GUEST COLUMN: Sense and insensitivity

Ron Jenkins wonders howRon Jenkins wonders howmuch 'education' it takesRon Jenkins wonders howmuch 'education' it takesto simply speak up whenRon Jenkins wonders howmuch 'education' it takesto simply speak up wheninjustices are committed. Ron Jenkins wonders howmuch 'education' it takesto simply speak up wheninjustices are committed."Excuse me, do you have change for a dollar?" I asked the tall African American woman with the bad Jheri curl. "I only have singles." "Is this the 42?" I tried again, as a bus approached, but the woman didn't respond. In fact, no one responded. No one talked. I assumed that it wasn't the 42 bus. It went by. As we continued waiting, other students approached. After the parade of Lexuses and BMWs passed, the street was barren for a few moments. Inside the bus shelter it was even quieter. No one talked. Just stared off at Banana Republic. Still. Finally, with the approach of the blue "At Your Service" sign, the bus arrived. I was relieved. We boarded. The fare was $1.60. Most people had tokens and passes. I paid two dollars, no change. I searched to find a seat -- off in the distance, there it was. Like an oasis in this desert, this blue plastic seat. It was calling. Slowly, I made my move. I grabbed the metal poles above, moving Tarzan-like, shifting my body weight and being careful not to crush the J. Crew bag. I was close. I could feel the comfort of that molded blue and orange plastic seat welcoming my sore backside from a long day of spending Dad's cash. It was mine -- but not quite. He got it, that unassuming guy in the back of the bus. He won the seat, only after pushing, shoving and cursing to get people to move. He smiled smugly at me. I just stood there, one hand grasping the metal pole, the other holding onto the bag. I stood there, whimpering. He relaxed and opened his jacket. On his sweatshirt were these words: "Wharton, at the University of Pennsylvania." I knew it. In a barely audible tone, the driver said "19th Street." The "Stop Requested" sign was lit. Passengers grew weary, began looking at their watches, glancing out at the stop. There were two men in wheelchairs. Some passengers sighed, others looked the opposite direction. And some, including me, didn't realize SEPTA could board these men. So we didn't care. "You guys waiting for me?" the driver asked. "Yeah," they replied. More sighs. More children grew tired. And more silent anger? but no sound. No one talked. "Man, they know this holds me up," the driver muttered as he exited the bus. The sound of hazard light blinking filled the air. All 40 people on the bus froze, turned off their Walkmans, folded their papers and closed their books. "Click, click?" The driver opened a control panel near the rear doors of the bus. The steps on the rear of the bus became a ramp, and a handle emerged from the doors. Constantly people stole glances, at the driver or at the mechanical thing that popped out of the bus or at the sidewalk. But no one, including me, talked. The tinted windows protected us. We could glance at the man in the wheelchair, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see us. Silence was the punishment for this unwelcome visitor. To accommodate the wheelchair, the driver walked through a group of people, flipping a seat against the wall. The seat I had wanted was now unavailable. The guy who stole it was asked to get up. Now it was my turn to smile smugly. The ramp slowly lowered, closer to the ground. When it was ramp was about six inches from the ground, it stopped. "I'm giving her all she's got, but she ain't moving," the driver yelled. More silence. Some people resigned themselves to the idea of leaving the men there, but the driver tried harder. "Sorry man, she ain't movin'. And we gotta go." Did that "we" imply me? I wondered. Did it imply that we -- all of us on the bus -- wanted to leave him there? The driver could have picked him and his companion up and lifted them onto the ramp. But he didn't, and I wanted to know why. I didn't wonder long. There we were, on the corner of 19th and Walnut, just starting at this man and the driver. Facing the inevitable. That ramp wasn't moving, and it was getting hot. The driver tried twice more. Nothing. He gave up. "I'll call it in," he said. "I'll call it in." "How long?" the wheelchair-bound man asked. "About 20 minutes 'til the next bus." The ordeal was over. People exhaled. Not being inconvenienced was a relief. Faces moved again. The seat was lowered back to its original position. Walkmans went on, babies cried, people talked, books were opened. Our world was back to normal. I looked out at the man; we all knew what was going to happen. The ramp turned into a set of stairs. The driver boarded the bus and the hazards stopped. With a great shake, the bus moved. The next light was red. Through the side windows, I could see the man sitting there on 19th Street. We stopped at 33rd Street, passed the Towne Building and Hill House. We stopped at 34th and Walnut. The driver didn't make the call. I got off the bus, walked through campus, looked at the happy people at College Green. I didn't understand. We on that bus had all shared an experience. We all saw the way driver treated the man in the wheelchair, we saw the ramp six inches off the ground. We heard the hazard lights blinking -- we were there. But no one said a word. With every passing semester here at Penn, we are supposed to grow. We are supposed to develop into tomorrow's leaders. We are suppose to take the proactive role. I didn't take my role -- and for a moment, I questioned. Is ist all worth it, $30,000 not to gain an ounce of activism or sensitivity? I hope the time will come when I can take the proactive role and care about getting that man a seat, instead of looking out for my own interests. I don't know where or when it will happen, but I hope it does.