Dear Editor,
Gone are the days when a conductor on the infamous Coaster buses would request that his passengers "five-up" and "rock ova pon di seat". As if that didn't already make for uncomfortable journeys, the current slangs include "draw up yuh back" and "no seat nah drop inna di channel".
Every morning thousands of Jamaicans are fighting to get to work in less than humane circumstances. Not only is a fellow passenger leaning uncomfortably close to you, but passengers are also assaulted by a potpourri of bad breath, green arm, frowsy weave, and offensively cheap colognes, just to get to the hustle.
I've never felt particularly close to my ancestors. I've read the history, I've watched the movies, but I have never been inclined to join in futile protests for redress. But each morning I am hauled backwards by my thoughts of the Middle Passage as I suffocate and squeeze and push my way into buses to get to work.
It's nothing compared to urinating and defecating on oneself for months on end or bleeding to death, but each morning Jamaicans lose a little more of themselves dressed in their costumes to perform at levels that are higher than reasonable to keep an unsustainable economy afloat. How much dignity do we give up each day to make it to work on time? I know if I find my nose buried under another armpit I might break down in tears.
Someone once said that the majority of adults in Jamaica are suffering from some form of mental illness or other, but really, do you blame us? Every morning after my clean uniform is sweated on and crushed by the bodies I've pressed up against I still hop off the bus and bellow "thank you, driver" for services inadequately rendered in the hopes that one day when I'm desperately late he will still pick me up even though the bus cyaan tek a message.
Olivia Maxwell
Sheena_maxwell@hotmail.com
One stop, driver
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Gone are the days when a conductor on the infamous Coaster buses would request that his passengers "five-up" and "rock ova pon di seat". As if that didn't already make for uncomfortable journeys, the current slangs include "draw up yuh back" and "no seat nah drop inna di channel".
Every morning thousands of Jamaicans are fighting to get to work in less than humane circumstances. Not only is a fellow passenger leaning uncomfortably close to you, but passengers are also assaulted by a potpourri of bad breath, green arm, frowsy weave, and offensively cheap colognes, just to get to the hustle.
I've never felt particularly close to my ancestors. I've read the history, I've watched the movies, but I have never been inclined to join in futile protests for redress. But each morning I am hauled backwards by my thoughts of the Middle Passage as I suffocate and squeeze and push my way into buses to get to work.
It's nothing compared to urinating and defecating on oneself for months on end or bleeding to death, but each morning Jamaicans lose a little more of themselves dressed in their costumes to perform at levels that are higher than reasonable to keep an unsustainable economy afloat. How much dignity do we give up each day to make it to work on time? I know if I find my nose buried under another armpit I might break down in tears.
Someone once said that the majority of adults in Jamaica are suffering from some form of mental illness or other, but really, do you blame us? Every morning after my clean uniform is sweated on and crushed by the bodies I've pressed up against I still hop off the bus and bellow "thank you, driver" for services inadequately rendered in the hopes that one day when I'm desperately late he will still pick me up even though the bus cyaan tek a message.
Olivia Maxwell
Sheena_maxwell@hotmail.com
One stop, driver
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