I used to work in Northeast Philly. My commute was Route 1 almost the whole way from City Line Ave to Roosevelt Boulevard.
Route 1 runs from Key West, Florida up to Fort Kent, Maine. It’s a major thoroughfare that includes lovely, pleasant drives in some places and total nightmare journeys in others. My commute was one of the nightmares, especially the part we Philadelphians call The Boulevard.
The City Line Avenue portion is rough going with lots of traffic, lights every few 100 yards, stores and strip malls along its edges so there are always cars turning in and out, but the Boulevard is a 1,000 times worse - eight lanes of anger, aggression, road rage, bad driving, chaos, and craziness all rolled into one. It’s one of the most dangerous roads in America and the shrine laden medians along the way attest to the lives lost. Usually there’s an abandoned car or two somewhere along its nearly 15 miles so the whole effect is of a zombie apocalypse. Many drivers seem to have lost their minds and drive accordingly, as one might during a zombie apocalypse.
To get from the City Line Ave portion of Route 1 to The Blvd you need to merge with traffic coming from I-76. It’s pretty chaotic and, frankly, scary. One day, as 100s of cars were all merging onto The Boulevard, one car just stopped. I was a few cars behind and had to slow down and switch lanes. I thought the driver must be having engine trouble or was maybe even sick so I drove by slowly and looked over to see if help was needed. Nope, all good, the driver was smiling and pulling the foil wrapper off a breakfast sandwich, oblivious to the honking and cursing. I drove by as he was taking his first bite. It looked like a good sandwich.
On another trip, further up The Boulevard, I noticed a man weaving in and out of his lane. I assumed he was on his cell phone, maybe on FaceTime. At a red light, I glanced over at him. He had the newspaper spread out on his steering wheel, contentedly killing two birds with one stone.
Other usual occurrences: the aforementioned FaceTime conversations, make up application, texting, car chases, a man shoving a plastic bag with something inside it down a sewer drain as sirens wail in the distance, a guy selling flowers, kids on bikes flipping us off.
The drive really was awful and sometimes when I think back on it, I can’t believe I survived it without more damage. As physically stressful as it was, mostly I just didn’t like who I became on The Boulevard - short tempered, foul mouthed, annoyed. Essentially the whole drive was an occasion of sin.
One day, there was a man in another car who just couldn’t decide on a speed or a lane. He’d cut in front of me and then slow down. If I passed him, he’d ride my tail. He’d speed up at yellow lights (though in fairness, this is a pretty Philly move), slow down at green lights. At one point when he was behind me, I was muttering about what an idiot he was, how he shouldn’t have a license, how inconsiderate he was, blah, blah, blah. Stopped at the next light, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw his face.
He looked miserable, exhausted, worried, even. Apparently he wasn’t trying to ruin my day. While at work, I kept thinking about him, this poor man. I wondered about his life and, from the look of him, I thought it must be pretty tough. I ended up writing a poem about it, which you can read here.
I was reminded of this incident recently while scrolling through social media, which has become a rancorous and vile place - the name calling, the cursing, the anger and distrust, the assumptions about others based on no information. I don’t mean of politicians, I mean of neighbor for neighbor, brother for brother, children for parents, friends for friends. There are actually articles about how to disown your family or trigger your parents at Thanksgiving. Is this what we’ve become? People who want to ruin Thanksgiving? Is social media an occasion of sin? Has America become one big Boulevard? Have we become a people we don’t want to be?
No matter who wins, let’s remember to see each other for the wonder that we are.