On the bus, a northbound #7 Rainier, I found a front-facing seat, a few rows from the back. Of course, any experienced rider knows to avoid the back of the bus, but I’d rather sit than stand.
The only passenger who seemed off was a young white woman in the back row, wearing a crucifix headpiece — a black or dark gray pillbox hat, covered with netting, with a fist-sized silver cross affixed to the material, dominating the center of her forehead.
“Damn, that’s Catholic,” I thought to myself, sitting down, but I had no idea.
We rolled a few blocks in blissful silence, or as silent as a city bus gets, which isn’t very silent. Two teenage boys got on together, and walked to one of the back seats, but they were so dull and non-descript, I don’t even remember whether they were black or white. Within moments, though, after they’d gone behind me and presumably taken their seats, the Catholic woman began berating them.
“Don’t you start anything with me,” she began. “I am a woman of God and demand to be treated with respect. Don’t even look at me, and don’t make any snide or sexual remarks.”
“I didn’t say anything,” one of the teenagers said.
“You didn’t have to,” said the woman. “It’s all over your face, your demeanor, so I want to stop you before you say or do something offensive. I will not stand for it. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” said one of the boys, “but fuck off.”
That launched a tirade from the woman that lasted twenty blocks, saying wacky things quicker than I could take notes:
• “I am not a sex worker. Don’t look at me with impure thoughts or I will purify you.”
• “You will never know the peace I’ve found, through the love and grace of Jesus.”
• “God will judge you, and I will be beside him laughing at you.”
• “I once was lost, but now am found!”
• “Not all women are whores. I am not a whore.”
• “Never look at a woman with lust in your heart.”
• “I am a nun, a sanctified bride of Christ. I wear His ring!”
That last line was the only moment I was tempted to turn around, to see whether she was proudly flashing a ring on her finger, like a newlywed. I’m no fool, though, and remained facing forward. Block after block I never turned back, for fear of catching that woman’s eye and being victimized like the teenagers.
It was a classic adventure on public transit — three bucks for the ride, no extra charge for the entertainment. The kooky nun was the only person speaking, her tone of voice deranged, while everyone else on the bus looked out the window and exercised their right to remain silent. Even the teenage boys wisely said not another word.
A few brave souls emerged from the seats behind me, and resettled sitting or standing near the front of the bus. The Catholic pillbox woman never stopped talking. The driver glanced back in his mirror many times, but said nothing. The automated voice announced all the stops, and I stepped off at Brandon Street, courageously glancing back at the kooky nun as I passed through the door.
Other than her ridiculous hat, she looked like a normal, even sane 30-year-old white woman. Under the hat and netting and cricifix, of course, everything had gone wrong.
10/21/2025
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