Chapter Three:
A New Day; The Same Weather
It's a new day, but it's the same old weather.
And one thing is definitely for sure; it will snow. The bus may be late, you may be standing outside for several minutes waiting, you will probably be hungry, cold, and tired, but without fail, it will be snowing. Welcome to one of the most dramatic, cold winters of Blacksburg, Virginia. And, as I wait for the bus and snow seems to be coming from every direction, up down, right, and left, I contemplate which is worse: standing outside in the freezing cold, blustering weather or aboard a crowded, noisy bus. Ultimately, I know the warmth of the bus and the comfort of a roof over my head out competes this disastrous weather. But even so, as I stand at the bus stop in front of Burruss Hall looking towards the sky, and as snow begins to gently cling to the top of the roof, and as trees seem to slump with the weight of the never ceasing snow, and as large crystal snowflakes land lightly on the tips of my outstretched mitten-covered fingertips, I begin to recognize beauty in each flake. The beauty lies within the uniqueness and distinctness of each snowflake. When I take the time to stand in the moment, I begin to notice the eloquence and exceptionality of each flake, and despite the uncomfortable wind and blood chilling weather, I notice the delicate and exactness of its design; a singular beauty. In spite of myself, my anger seems to dissipate and is replaced with, perhaps enlightenment, or in any case, one of my first observations and connections with my site. I am a snowflake, unique in my design, distinct, and unlike anyone else. We are all snowflakes. Aboard the bus, we are a blanket of white snow, blending together, fallen from the heavens, yet we are each rare in our design, one of a kind. So my journey on this bus is not so much about my final destination as it is about examining individual cultures, lifestyles, people and extinguishing my previous biases in hopes to have a better understanding of the distinct and diverse population of Virginia Tech.
As this, what I feel, momentous connection passes through my mind, I see Tom’s Creek B bus rounding the corner of the drillfield. In the distance, I see it stop with a loud creak to allow a small cluster of people with scarves pulled tightly around faces and necks walk swiftly across the street; it is as though wind and snow are pushing them across the snow covered, slippery road with such force that they barely have any say in which direction they will walk. It is with great happiness and relief that the bus eventually pulls up to the bus stop and relinquishing its giant, powerful doors warmth escapes and its hands grab me firmly and securely pulling me towards the opening of the bus. Shaking slightly, I hold out my passport for the driver who seems undisturbed by the bitterly cold air. Resembling an Eskimo of sorts, he is dressed in multiple layers, the top most, a thick coat, with white fur around the edges of the hood, a thick brown belt is just visible below his thick wool sweater; he also appears to be dressed in plain khaki cargo pants containing randomly sized pockets up the sides. His shoes are, perhaps, his warmest accessory; a pair of thick, brown boots laced tightly to mid-calf. Welcomed aboard and making eye contact for no more than half a second, I recognize tiredness of a long day’s work in his dark brown eyes. Short, choppy messy hair revealing slight hat hair gives way to long sideburns and a week or so old beard. Only a glimpse of the front dashboard is visible, but I am able to make out a variety of gadgets and technical instruments as the driver reaches out with dry and cracked knuckles to shut the doors in order to capture and keep the heat within the bus. Walking passed the driver’s oversized seat and under the “stop requested” sign, I look upon a sea of people, seats, and reflections. Night has fallen and the windows acting as pale reflections, I see myself walking from pane to pane. Surprised slightly by the roughness and tiredness of my appearance, I quickly turn my gaze to an empty seat positioned thankfully in the back corner secluded from the crowd.
Unsocial and slightly awkward by nature, I prefer this opportunity to observe and learn from my peers around me. Upon sitting on the rough, brown seat of the bus and just beginning to feel slightly warmer, I am immediately drawn to a cluster of chattering girls also unbothered by the cold weather. Sitting in a triangle shaped pattern; two in the back and one in the front, they chat about a recent test. Upon further inspection, it seems to be a dreaded economics test. One girl sits Indian style facing her friends behind her. She has pale, porcelain skin and the lightest of blonde hair to match with freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks twittering away with ruby red fingernails upon her iPhone as a large silver peace sign shaped ring swings carelessly around on her index finger, and from what I can surmount, she repeatedly checks for her mid-term grade. And within every 30 seconds or the time it takes to refresh her screen, she looks up to her friends revealing a grimace and groan displaying her frustration and the anticipation of not knowing her grade. Her two friends, slightly calmer, are slouched back in their seats, laughing, not unkindly at her distress. The girl closest to the window tucks a long strand of silky, straight hair behind her ear revealing an array of earnings: one hoop, and two studs traveling up from her earlobe. She wears a pink Virginia Tech sweatshirt and rolls piercing blue eyes slightly at the girl’s anguish and reminds her of all the time they spent studying and that worrying is simply a waste of energy. Headphones seem to be dangling from beneath her sweatshirt, and she continues to tap her fingers across the top of her book bag in time to the music still tinkling away from her iPod. The tiniest of the three and the darkest with sun-kissed skin, perhaps Hispanic, speaks with a slight accent beneath large smoky, almond eyes and long, shiny black hair. She waves her hands dramatically in frustration and exuberance declaring a new subject as several bangles and bracelets slide noisily back and forth across her forearm. Taking my eyes off the girls, I gaze outside and see morphed trees and buildings as we whip across the drill field only stopping once to allow pedestrians to cross. Beginning to feel almost cozy within in the warmth of the bus, I relax slightly, loosening the thick scarf around my neck.
Making our first stop just before the stoplight, another three girls board the bus wearing similar clothes and talking quickly and enthusiastically in another language. They all seem to find comfort in lounge pants in a variety of patterns and even one with a display kitty cats as well as thick boots and oversized black coats. Despite my inability to understand what they are specifically talking about, I am able to recognize body language and in between their laughter, I notice the tallest of the three girls clutching her arms firmly across her body in an universal sign of coldness. They find seats near the front of the bus near an older looking student, a seasoned veteran of the bus system. A messenger bag is placed neatly in his lap. He sits calmly with fingers clasped gently atop his bag. Long dirty blonde hair sweeps slightly on to his long forehead just before he eyes, which are easily his best quality. Translucent, almost watering green eyes stare forward looking out onto another world, unforeseen by the rest of us. A small pocket on his chest houses an assortment of pens, and the plaid button up shirt tucked tightly into a pair dress khakis separated by a black leather belt with a silver square clasp.
As the bus takes a right at a stoplight, gathering speed around the corner, my stop is just a few blocks away, the dreaded math emporium. Beating me to it, a boy two seats in front of me, tentatively pulls the cord above him to signal for a stop. Dressed in skin tight, black skinny jeans that reveal a portion of his polka-dot boxers and an equally skin-tight black t-shirt promoting some unknown, perhaps, indie band with dark brown, slightly wavy hair that swishes and flips back with the wind has perfected the alternative, “rocker” look. While previously slouched back in his seat, one leg resting lightly across the other, a pencil poised in hand while a sketch pad sat in his lap drawing animatedly; He has now replaced his sketchpad back into his book bag and has begun lightly tapping his vans together. I perceived such passion and enjoyment while he had drawn, rushing with each fluid movement of his pencil, I recognized a certain eagerness to reveal and create an image that reflected his thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
While I am able to detect such emotion and thought from this passenger, some of the other passengers are not as easily discernible. And as this project requires that I understand the culture of the bus, I feel it is important to approach some of the fellow passengers and understand their opinions, concepts, and biases of the bus system. Therefore, at the next stop I plop down in the seat in front of me, and turn to a young man and nervously begin talking to him.
As this, what I feel, momentous connection passes through my mind, I see Tom’s Creek B bus rounding the corner of the drillfield. In the distance, I see it stop with a loud creak to allow a small cluster of people with scarves pulled tightly around faces and necks walk swiftly across the street; it is as though wind and snow are pushing them across the snow covered, slippery road with such force that they barely have any say in which direction they will walk. It is with great happiness and relief that the bus eventually pulls up to the bus stop and relinquishing its giant, powerful doors warmth escapes and its hands grab me firmly and securely pulling me towards the opening of the bus. Shaking slightly, I hold out my passport for the driver who seems undisturbed by the bitterly cold air. Resembling an Eskimo of sorts, he is dressed in multiple layers, the top most, a thick coat, with white fur around the edges of the hood, a thick brown belt is just visible below his thick wool sweater; he also appears to be dressed in plain khaki cargo pants containing randomly sized pockets up the sides. His shoes are, perhaps, his warmest accessory; a pair of thick, brown boots laced tightly to mid-calf. Welcomed aboard and making eye contact for no more than half a second, I recognize tiredness of a long day’s work in his dark brown eyes. Short, choppy messy hair revealing slight hat hair gives way to long sideburns and a week or so old beard. Only a glimpse of the front dashboard is visible, but I am able to make out a variety of gadgets and technical instruments as the driver reaches out with dry and cracked knuckles to shut the doors in order to capture and keep the heat within the bus. Walking passed the driver’s oversized seat and under the “stop requested” sign, I look upon a sea of people, seats, and reflections. Night has fallen and the windows acting as pale reflections, I see myself walking from pane to pane. Surprised slightly by the roughness and tiredness of my appearance, I quickly turn my gaze to an empty seat positioned thankfully in the back corner secluded from the crowd.
Unsocial and slightly awkward by nature, I prefer this opportunity to observe and learn from my peers around me. Upon sitting on the rough, brown seat of the bus and just beginning to feel slightly warmer, I am immediately drawn to a cluster of chattering girls also unbothered by the cold weather. Sitting in a triangle shaped pattern; two in the back and one in the front, they chat about a recent test. Upon further inspection, it seems to be a dreaded economics test. One girl sits Indian style facing her friends behind her. She has pale, porcelain skin and the lightest of blonde hair to match with freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks twittering away with ruby red fingernails upon her iPhone as a large silver peace sign shaped ring swings carelessly around on her index finger, and from what I can surmount, she repeatedly checks for her mid-term grade. And within every 30 seconds or the time it takes to refresh her screen, she looks up to her friends revealing a grimace and groan displaying her frustration and the anticipation of not knowing her grade. Her two friends, slightly calmer, are slouched back in their seats, laughing, not unkindly at her distress. The girl closest to the window tucks a long strand of silky, straight hair behind her ear revealing an array of earnings: one hoop, and two studs traveling up from her earlobe. She wears a pink Virginia Tech sweatshirt and rolls piercing blue eyes slightly at the girl’s anguish and reminds her of all the time they spent studying and that worrying is simply a waste of energy. Headphones seem to be dangling from beneath her sweatshirt, and she continues to tap her fingers across the top of her book bag in time to the music still tinkling away from her iPod. The tiniest of the three and the darkest with sun-kissed skin, perhaps Hispanic, speaks with a slight accent beneath large smoky, almond eyes and long, shiny black hair. She waves her hands dramatically in frustration and exuberance declaring a new subject as several bangles and bracelets slide noisily back and forth across her forearm. Taking my eyes off the girls, I gaze outside and see morphed trees and buildings as we whip across the drill field only stopping once to allow pedestrians to cross. Beginning to feel almost cozy within in the warmth of the bus, I relax slightly, loosening the thick scarf around my neck.
Making our first stop just before the stoplight, another three girls board the bus wearing similar clothes and talking quickly and enthusiastically in another language. They all seem to find comfort in lounge pants in a variety of patterns and even one with a display kitty cats as well as thick boots and oversized black coats. Despite my inability to understand what they are specifically talking about, I am able to recognize body language and in between their laughter, I notice the tallest of the three girls clutching her arms firmly across her body in an universal sign of coldness. They find seats near the front of the bus near an older looking student, a seasoned veteran of the bus system. A messenger bag is placed neatly in his lap. He sits calmly with fingers clasped gently atop his bag. Long dirty blonde hair sweeps slightly on to his long forehead just before he eyes, which are easily his best quality. Translucent, almost watering green eyes stare forward looking out onto another world, unforeseen by the rest of us. A small pocket on his chest houses an assortment of pens, and the plaid button up shirt tucked tightly into a pair dress khakis separated by a black leather belt with a silver square clasp.
As the bus takes a right at a stoplight, gathering speed around the corner, my stop is just a few blocks away, the dreaded math emporium. Beating me to it, a boy two seats in front of me, tentatively pulls the cord above him to signal for a stop. Dressed in skin tight, black skinny jeans that reveal a portion of his polka-dot boxers and an equally skin-tight black t-shirt promoting some unknown, perhaps, indie band with dark brown, slightly wavy hair that swishes and flips back with the wind has perfected the alternative, “rocker” look. While previously slouched back in his seat, one leg resting lightly across the other, a pencil poised in hand while a sketch pad sat in his lap drawing animatedly; He has now replaced his sketchpad back into his book bag and has begun lightly tapping his vans together. I perceived such passion and enjoyment while he had drawn, rushing with each fluid movement of his pencil, I recognized a certain eagerness to reveal and create an image that reflected his thoughts, feelings, and emotions.
While I am able to detect such emotion and thought from this passenger, some of the other passengers are not as easily discernible. And as this project requires that I understand the culture of the bus, I feel it is important to approach some of the fellow passengers and understand their opinions, concepts, and biases of the bus system. Therefore, at the next stop I plop down in the seat in front of me, and turn to a young man and nervously begin talking to him.
