I grew up in backwoods Massachusetts. I think the first time I took a taxi, I was probably about 21 years old. Since then, I’ve ridden in cabs all over the country and maybe in a few other countries as well. In every city, I am struck by the ethnic and religious diversity that ranges across its population of taxi drivers. I’ve met cabbies from places I’ve never even heard of. It’s a strange phenomenon that most taxi drivers, in my experience, are worldly, intelligent, well-spoken, somewhat ambitious and often highly educated individuals. But more than anything, they are marked by their gift for telling stories, especially their own.
In the last week, I had the pleasure of meeting a cab driver from Casablanca, one from the Egyptian seacoast, and another from Pakistan. With their various beautiful accents, they told me their stories and charmed me with their good nature. I feel privileged to have had the honor to spend a few minutes learning about each of their lives.
The Moroccan gentleman assured me that in his homeland, the people are so friendly and generous that it’s absolutely a must-visit. No doubt. It’s always been on my shortlist to go to Northern Africa, but from my American friends, I’ve been warned that it’s not safe for me, a white woman, to go alone. But sharing a ride with this man who was born and raised in Casablanca – legendary and romantic in all Western minds – I was lulled into a belief in the city’s ultimate goodness.
The driver from Pakistan told me the story of how he came to San Francisco 20 years ago and has been vying for a precious cab medallion ever since, but how in the meantime, he leases another man’s medallion for several thousand dollars a month, just for the privilege of driving a cab that he already owns. He does this so he can support his wife, who he loves and adores, and his four children, who are all under the age of five. They have gorgeous Muslim names that I promptly forgot. The other day, his oldest daughter’s teacher called to inform him that she has been chosen to lead the class in some sort of production. He was radiating pride when he told me this. He drives a taxi five, six, seven days a week so he can live with his family in a tiny apartment in the slummy suburbs of San Francisco. He sublets this apartment from a friend, because he can’t afford a security deposit for his own place. His friend is only going to be away for a few more months, and then he’s not sure what he’s going to do.
He told me all of this with a big happy smile on his face. Because he’s in America, where, as far as he’s concerned, the possibilities are endless and everyone is sure of reaching their dream.
I wanted to tell him that, in my mind, he’s already there. He has a family he loves, and he’s content. That’s more than many of my American friends can claim.
