Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Mass Observation Reports #1 and 2

Mala Kumar
Mass Observation Reports #1 and #2

September 2, 2009. I head out of the house at 10:01 AM. The walk to the West Campus (WC) shuttle bus is a perilous one, with such dangers as heavily cracked sidewalks, masses of shrubbery blocking the path, and not being able to see where I’m going because I’m too busy scribbling about said sidewalk in a notebook. The driving in this area is equally hazardous: stop signs are seen as a modest suggestion, rather than a command carrying legal consequences. All the same, I arrive at the bus stop at 22nd and Pearl in one piece. This particular bus stop is known for its griminess; however, it is exceptionally squalid this morning. Soggy newspapers litter the area around the bench (even though it has not rained recently) and the trashcan nearby is surrounded by a halo of random debris and above that, lazily bobbing hornets.
Two Asian males in matching white t-shirts and cargo shorts gawk at me openly, perhaps perplexed at my use of an antiquated transcription method. Or they have been waiting for far too long at the bus stop and I am the only novel thing to have come about in the last fifteen minutes. (One of the drawbacks of having to rely on the WC shuttle to get to class is never quite knowing if you’re going to have to wait three or 30 minutes for the next one to come by, regardless of the number of people already waiting at the stop.) Or maybe it is because I am staring directly at them, writing furiously in my notebook, and looking back up at them. A young man facing away from me sits hunched over on the bench, decked out resplendently in head-to-toe Longhorn memorabilia, conversing quietly on the phone. He mentions that he is going back to Dallas after visiting UT.
The bus arrives a few minutes later and the motley bunch, myself included, board the bus. The bus is packed with students, and I have to grasp the handrail for support in lieu of sitting down – which gives me the chance to acquaint myself with that lost art of writing with one hand clutching both the pencil and the notebook. The shuttle is crowded with people unfamiliar with the subtleties of riding the bus while standing up: every turn results in girlish squeals and people tumbling into one another. At Speedway and E. 21st, the bus empties out, leaving just me and a few other passengers. I take a seat across the aisle from two fellows gesturing wildly while conversing in Arabic. The young man sitting on my right gazes somberly at a handwritten page. At San Jacinto and 23rd a mad rush of students descend upon the bus when I try to get off. Three steps from the exit, I stare at each of the incoming passengers directly in the eye, waiting for the chance to escape.

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September 11, 2009. It is 11:33 AM, and I am walking from my house at David St. to the West Campus (WC) bus stop at 22nd and Pearl. Having recently injured my right foot and now encumbered with a pair of unwieldy crutches, the once mildly irritable cracked sidewalks now present a fairly serious hazard to the temporarily incapacitated girl. The abundant breaks in the sidewalk have caused large plates of cement blocks becoming separated from the ground, and stepping on the edge of these means tipping backwards precariously and losing one’s balance. There are two options: to walk on the sidewalk but risk breaking my ankle in four new places, or walk on the street and be at the mercy of the fiendish drivers of the area. I take the former. Thursday nights are big party nights up here, and Friday mornings show the aftermath of the excess. Those ubiquitous red plastic cups are littered everywhere - crushed into the dirt, stacked on car hoods, etc. - pools of unidentified liquids block my path, and there is a mysterious beer bottle standing upright in the middle of the road. The combination of ill-advised decisions and last night’s rain generates a distinctly unholy smell.
As I totter closer towards the bus stop – half a block away! – the WC bus rushes past me, stops for approximately five seconds and zooms away, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust and lingering regret for not leaving the house one minute earlier. However, in a startling twist of fate, a second WC bus arrives thirty seconds on the tail of the first – highly uncommon in the UT shuttle service, but an unanticipated boon after having resigned myself to have to wait upwards of 20 minutes for the next one. I board the packed bus, and realize at once there is a definite absence of people who are willing to give up their seat for the handicapped girl. I hold on to the handrail and hope fervently they enjoy their warm seats very much. Looking around the packed bus, I notice an interesting dynamic: the passengers whom I make eye contact glance quickly at my crutches, back at me, and then my crutches once more before hurriedly looking away. I begin a mental countdown of the days until I can take off this cast and be free of the cripple stigma.
I am once again compelled to utilize my newfound skill for one-handedly grasping my notebook and writing in it, but with a new twist: this time I have a set of crutches to grapple with. Friday morning ennui has evidently descended upon all the passengers and rain starts to fall once more, only furthering the gloom – though its presence does bring about the novel array of the latest in umbrella styles among UT’s young and fashionable.
As we approach 23rd and San Jacinto, students outside make mad dashes to catch the incoming shuttles. I step off onto the sidewalk and a girl in purple scrubs rushes past me, holding her umbrella out in front of her like a shield.

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