I could write a book about the conversations I have with cab drivers. I love them. They love me. We are a PARTNERSHIP while I am in their car. It happens time and time again. I am just chilling in the back seat, and suddenly, who knows how it happens, the driver and I are in a full-blown conversation about the Rastafarians and Haile Salassie. I’m not kidding. That happened once. I also remember talking with a driver from Afghanistan (this was in 2001 – but back in the spring) – and we had a big conversation about the blowing up of the statues. I’ve also had great conversations about music, sports, celebrities who tip really well … etc. etc.
Here’s one of my favorites though – he and I were having such an interseting time of it (to us, anyway) that we sat outside my apartment for a couple of minutes to finish the conversation.
It was the night of my birthday party a couple years ago and I had been out until 4:30 in the morning. I splurged on a cab home. So it’s 5 am. Factor that in.
We first began talking about the upcoming fare hikes. WHERE WILL IT END? He had mixed feelings about it because he knew that people would choose to walk the 10 blocks rather than pay such a huge hike.
Then I asked him where he was from, and he said, “Bangladesh.” He then told me his whole life story. His whole family is in Bangladesh. He is here alone. But he is going home in a couple of months to meet the woman his mom picked out to be his wife. He has never met her. He is very excited to meet her and also very excited to be a husband. He’s 28.
“I am ready to get married.” he said happily.
I said, “And you trust your mom to pick out a good person for you?”
He said, “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. My mom knows me so well. She knows what I like.”
I said, “Wow. That is so terrific. Good luck!”
He will go back to Bangladesh, and then return to America with his brand-new wife. He has one day off a week, and goes to the movies, and has a couple of beers at a local pub. He enjoys the pub, and enjoys his friends there. He is very happy to be in America, especially in Manhattan, “where you don’t get flooded all the time”. He likes having his own life, his independence.
He told me that Bangladesh is a democracy, a new democracy, and on its way to be a functioning one. “We are not like Pakistan.”
“What would you say is the difference between you guys and Pakistan?” I asked. [Now a word on all of this. I’m not an idiot, and I know he was giving me a biased view of things. But it’s always more interesting to get people talking and to fucking LISTEN TO THEM rather than babble on about how much you know. At least that is my philosophy on life, and it seems to be a much better way to get through the world. You actually can get to know other people that way.]
So anyway, I asked: “What would you say is the difference between you guys and Pakistan?”
He said, “Well, Pakistan is HARD Muslim. We are not HARD Muslim.”
“What do you mean by hard?”
“Well … they are illiterate. They only are interested in religion. They don’t care about anything else. They don’t believe women should be educated. The militarycontrols everything.”
“So … what is going to happen with Pakistan, do you think? Is this just going to go from bad to worse, you think?”
He said, “Miss, it is not a good situation. Pakistan is a country full of lunatics.”
I said, “It’s interesting to me that when Pakistan was formed … people thought that religion would solve everything. Like: as long as everyone here is Muslim, then all else will follow. But it hasn’t worked out there.”
“No. It is a very bad situation.”
By this point, we were turning onto my block.
I said (also, by this point, I was sitting on the edge of the back seat, leaning over the front seat, with my head through the little glass window. Like an eager lunatic.) “So can you tell me about the secession in 1971? What was that all about and why?”
At that moment, the absurdity occurred to me, and I started laughing. “Can you boil the entire situation between Bangladesh and Pakistan down in one block, please?”
He burst out laughing.
And then, we actually sat in the parked taxi outside of my apartment for 15 minutes, and he told me about the secession. The Cliff Notes version, but it was good enough. It was a beautiful connection. After I paid him, he turned around and held his hand out for me to shake. We shook hands.
I said, “Good LUCK with getting married!”
He said, “God bless you, miss.”
It was like we were cultural ambassadors. I’m an American. I’m white. I’m Catholic. He is a Muslim from Bangladesh. It was 5 in the morning. But we were able to communicate. We were able to understand one another.
I haven’t forgotten him – I would recognize him on the street if I ran into him – I love moments like that. Human moments.
Amazing. Amazing story Sheila. Holy crimoney. I wish I liked riding in a cab more, the whole thing makes me angry, and I have no idea why.
Great story.
I love it when they just start talking. It’s always some amazing story.
“I snuck into Turkey from Iran on a donkey with my father when the revolution broke out …”
At least in New York – all the stories are like that.
“Human moments.” Indeed.
Here’s to more of them.
Cheers!
Thanks, Sheila.
The most beautiful and meaningful thing in the whole human experience is a real connection/exchange. Well, that and parenthood, and true love, and really great jazz, and …hey, a human connection is really beautiful. Like peteb, I yearn for more for all of us.
One of the things that keeps me coming back here day after day (usually several times a day) is how you personalize EVERYTHING. I get such a kick out of how youre able to take away something from anothers post and have it remind you of a GREAT compelling, interesting personal account, and then write it out in such amazing detail and share it with us. Youre always able to connect and expand on whatever you experience. I know Im not putting it well, but dang girl, I wish I had a fraction of your talent! All I know is that you make put in the cab with you, every time. Thanks for another amazing piece. :)
Of course, cabbies that blast Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans” are pretty cool, too. I’ll never forget that night. He was all, “Ok…girls lovin’ this music…must turn it up…” I think he liked us.
I love your story. I want to hug everyone in it. You, the cabbie, his new bride. I feel like crying. In a good way. Wait, I am crying.
Sheila –
strangely enough, when i wrote this today I wondered how he was doing, how they got along, how he liked marriage. i wonder if she joins him at the pub for some beers. I know that’s so Irish of me – but I hope she does.
He was so excited about having a mate.
beth – that was SO FUNNY. His silent turning up the volume – that was so cool!!
rude1 – ohhhh, that is so nice!! Thank you!
Oh, and one other thing that is so great about New York cabbies is that they are a truly international bunch – every single one of them has an AMAZING story – they all come from some third world country, they all are sending money home, and they all have great stories about how they got here.
I also love it because I get to use a teeny bit of my knowledge from all the books I read and my country index cards that I compile. (Long story). I know a little something about every country on the planet. You think I exaggerate? I do not.
I so rarely get to use that knowledge, though – so when a cabbie says, “I am from the Ukraine” – I can ask him a question based on my silly books. I feel, in a selfish way, that it might combat just a LITTLE BIT of the “stupid American” stereotype.
One of the best examples of that is the time I made a cabbie cry. hahahaha We struck up a conversation. He was from Iran. Iran may be public enemy #1 but it is one of my favorite countries and cultures on earth and if I could ever get there someday, I will go in a heartbeat. I love Iran, and I love Iranians (only all the Iranians I have known insist on being called Persian)
So anyway, we started talking about Iran. He, naturally, had said he was from Iran with a little hesitation – thinking I might immediately respond as though he was a terrorist or something. Instead I said, “Oh man, I hope someday our countries can be friends … mainly because I am dying to go there.”
He got so excited – Persians LOVE their country. They love living in America, but they LOVE their country. He told me where to go, the things to see – I asked him about traveling alone as a woman, would it be feasible – he gave me tips – it was awesome.
This was a rather long cab ride, as you can imagine.
We talked about the relationship between our two countries. It was very open and honest.
I said, not trying to show off – honestly – it was in the context of the conversation- “So the whole thing with Mossadeq … that really impacted our relationship with you, didn’t it?”
There was this long pause, and his eyes looked at me through the rear view mirror and I saw tears start up in his eyes. Sudden tears in his eyes.
Saying “Mossadeq” to a Persian is like saying “Abraham Lincoln” to us … or something like that.
He said, “Mossadeq? You know his name?”
“Yes. I know about Mossadeq.”
He couldn’t even speak. For a couple seconds – and then the emotion passed – and we had this HUGE conversation about 1953 and Mossadeq – and it was just amazing.
Again – I can’t talk about Mossadeq to ANYONE – it pleases me to be able to hear what Iranians think about it … and, again selfishly – it pleases me to be able to use what sometimes feels like useless knowledge. But it isn’t!!!
Cab drivers. They are international ambassadors.
DBW –
I guess, in a way, parenthood, true love, jazz (I would say heavy metal, but hey – that’s just me) – is another version of connecting. It’s a way to connect to something greater than ourselves – to help us get out of our own heads – get into someone else’s world for a little while – and that is ALWAYS a good thing.
Great story, thanks. My conversations occur in grocery stores, especially in the cash line up. People often start by asking me a question about an item I have and then they tell me whats on their mind. Amazing.