time. That I know for sure.
Adapted from my memoir Starter Dog.
Have you ever called out hate speech—or been inspired by someone who did? Why is it so hard for most of us to gather courage when it matters most? Fear of failure, or something else? I’d love to know your thoughts. I welcome comments from everyone, so do chime in. If you’re one of those who tried to comment last week and hit a paywall, my apologies. Substack’s default setting for comments is “paid subscribers only,” and I forgot to change it.
I like to write about moral reckonings, especially when I don’t come off well. In “Love Should Be Put into Action,” I realize my compassion is skin-deep. “The Amazement Teacher” is my tribute to a dotty English teacher who challenged me to be kind, not just smart.
All my posts are free to read, yet some readers of heart and means are paying for subscriptions just because. If you are so moved, I’d be incredibly grateful. No pressure, though. I’m here to meet a community of readers, and you are all among the great joys of my life. Feel free to share—you’ll be spreading the word about Amazement Seeker.
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This is great, Rona. Three cheers for you, on the one hand, and omg, what were you thinking on the other? I don't really mean that, but I think one of the reasons people don't speak up is fear for their personal safety. From what you've shared, it seems like the man you confronted may have had a serious mental illness. Did you make a difference? Most likely. Not to him, but to the people on the bus. It can be dangerous to speak up, especially if you don't know what or whom you are dealing with. I'm glad you emerged unscathed. It's hard to speak up for others. I was a bullied kid, and as a result was very sensitive to abusive behavior. Sometimes I speak up for people, sometimes I refrain. Sometimes speaking up in defense of others can make it worse for the other person. Never know. Bottom line after all that? We all need to be a lot more brave, for sure, in standing up for our beliefs. Keep coming from that kind, empathic place that dwells within, and at the same time, tend to your own self-care. We need you!
To think we might have some effect is primarily an afterthought and something we have no control over. Thankfully. Or we would never act.
The few times I've found myself in similar situations, my conviction was clear (and still is) but the aftermath was confusing and unplanned. Why? People.
Once I had a high school student that had been creepily and repeatedly touched by a random man on a field trip and when I learned of it, the mama in me just kicked in, without fear. The police were called and it was left to the family to press charges. The parents were thankful and supportive of me, but I was still put on the defense with the superintendent of schools for this ever having happened "on my watch". For context, this was an 18 yr old, senior in high school; a shy girl who wasn't even going to tell me, but her friends did!
After the 2016 election I was greeted first thing in the morning by several LGBTQ+ students at my classroom door. As I hugged and tried to assuage their fears, another student reported that "I was showing my politics". Luckily I was supported by my school, but again, even with the kindest intentions, any act of kindness or bravery could be questioned, misinterpreted....not because we act with malice, but because everyone, everywhere, has their own lens in which they experience life. Thankfully, we can ignore that best when we feel called to act for good.