The #50 bus was crowded, when a gray but colorfully-dressed adult boarded, and took a sideways seat at the front. Wearing a checkerboard jacket over a plaid shirt, and two-tone pants — left leg bright purple, right leg flaming orange — this person’s gender was a question mark, but that’s not uncommon in the big city.
It’s their face, though, that held my attention — neither black nor white nor any other ethnic, it shined with an exceptional gray, the color of a walk on the moon, or dust from a limestone quarry. The hands were the same shade of chalk or ash, and the hair, of course, was fluorescent green, but the face was fascination. Grayness, interrupted only by an inch-wide and perfectly-flat streak of black eyeshadow, curved around to the ears.
When riding the bus, people-watching is included and often unavoidable, at no extra charge. Nose-pickers, butt-scratchers, drunks, singers, dancers, droolers, karate kickers, naked riders, fentanyl smokers — never say you’ve seen it all, but I’ve seen a lot, and this was different. This was better. This was joy.
Whether this person was male, female, or non-binary, black trying to present as white, or white trying to present as black, your guess would be as good as mine, but I refused to guess. I loved the confident certainty of this strange stranger’s intentional uncertainty, and it had to be intentional. Nobody’s born that color, and if it was a medical condition it would probably be painful, but this was the opposite — celebration! This person was thoroughly pleased with themself and their appearance, and you knew it, because every block or two along the ride, they pulled a handheld mirror from their grocery bag, looked at themself, and smiled.
In the sideways seats, you’re supposed to stand if someone comes aboard who needs the disabled seating, and with proper manners, the passenger stood, curtsied, and yielded when a woman in a wheelchair joined our crowd.
This gray-on-gray, explosively-dressed green-haired ambisexual passenger then stood near the side door, which put them within eyeshot of a curved mirror showing most of the bus’s interior. As I watched (because how could I not?) this passenger glanced at that fish-eye mirror a few times, and always the mirror smiled back.
My stop was next. To reach the exit, I’d have to squeeze past them, and I’d decided to say, “You look fantastic.” After ringing the bell, though, I reconsidered the word ‘look’, and instead said, “You are fantastic.”
“Oh, thank you!” the passenger squealed, and offered a high-five I cheerfully slapped back. Through the door and onto the sidewalk, I looked back and they were smiling even bigger than before, waving at me, and I waved back.
On my half-block walk home, I wasn’t so much thinking about that person on the bus, as about people who would feel awkward, uncomfortable, offended, or even angry at that passenger’s happiness. In particular, I flashed back to a breakfast with my brother, who’d frowned when a trans lady walked into the restaurant.
My brother had muttered, “Something is wrong with that person,” but obviously, whatever had once been wrong with that person, they’d corrected it! And I’ll never understand anyone who misses that very, very obvious point.
3/22/2026
itsdougholland.com
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