For more than 50 years, Camilo José Vergara, sui generis sociologist and urban documentarian, has been attending to the environments, esthetics, and lifeways of poor neighborhoods in cities across the United States. In New York City, keeping a close eye on “the hood” requires a lot of commuting, both on the subway and by public bus. More than one-third of New York City residents do not live within walking distance of the subway, and rely heavily on the slow-moving and spotty system to get to schools, jobs, and appointments. If the pandemic briefly heightened awareness of how essential and fragile the bus system is, attempts to improve its utility, whether speeding it up with dedicated lanes, or providing safe and equitable access, have stalled. For Vergara, the long trips and frequent stops provide ample opportunity to listen in on and observe his fellow travelers, and photograph the scenes of communion, curiosity, and solidarity that he shares below.
At age 80, I continue my research on poor minority neighborhoods. To cover the terrain, I often ride buses — for company and for documentation, to overhear the conversations of my fellow minority New York and Newark residents, thus getting a glimpse into their lives. In conversations, people discuss a range of topics with fellow passengers or on the phone: their families, jobs, health, the places where they grew up, birthdays. I listen, take notes, and photograph the scene inside the bus, learning how riders look and the things they care about. Buses are good places to find this kind of companionship as people are typically packed in close together.
People returning home from the hospitals ride the bus with the plastic ID bracelet still around their wrists. I once saw a man with a full catheter bag. Bus riders respond to the pain of others and are quick to give advice — for example, how to deal with a bad leg — and even offer their pills to alleviate the pain. Many of the elderly people are missing their front teeth. I heard one old woman tell another: “I fell. I was in the hospital. One should not fall.”
I enjoy witnessing the curiosity of recent immigrants as they discover life in an American city. A group of Guatemalans on a bus to South Newark seemed very excited to be in the city, hoping for a better life, but a woman in the group objected loudly, saying that most likely they would end up doing “la limpieza,” cleaning offices and homes.
I feel the vitality of the people while riding the bus. Despite poverty and pervasive disabilities, bus riders seem to me to be much friendlier than subway riders. I hear lots of “please,” “I’m sorry,” and “thank you.” I often exchange glances and smiles with fellow passengers. And even when riders realize that I have just taken their picture, they seldom insult me. People who seem violent and out of control, whom I frequently encounter on the subway, do not ride buses; the driver would not allow them on board. Buses function like a living room where riders meet inquisitive guests with whom they plunge into conversations about their lives.
Aboard the M3 bus in Washington Heights, I hear people talk about cities in the Dominican Republic: Santiago de los Caballeros and San Felipe. I listen to other passengers on the phone, telling someone at home what to cook for dinner, giving instructions about where to buy the ingredients and how to cook them. Riding the Bx15 bus in the Bronx, I learned the value of having a union pension from a woman whose boyfriend had just gotten a job. I listened to a rider advising another to go to the police, offering to accompany her. I once overheard a man declare to the woman sitting next to him, “I have no criminal record,” then promised her a “four-dollar honey-turkey sandwich.” Another rider asked her companion, “Deviled eggs? Do you put the whole thing in your mouth or take a taste?”
In April 2020, I entered a crowded bus on West Market Street in Newark, and realizing that it was not possible to distance, I stayed by the exit. A passenger pointed me to an empty seat, but instead of sitting so close to other passengers, I got off the bus. As I exited, the same rider said loudly, “He has Corona.”
Buses were adapted for safety during the pandemic. After drivers started to die from Covid-19, their seats were protected with plastic panels that kept passengers from getting close to them. People entered through the back door and got to ride for free. They continue to do so, or deposit a few coins, a fraction of the fare, and the driver doesn’t complain. So far, I have never seen a person be told to get off the bus for lack of money.
Riders seldom look out at the city streets. The bus windows are often dirty or have notices written on them, making it difficult to see outside. People talk on the phone, listen to music, and interact with their fellow travelers. The phone is also used as a tool to reach up and press the yellow ribbon above the seats to request the bus stop.
The more elderly, disabled, and overweight people on the bus, the slower the ride, as the driver must wait for them to get in and out safely. Buses are crammed with wheelchairs, walkers, and crutches, but also skateboards, collectors’ large garbage bags full of cans, bunches of helium balloons being carried to a party. It is difficult to move to the back of the bus or to get out, so people yell, “Back door!” to keep the driver from closing the doors before they can exit.
I stand in the back waiting for people to get out or enter the bus and photograph them as they walk down the narrow alley towards the back. People often ask me why I take pictures. I tell them that I want to show how crowded the buses are, or how people dress, or to create images showing strangers coming together. One man reprimanded me for “taking pictures and shit.”
For a short time, in a slow-moving bus, I share in the life of security guards, disabled people, patients being released from the hospital, students, women returning home after doing their shopping. All the while, the city passes by. I feel no longer alone. Riding the bus, I become immersed in the life of the hood.
All photos copyright Camilo José Vergara
