Received an email yesterday from the Georgia Choice Coalition with some of the details about what happened Saturday night--but still not many answers. I think the only way to truly get the answers I want would be to hold the bus company idiots hostage until they told me exactly what the hell they were thinking.


But anyway, here's an excerpt from that email.

"The Georgia Coalition contracted with a company named
Bus Bank. Bus Bank worked with many organizations
across the country to transport people to the
march. We chose to go with Bus Bank because they were
working nationally on the march and we thought that
fact would help ensure quality, accountability
and safety. Obviously the buses were extremely late
and as the hours ticked on concerns about safety and
getting to the march in a timely matter arose.
All of the coordinators did our best to make tough
decisions with the information we had available at the
time.

At 2:30am we informed passengers of our safety and
time concerns. We tried to be as honest as possible.
Most people left. A small group of people were
wanting to leave and try to get to the march
regardless of how late they would arrive. We then
loaded them onto the 1 bus that had a reserve
bus driver. 2 coordinators rode that bus because it
was necessary to ensure the safest trip possible. 6
coordinators stayed behind as well as many of
our interns and dedicated volunteers.

All of the organizers were tearful. We'd spent nearly
a year organizing for the March and the problem that
occurred on Saturday night could not have been further
out of our control. We could not have been any more
disappointed. We share your frustration and anger for
what occurred on Saturday night. Thus, our reaction
is not so different from yours..."


The letter continues, discussing the action the Coalition's taking to get refunds for the buses. I certainly hope none of the would-be attendees are getting pissy with these people.

Anyway, I guess that's that, really.

I’m not supposed to be here.

I’m supposed to be in D.C. today, marching alongside several thousand, in what’s planned to be the largest Pro-Choice Demonstration, err, ever.

But instead I’m sitting at my desk back in Hotlanta, eating a dark chocolate bar Hunter gave me for the trip, for breakfast, in front of my computer screen.

Last night, hundreds of men and women from around the metro area gathered in a parking lot a few blocks from my house to check in for one of five buses that would overnight it up to D.C. and take us home Sunday night.

The itinerary had said, “Arrive by 8:30 for a celebration of this historic event. Buses leave at 10:00.”

Ever the schedule-Nazi, I arrived at 8:25 or so. Hunter came too, to see me off, and had second thoughts about not going himself. (Final school papers and a visit from his brother were keeping him home.) I got my sticker and free march t-shirt from the slightly frazzled organizers. They’d been working on this thing for at least a year; it was the main event; and it showed. Within 10 minutes, I was processed and standing in a group with my fellow Bus #1 riders. The air was so festive. I’d never met these people, yet everyone was talking a mile a minute. This does not happen in Atlanta. Hunter left; I talked to my busmates about why they were going. They cited the fact that our administration has decided to grant a fetus personhood and to outlaw a medical procedure that doesn’t even exist.

("Partial birth abortion"- No such thing. Late term abortion, yes, but is any woman in her right mind going to haul off and have this procedure done when her and/or the baby’s life is not in danger? Well, maaaaybe. You can’t trust these wimmen with their own selves; who knows whut they might do; unpredictable and flighty and not a lick of sense to 'em, left alone.)

So we were all not just looking forward to this trip for the camaraderie; we were burning to go. These are dangerous times for all sorts of rights and personal freedoms, and it felt so good to be among people who I knew I wouldn’t have to debate. The whole, "Wow, you’re so with me on this that you too, are willing to take a bus overnight, march all day, then take another bus back the next day"-thing.

Around 10:00, one of the organizers got on her megaphone.

"It’s good that everyone’s having such a good time here in the parking lot—because it looks like that’s what we’re going to continue to do for the next 15-20 minutes or so!"
The buses were running late. Sorry.

About 30 minutes later, she made another announcement: When the buses did come, they would have to kind of hustle us along, because there wouldn’t be enough time for us to lollygag at stops along the way. She apologized.
We continued chatting. The last of the local tv crews shone a final pan on the group and left.
Finally, about 15 minutes later, another report:

The bus company said the buses were in the neighborhood. A cheer went up. The organizers gave us instructions on where each bus would stop; we should group there so we’d be ready to hop right on once they arrived. We re-located. Grouped.
My resourceful bus captain came up with the plan to line up, according to how we were listed on the release forms she had to check off as we entered the bus, to further expedite. We formed the line as our names were called, ever-compliant, ever hopeful. We watched the road. I don’t know what was going on last night, but city-buses were ruling the streets. I swear. Every 30 seconds or so, we heard diesel engines and got excited, and then the MARTA-bus would fly by, each one looking more and more mocking as the minutes passed.

One by one, we sat down on the pavement. A flatbed drove by and one woman joked about hijacking that. Another guy chimed in, “Yeah. We could throw some hay in back; it’d be just like Halloween!” More time passed. Apparently, our organizers were in contact with the bus company via phone, but not with the drivers themselves. The company told our organizers: The buses were lost; the bus-drivers were saying they were already here. The buses were on their way. Several search parties drove their cars around to other area schools to see if the bus-drivers were confused enough to pull up in an completely empty parking lot instead of one crammed with hundreds of people loaded down with pillows, backpacks and signs.

The food came out. We passed around granola bars, licorice, chocolate. We all fantasized about beer. We talked conspiracy. New rumors about the whereabouts of the buses surfaced. Some of the organizers were huddled off to one side, talking in hushed tones. A cell phone never left the ear of another.
It was 12:30. A few bold souls from our bus left, declaring they were fucking driving up to D.C. Another woman shook her head and slowly gathered her things. "I can’t do this." She went home. A senior citizen couple followed suit. The rest of us sat tight, huddled survivors. One of the organizers came over and kneeled down beside us. Her voice broke as she said,
"Okay, so we’re gonna go. I know it’s late, and we’re just so frustrated, but we’re gonna do this, okay? All I know, is I’m marching tomorrow. We’re just…so…"

We patted her back, assured her. I would not have wanted to be in her place. Even when most people are understanding about it, letting them down is no fun. Letting down several hundred people and yourself is one of the worst things I can imagine. No matter how much it’s really not your fault, at all.

More time passed. One girl rolled out in a parking space, pulling her blanket over her. Some of us got out books and tried to read.

Finally:
"Buses!!" A woman came running across the lot towards us. No, but really. She was serious. A large, white bus rolled easily around the corner, into the lot, pulled up. A second bus followed. We Bus #1-ers stood up, stretched. Joked weakly:
"If I were the driver, I wouldn’t want to face this crowd."
But we weren’t going to confront anyone; we just wanted to go.
About 10 more minutes of organizers loading miscellany boxes onto to bus and then we started to file in. As I got close to the front of the line, I noticed that the bounty of bus had ended with #2. Groups 3, 4, and 5 were all still sitting on the curb.

We clambered in. I got a window seat, opened my book and tried to forget about all that was happening. I get to a certain point where I just need to disconnect.

It turned out Bus #5 was not coming at all. So, Bus #5 people were dispersed among all the other buses. We were almost all in, when the announcement came up that Bus #5 people would have to fill out new paperwork. So there was a new flurry of confusion, while I did my best to remain immersed in the world of my Ayun Halliday book, The Big Rumpus. ("I am not here or now; I am in Brooklyn with this fun-loving mother and her wacky kids. Repeat:…")

And then, some minutes later, came the Announcement. One of the organizers came on the bus microphone.

"Okay, everybody. Here’s the deal. It’s 1:30 now. Best case scenario: We leave now and arrive in D.C. at 2:00 p.m., at the earliest. We have to all be back on these buses to return, at 6:00 p.m. So you have to make that decision. I’m really sorry to everyone. Pier 31 Bus Tours has lied to us at every turn. On Monday morning, we’re going to call all of you, to let you know what happened, and believe me: you’ll all get the appropriate phone numbers and addresses to complain to."

And yes, folks; that was about it, for me. I grabbed up my things, told everyone on the bus they were fabulous people, and left. When I exited the bus, I saw the hopeful Bus #3 and #4 folk, still waiting on the curbs.

I’m a little out of sorts, this morning. Not even so much for me, as for the organizers and moreover, for the idea of what took place. Free speech is endangered and I am positive that this is a symptom. The people who drew up this bus trip made absolutely certain that issues of financial access would not come into play, as it so sadly does again and again in the world o’ reproductive health: They offered sliding scale bus fares, even scholarships. They advertised this thing for months, planned it for at least a year. But—oops, oh well—we still just couldn’t go. Nope, sorry. And hardly anyone will find out about this, and a fuss will not be raised.

I don’t know what happened with the buses scheduled to leave from other points in Atlanta. When I find out, I’ll post it here.

Zen lessons, pt. 1
Transcribing, transcribing, and more--what?
You're right. I can't fool you.

Sunday morning and then that night, because I worked at el store in the middle of the day, there, I spent transcribing these interviews and such I'd done on Saturday for a story for Small Publication. That was fine. Time-consuming, but fine.

Monday morning, when I got to Small Publication's office, I had to transcribe something else for another writer there. A really bad interview. There's nothing like typing out the stupid words of a stupid interviewee--especially when the interview's on a DAT, so when you hit "pause" and type some and then get ready to hit "play" again to continue, you have to rewind some, because a DAT's basically a tape, and doesn't stop on a dime like a true digital recorder or minidisc.

So you're stuck listening, two or three times, to someone vaguely making the poorest of arguments for something.
A'la:
"We're protecting the environment by cutting down trees, because economic development is the key to truly being a force in conserv-"(Pause. Type. Rewind. Play.)
"--economic development is the key to truly being a force in the conservation effort. You've got to fuck the land to protect it, show it who's--"(Pause. Type. Rewind. Play.)
"--conservation effort. You've got to..."

And so on.
Whee!
(p.s.--i'd like to note that i can actually type more than one sentence at a go; the above is just for example's sake.)

Ear cancer cultivation
Meanwhile, today I get a new cell phone. I am about an un-excited about this purchase as can be. For two years, I've been chained to the rotten customer service/big, big, fake, fake lie that is Cingular, so I'm planning on moving on over to T-Mobile, since my contract expires on Monday, but I hate the fact that I have to lay down a whole new pile of money just to continue to have a phone.

(We have a landline for the internet here at home, but i'm almost never home, so el cell is my only phone.)

But although I'm glad to be giving Cingular the boot, I know it doesn't matter, because T-Mobile's likely to be just as bad. Besides, Cingular's a corporation that won't even notice I'm spurning it, and if they did, wouldn't care, since they own many souls other than mine.

I want true vengeance. But I'll settle for cheaper minutes.

Laundry, Or, the Lifeboat.

Nothing de-glamorizes one’s own clothes like washing them. Especially taking them to the laundromat in a falling-apart plastic basket topped with a brimming laundry bag, dumping everything into a triple-loader, lifting the machine’s rubber flap to pour detergent into the compartment wet and sticky from the powder and liquid detergent from dozens, perhaps hundreds of unknown neighbors.

Doing laundry doesn’t feel clean at the neighborhood laundromat, but I don’t mind it that much. I’ve never been someone you’d describe as "polished" or someone in whose house you’d expect to find gleaming surfaces. When the clothes come out of the triple-loader machine, the I'm satisfied with the idea that they’re clean.

Not that I’d call myself messy or unattractive either. (Although, who would choose to classify herself that way? I think we all have a sliding scale for these adjectives, and for me, they lie somewhere south of the neatness of my own appearance.)

Today, though, while I did my laundry, I brought in a copy of Bust magazine to read. This is a magazine that tries to balance feminist politics with selling you a specific, indie-chic aesthetic. You know: "Down with the patriarchy, because this lady's are on top! On top dressed in a corset and fishnets with a sleek Betty-Page ‘do, her creamy skin rubbed with apple-mint moisturizer—whose product info you can find on page 150!"

And so on. So, I’m sitting there, alternately enjoying the magazine, and thinking: "I should grown my hair like that," and "Oh, isn’t that little mod dress cute—and $350? Sigh"--when my clothes finish drying, and I wheel my cart over to retrieve and fold them.

Folding laundry is dull, and I often think of folding my own clothes as particularly dull. Having recently graduated from a career as coffee-shop barista to one of writing for a small local publication, my wardrobe ranges the gamut from ratty t-shirts to bleach-stained corduroys with holes in unseemly places. I’ve bought some new clothes recently, but with my current paychecks, Marshalls is about as top-of-the-line as it gets. The models and up-and-coming comic book artists in Bust sport checkered gingam tops and retro skirts crafted by some NYC artist with price tags in the hundreds, while I sport the same two wool thrift store skirts with assorted knit-tops from Ross, with price tags in the single-digits.

But what actually pisses me off is not that I cannot have these gorgeous objects, but the fact that I’m made to want them in the first place. I don’t blame any one person or periodical for this desire, but rather a society that says the highest pleasures are to be found through acquisition of new things. After September 11th, what was our order from the Commander in Chief but to fucking buy, buy, buy, and save the homeland? Because that’s been the way here, for decades—it’s the American way of life, the one thing that has truly trickled down to the masses, to all of us.

When my father sees me dressed in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt I've had since high-school, he suggests—not unkindly—that I treat myself to some new clothes. Friends say the same thing, and hell, it comes from my own head, too. At the laundromat, my clothes all looked faded and sad in the grim fluorescent light,down to the blouse I scored at Target two weeks ago. When I’m feeling low, I sometimes do “treat myself” by buying new clothes, because these old ones represent the shabbiness that Is Me at my depths. Some new pink Pumas would certainly make me the snappy, carefree gal I really want to be, right? Even though I have a closetful of shoes at home.
And today, as I lugged the full laundry basket-And bag back to my car, my dresser at home was not even half empty.

And let’s not even get started on the implications held by that most charged of clothing: underwear. When I’m single, my underwear runs toward the roomy and the cotton. The kind of underwear you can forget you’re wearing and don’t have to hike up or pull out of unpleasant places. Then, when courting, I go on that shopping trip familiar to many hetero gals: the pretty underwear trip.

Now, pause the monologue for a minute, and rewind to me: pulling clothes from the metal cart at the laundromat earlier today, and folding them. Check out that underwear pile: Hmmm. Alice sure has let her underwear go again. I spy white cotton with loose elastic. Faded floral patterns. Alice is somewhat aware of the 40-something man sitting directly behind her, who could look up from his book at any moment to investigate this pile, and the archetypical scenario plays out in her head--There-- behind those other thoughts of how to get everything done today: Yes, the old, "Oops, handsome stranger, looks like your boxers somehow got mixed in with my lacy underthings, so now there’s sexual tension,"-one. No chance of that with Alice's ugly-ass (no pun, etc, etc.) drawers, no! No doubt the gentleman would wrinkle his nose at the mere thought of his boxers coming anywhere close to her hole-ridden (Mine? Never!) underpants, and discreetly throw his own in the green plastic trash can near the front, once the lady’s back is turned.

So there. The core of participation in this New, New New Clothes Cultcha’ comes right down to our skivvies: Sex is mostly about unwrapping a pretty package in our society.
When I had my first glance at dirty magazines as a girl, I remember the thought crossing my mind that the sorority girl whom the plumber had dropped in on, looked "prettier" before she removed the lacey red bra. And in times of tumult in relationships past, when the signs that The End Was indeed Near, I’ll confess that one of my last-ditch efforts have included buying pretty underwear.

Left to my own devices, my socks frequently do not match. Oh, and they come from a bag of unmatched socks of my father’s that I raided last time I visited my parents. When I went on a backpacking trip to Mexico a couple years ago, those in my group all wore the same three or four shirts for a month. This mattered much less than what we saw and did. Every day, I try to figure out how to live that way, but somehow it’s harder. I am not immune, but I’m doing my best.