A Writing Journey

Snow is beginning to fall. The wind is picking up. I am relieved when I step into the car.  

I made a last-minute decision to get an Uber. The forecast called for snow starting late in the morning and lasting until the afternoon. I debated whether to cycle to school, my preferred mode of transportation now that the snow-filled paths are mostly clear, or take the subway (the alternative when the weather gods are unfriendly). When the white, heavy, water-filled flakes began to fall just as I was lacing up my running shoes, I decided that it’s an Uber-kinda day. 

As soon as I buckle my seatbelt, the conversation with my driver begins in a predictable way. 

 “I thought we were done with winter!” I protest. He laughs warmly, which puts me at ease. 

My decision to engage with Uber drivers is never automatic. Unlike my partner M who, no matter the day or time or occasion, will always pepper the Uber driver with non-stop questions. M wants to connect with people – in the elevator, at the grocery store, in the Uber, anywhere – and, in doing so, I think it helps him better understand the lives of others. Today, seeing the smile and hearing the driver’s laughter makes me open up.

As we lament this year’s long and sordid winter, the driver (whom I will call S) suggests Torontonians may be heading south for some sun if the winter doesn’t let up. I balk at that suggestion.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think more Americans will be heading north given what’s happening in that country –”

I pause before I finish. Oops! It’s always risky to turn directly to US relations with a stranger, and very unlike me. You never know what political stripe lies under someone’s jacket. I think I might have shown my cards too early.

I exhale slowly when S shares that he too never wanted to live in the US – except, maybe, for the better tax rates. He works as a real estate agent, he explains, and drives for Uber to help him carve out a living. He has lived in Canada for more than 30 years. He was born in Nigeria.

This is the point in a typical Uber ride when I decide whether I will continue to engage the driver or go silent. Today, as S pulls back the curtain on his story, I decide I want to know more.

I ask him where he lives. While he often drives downtown, he lives in a neighbouring suburb. The cost of housing is more affordable. I ask him how it is to live there. He says he likes it, but that “everyone keeps to themselves.” He knows the neighbours on either side of his house, but other than that, exchanges are limited to just “a hello, here and there.”

I think about what it must be like for someone to arrive from another country 30 years ago and try to create a community from scratch. How did he develop his wide smile and willingness to open up to strangers like me?

We talk real estate for a few minutes. At this point, the snow is really coming down. The traffic slows to a crawl as we merge onto the parkway. We talk about the overinflated housing market in Toronto. His voice triggers my father’s same thoughts when he first moved to Toronto from our hometown, about two hours away. I tell S that my Dad, an immigrant from Italy, bought his home for $60,000 in cash back in the late 60s. S is not surprised. He asks me where my parents are now. I share that my mother lives in Toronto, close to my sister and me; my Dad passed away a few years ago.

“It’s good to have your family close by,” he says, the paternal instinct coming through in his voice. He is right. Having my mother here with us in the same city has been a gift.

I feel the boundaries usually set between strangers blurring as we inch our way in the car toward my school. I share with S that I used to own a house, before I met my current partner. I sold it, I tell him, for a good profit and now we rent a place.

“Well, as long as you’ve put that money into good investments” he says, echoing my father’s financial advice.

“Do you have children?” he asks. I pause. While I am honest, I usually don’t venture into the reasons why.

“No, we don’t have kids” I say, even-toned. 

“By choice?” he asks. “Because if it’s not by choice, it can be sad. But if that’s what you both want, then it’s good.”

I tell him that when I met M we were both at an age where the question of kids needed to be answered fairly quickly. I, especially, didn’t have the luxury of time. That lifestyle was not something that we desired, and we decided it was not for us. 

The ease with which my confession spills out surprises me. 

S responds by telling me that he loves his son, now 21, but that it was a lot of work to raise his child when he was little. “Now that he is an adult, he really doesn’t have time for me!” he says, laughing. This subtle confirmation from a stranger that M and I made the right decision for us tugged at just the right heartstring.

I rarely speak to people about my decision not to have kids. Most don’t ask me. The few who do – well, they often don’t want to listen to the answer.

As we turn the corner close to my school, S asks me if I’m the principal. I laugh.  “No, that’s not a job I would ever want! I really enjoy being a teacher.” 

He laughs as well. His voice has become familiar and reassuring. My life choices – selling my home, choosing M, not having children, being a teacher – are all mine and I feel grateful for each of them.

I thank S for bringing me to school safely as we pull into the parking lot. He thanks me, his smile still wide. 

“Maybe we will see each other again sometime,” I say, as I open the car door.

“Have a good day!” he responds.

As I step away from the car, I open up the Uber app. I notice S’s name: Sunday. I tip Sunday a little extra than usual, grateful for the understanding he unknowingly gifted me.