Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

I don’t know how my mother did it.

Her entire life, she relied on other people for rides. When she was younger. she was an avid public transit user, zipping from Bethel Park around the region on trolley and bus.

Once she had kids and moved to West Mifflin, things got trickier. The bus was there, but dragging two young children across a state highway or otherwise semi-accessible spot was not a feat for the faint of heart. Plus, our schools, doctors, etc were conveniently on no bus lines. Trolleys were long gone.

So she asked for rides. She should have been able to rely on her husband and family. Husband, to be fair, worked hard, but also drank and gambled hard when he was supposed to pick up my brother from band camp. His father was violent and abusive to my mother, something she endured for our sake – that’s a lovely lifelong legacy of guilt and shame. For him. Not her. She did what she had to do because she was always on the losing end.

She asked neighbors who begrudgingly helped. Begrudgingly seems an apt word for the overall attitude of the Silent Generation residents of my West Mifflin years. I felt it when I got in the car. I shut up, squeezed myself into my assigned space, and endured the drive. Rarely did I feel comfortable or welcomed by all these do-gooder riders.

Still, my Dad told me I had an obligation to pay-it-forward (before that was a thing) by offering rides, safely of course, whenever I could. So I did, from age 16 to 52. In July 2023, I no longer had access to a car so suddenly the coin flipped back to my childhood when I was the rider. Ridee? Passenger? Dependant!

After 22 weeks of relying on people for rides, I am once again awe of my mother. My friends are kind and generous, but the weight of repeatedly asking is uncomfortable. I have to cede a significant degree of control over my life and I do not like that. The demons I wrestle are decades older than my current situation. The people who offer me rides are kind and polite, thoughtful and courteous. I’m sure they know that I hate to ask. There’s nothing begrudging.

But I look for it. The eye roll, the exasperated sigh, the hesitation when I request a change in the itinerary due to last minute pings that my prescriptions are ready. I realize that they are simply calculating things, not assessing the worthiness of my ask. I realize I’m negotiating with adults who are either dead or no longer driving these days and have no power over me.

I have used the ZipCar a bit, but it is pricier than I imagined and it always seems to be a bazillion degrees when I need to walk to the station. It is too bad ZipCar doesn’t want a cat lady spokes-driver.

I’ve yet to try the bus, but I’m heading that way soon. I told myself my first ride will just be the full loop. Check out the lay of the land. I have the bus app on my phone ready to roll. I am eligible for a disability discount, but it seems to require going downtown on the bus without the discount to offer up my complete set of documents, two cats, and the lining of my former uterus to prove my fealty to the disability fraud overlords, prevention department.

Not to be confused with the advisory group of the ‘everyone on food stamps is scamming us somehow and we’ll find out how’ bullies with buggies.

I see no path to obtaining a car soon. I was thinking electric bike? I’d prefer electric trike. I have my eye on this one.

I don’t know how my mother did it.