I take the bus to get around Kansas City — and connect with people who aren’t like me | Opinion

Different people look forward to retirement for different reasons. I looked forward to being able to ride the bus.

You see, riding public transportation is a part of my artistic practice.

Actually, it’s part of my life practice.

Last week, I met a single Black father with four children under the age of 6. He’s working on learning how to do the girls’ hair. They were all happy and healthy, helping their daddy carry groceries.

Another gentleman had a vacuum cleaner. He was trying to vacuum the sidewalk. Yes, he’s got some issues — but he is my brother.

To me, the people on the bus are far more polite than people driving cars. They offer their seats to the elderly and are patient with those who have mental health or drug issues.

The pregnant single teenager is not judged here. Neither is the ex-convict, nor those who like to preach on the bus and cuss at the same time.

Some people smell. Folks don’t judge. They just open the window.

There’s diversity here. Two women, clearly in love, were on the 101 the other week. They both work in fast food.

They were of different races.

They were tired.

They were riding home.

And a heavily tattooed man, who looked tired as heck, gave up his seat so they could sit together.

The drivers are kind.

Just last Saturday, a pack of dogs at the corner of 13th and Minnesota began looking my way. So, I walked toward the bus. The driver stopped and let me on. She said, “I could see those dogs looking your way.”

The drivers are also firm. A few years ago, I purchased a 60-by-80-inch painting from the Adelante Thrift Store. I dragged it to the bus stop.

The driver opened the door, looked and shook her head. Her face said, “Don’t even think about it.”

But, she did have a smile on her face. She wasn’t mean or cruel about it. I don’t blame her. It would have been a safety issue.

I dragged it a few blocks, and a friend with a pickup truck pulled over and helped me get it home.

Some days, I just get on the bus and ride all the way to the end of the line and back — eastbound, it goes to the East Village. Westbound, it takes me to the Legends.

Sometimes, I transfer to the Troost Max, Prospect or Red Bridge lines. I charge up my bluetooth headphones. I connect my cheap smartphone to the free Wi-Fi.

Sometimes, I bring my sketchpad and draw. Sometimes, I write.

Sometimes, I just ride and listen to Miles Davis. Or Billie Holiday. Maybe Lizz Wright, or some James Cleveland gospel.

Sometimes, I bump some Wu-Tang Clan, Tha Dogg Pound or Sugarhill Gang.

And I ride. And breathe the humanity in the air around me.

White, Black and brown. Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, spiritual but not religious, agnostic, atheist. Straight, gay, bisexual, asexual, transgender.

Conservative, liberal, progressive — don’t care at all.

People with MAGA hats, Black Lives Matter hats, Pan-African hats and all other hats on the same bus.

All together on the buses that we all pay for, with our taxes, our hard work, our life energy.

And so, here we are..

Being human.

In my art, I address the complex narratives of the Black experience. When I ride the bus, I am reminded that simply being human is a complex narrative.

In my art, I address issues of visibility and invisibility in the Black experience. When I ride the bus, I am reminded that we all navigate visibility and invisibility in our human experience.

In the end, it’s the people for me. People who don’t know each other but form bonds over this daily experience.

When the bus hits potholes, they grab the seat and are quick to reach out to keep another from falling.

When someone’s grocery bag breaks and oranges roll down the aisles, they will scoop them up and bring them back to you.

Sometimes, someone is clearly hurting and people will check in on them: “Is there anything I can do?”

The good book says in Hebrews 13:2: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

I believe angels ride the bus.