Just a stranger on the bus
Having spent 23 of 25 years of my life in the province, I used to go on a three-to-four-hour provincial bus ride from Quezon City to Pangasinan after my Friday shift (this was before COVID-19). Unless I was hindered by issues such as the surge of passengers during holidays, I did it every single week.
It was all for shallow reasons: I missed the fresh air, my bed, the ambiance, and simply because I could travel home. Even if that meant I had to wake up extra early the coming Monday to go back to Manila.
Above all, I found solace in sitting in a moving bus staring at the window where everything outside seemed to be moving in a rush even if it was not. With the thought of not having the pressure to do anything, it was a free excuse to sit comfortably and idly along with other passengers who all had their own reasons for traveling. Most of the time, though, I would doze off because I was too tired from work.
One certain ride, I happened to have the right amount of sleep before commuting. I felt excited because this meant I could spend the entire time wide awake, not missing a scene. But just when I thought I could enjoy my estimated four-hour window-side therapy, I heard someone talk. Introducing my seatmate for the week.
He began his small talk in a friendly manner, without even asking for my name. I realized how privileged I was when he mentioned that he could only afford to see his kids at home once a month or every two months.
I know it’s easy to be suspicious of strangers nowadays, but I thought he was pretty cool. I’m an introvert who occasionally loves hearing people voluntarily dish out little tales about their lives. I think it’s humane to see life from different perspectives. So between staring at the window and this man talking, I unconsciously chose the latter.
All seemed well, until I found out what his real agenda was. He started talking about his faith, about the Bible, about God. About how youngsters are drawn to their busy daily lives, forgetting to pray in the process, and encouraging me to be not “like them.”
He opened his smartphone’s Bible app and started lecturing me spiritually for one-and-a-half hours. He was not the typical bus preacher who would speak then hand envelopes to passengers after. This guy was just motivated to spread the word of God, and sitting with a millennial seemed a good opportunity for him. The problem was his idea that I was absolutely “just like them.” I don’t pray, but not because I’m too busy to do so. I just don’t pray.
I found myself in a dilemma: Should I be honest with him so he’d know that I wasn’t the best person to throw Bible stories at, or should I just look for another seat and come up with a lame excuse? Nonetheless, I chose to let him do his thing, thinking it was the most polite thing to do.
I used to be invited to Bible sessions and prayer meetings, with people assuming that I shared the same faith. Afraid to be judged, I just said yes to most of them.
I grew up in a Catholic family, went to a conservative Catholic school for seven years, and practiced Christianity until I started to question things. At 18, I decided to stop praying and going to church because I no longer saw the point. Since then, I have tried to keep my doubts of religions and God as private as possible.
I used to identify as an “agnostic atheist,” but there’s a blurred line between the two terms. It was hard for me to figure out where exactly I belonged. I’ve seen atheists blatantly make fun of inoffensive religious practices. That’s not who I am. What’s clear to me is that I base my respect on how people treat other people.
In that one long ride with a stranger beside me, I realized that I was still this same person. Hesitant to start a potential meaningful conversation due to fear of being mislabeled as “not normal” or “evil.” Afraid to get stuck in a lengthy argument that might end up disrespecting our differences rather than allowing us to listen to each other.
The bus stopped for a while in Paniqui, Tarlac, and my seatmate got off. We bid each other goodbye.
I put my earphones on, turned my eyes to the view on the other side of the glass, and played Joan Osborne’s “One of Us” on repeat. I only had more or less an hour left to make the most of my weekly ritual and reach my own version of heaven on earth — home.
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Aira Catherine Gutierrez, 25, currently works from home as a support engineer in an IT, security, and cloud services company.
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