What I Learned on the Bus

By: Maria C. Palmer

Synopsis:

It was a sticky summer morning in Pittsburgh, and I was preparing to leave for my summer college internship. DING DONG. As I rushed down the steps of my parents’ home, I ran to answer the door. I peered through the peephole of the front door and saw two men dressed in dark suits. Their presence seemed immediately unsettling.

I opened the door and the morning light flashed across a badge adorned with three engraved, recognizable letters–F.B.I. They wanted to know the whereabouts of my father, an A-list restaurateur. Anxiety crept throughout my body instantly. I felt it well up starting in my throat. The weight continued flowing through every extremity until it reached the tips of my fingers and toes. It left me speechless.

I quickly was taken back to the present when they asked me once again. I managed to find my voice enough to say that he was at our family’s restaurant, and I shut the door. Filled with fear, I tried to ease my worries by telling myself that they were likely questioning him about someone he may have known. He knew a ton of people. This made sense and helped to quell my anxiety for a moment.

However, it was not enough. I shivered with terror and fear as my heart raced and sweat dripped down my face. I was no stranger to what was going on in my body, and this feeling had a familiarity to it. I had lost control of myself and was terrified. I knew that I was experiencing a panic attack, and I felt completely helpless. Why did the federal government need to talk with my father?

I would soon find out the answer to this question. After hours on edge, my father met me for dinner and revealed what I had feared- HE was the subject of an investigation. This allegation felt like it came out of left field, and I was unprepared for how to process this information. My father was a pillar of our community, the person people gravitated toward when they were experiencing hard times, the fixer. In my mind, he was NOT a criminal.

My father’s investigation lasted for a few years. By the time he plead guilty to federal tax evasion charges and started a five-month sentence in Morgantown Federal Correctional Facility, I had moved to California to get away and make sense of it. I learned that you can’t run from your problems like internal baggage, they follow you even 3,000 miles away. My mind was stuck in the moment of the Feds knocking on my door. I replayed it repeatedly and relived the trauma several times a day and night. By trying to make sense of the situation, I was in fact, destroying myself.

Down and out, I searched for meaning. My then boyfriend, now husband, got wind of a presentation a Catholic nun was giving at a church in Beverly Hills about a program called Get On The Bus (GOTB), which bused children to visit their incarcerated parents. He encouraged me to go as he knew the program would appeal to me.

As a former Catholic and a small-town girl, I was not excited about attending. In fact, I tried my best to avoid going. When I begrudgingly got there, my expectations were not high, but as soon as Sr. Suzanne came in, she defied everything I thought I knew about nuns. No habit, she was boisterous, modern, and quite the fashionista. She spoke passionately about how she started the organization for women in prison who hadn’t seen their children in between 7-14 years.

I stayed behind and shared my story, and our uncanny relationship was born. She acknowledged my feelings. Instead of having me ignore them, she put me to work. I started helping her as a volunteer setting up program evaluations, which lead me into sharing my own personal story for fundraising efforts, and eventually working for the organization.

After taking a job as the director on a whim when someone quit on-the-spot, I had extreme trepidation. From day one, she awoken my inner confidence that until then was nonexistent. She validated my worth telling me white lies that I needed to hear like, “Don’t worry. This job will be easy.”

As I haphazardly managed my new role and realized that it was anything but easy, something clicked. I knew this was exactly where I was meant to be. I thought I was helping children and families during the most difficult time in their lives, but as it turns out, they were the ones helping me. They taught me first-hand about forgiveness, compassion, and unconditional love. This themed collection of heart-warming and heart-wrenching stories became my path to healing and redemption. My experience at GOTB continues to guide and transform me to this day years later. It is always in the most unlikely of places that we find what we need.

Chapter 1: The Visit to the Big House

2008

“Welcome to Pittsburgh, where the local time is 5:23 am. It is cloudy and hazy, and it is going to be a hot one. On behalf of United Airlines, I’d like to thank you for flying with us from Los Angeles,” said the captain over the intercom.

I waited impatiently for the seatbelt sign to come off and the plane halt. I quickly grabbed my bag. I looked down at my chewed-up nails and realized that my anxiety was now external as well. It had been six months since I’d seen my family and so much had changed during that time.

As I approached the outside, I could see the morning dew collecting on the front windshield of my mom’s 2001 Chrysler Cirrus as she and my sister waved. I picked up my gait, already sweating from the Pittsburgh humidity.

As I got into the car, the cold air from the air conditioner hit me and it knocked me back into reality. My anxiety was acting up as my head caught up with my body’s cross-country journey, but my mom’s embrace was there to quiet it.

“Maria, I missed you so much!” She hugged me in only the way a mom can.

“Hi Riri, was sup?” my sister retorted from the back, barely looking up from her headphones.

“Thanks for picking me up. It is good to see you two, and it is good to be back.”

“How was L.A.?”

“It was good.”

“How was work?”

“Also, good.”

“How was Joe?”

“Good.”

“Buckle up, it’s a 45-minute drive to Morgantown,” said mom.

“That’s if she doesn’t get lost,” Kelly retorted back.

Smiles and laughter quickly turned into silence. Small talk was something that I wasn’t good at nowadays. The smooth highway helped to relax me, and I dozed off.

I awoke with the jarring of the car going into park.

“Here already?”

“I guess 45 minutes is a piece of cake after a six-hour red eye, eh?”

“You can say that again.”

As I got out of the car and stretched in the morning heat, I realized our destination was nothing like I expected. We parked in front of a short building surrounded by unassuming chain link fencing with a simple sign that read “Morgantown Federal Correctional Institute.” Behind the fence were other buildings spread out over a sprawling campus, reminding me of a small college. Men in brown pressed uniforms stood around, looking like maintenance men on their break. The mood was light as they talked with ease. Some laughed, others kept their heads down. Some were working. Some were working out.

“Ok, Maria. Ready to see Dad?”

I took a deep breath convincing myself all would be okay. “I’m okay, Dad’s okay, it will be a good day.”

“Did you say something?”

“No.”

I repeated my mantra, under my breath this time.

Inside the visiting room, the clock above the check-in desk read seven am. Although it was well before the limited visiting hours, there was already a short line snaking back from a security checkpoint. Compared to the long lines and aggressive security at LAX, this would be a cake walk.

Our aim was to get there early to maximize our time together. What felt like an eternity waiting was only twenty minutes. When we finally made it to the front of the security line, one of the guards stepped in front of me and declared, “You!”

I stepped back. “Me?”

He glared at my mom and sister but directed his voice towards me. “I’m talking to all of you. You are not dressed appropriately.”

I looked down at my cropped pants and t-shirt and started to ask how else we were supposed to dress. Always polite and compliant, my mom interrupted me. “I’m sorry. I really thought we were dressed modestly, sir.”

The guard seemed to notice our confusion and innocence. “You can return if you change into appropriate clothing.”

“I understand, sir, but we came Pittsburgh this morning after I just flew cross country from L.A., and we don’t have other clothing with us.”

We went too far. “Then we’ll see you next time.” The guard dismissed us with a wave of his hand. “Next!”

We walked past a now endless line of visitors in a walk of shame. Some seemed to have pity on us, and some seemed to be excited that our drop out of the line would give them a better placement.

Driving down the road, I spotted a gas station. “Mom, stop here.” I rolled down the window and waved to the attendant. “Excuse me sir, where is the closest place was to buy clothing?”

“Super K about eight miles away.”

The attendant started pointing and gesturing, as if that would help us understand his local West Virginian twang, “Go dawn there about there two or so miles and you will see an old Dairy Queen, take a left. Then go through two lights, hang a right and go for another few miles and take a slight left. Go past Sam’s Deli and then look to the left, and you will see the Super K.”

With no pen in sight and nothing to write with anyways, we listened intently, and when he was done, we tried repeating it back. He interrupted and started again. After the second time through, we stopped trying, thanked the attendant and pulled away, hoping that somehow our lost ship would find its destination. Costanzo women have a terrible sense of direction, so none of us were surprised when we ended up in a residential neighborhood instead of a Super K.

We flagged down a man getting into his car to go to work.

“Excuse me, do you know where the Super K is?”

Luckily, our detour was not that far off. We hurried into the store like a scene from Super Market Sweep and quickly decided on sweatshirts and sweatpants—cheap, useful around the house, and not revealing. At this point the fact that it was registering 97 outside was a negligible consequence at most. We came here to see my dad and that we were determined to do.

By the time we returned to the security line, there was little visiting time left. A tiny fan pushed hot air towards the guards, and we sweated profusely in the waiting room, having hurriedly put the sweat suits on over our clothing. After a stiff look from captain friendly cop, we were ushered into a large room with cafeteria-style folding tables. There was a speaker high up in the cinder block wall that we had to assume could work both ways.

As we walked in, there was an order to the loud room otherwise filled with chaos. It seemed a lot of the visitors were repeat customers, and they knew the drill. Although I was clueless, I also somehow ended up ahead of my mom and sister. I took a seat at the first open table I found, right next to the vending machines. Across the room, my mom whispered “No!” with a gasp, and before I could stand up again a woman with short hair and a commanding, but quiet voice stepped in front of me. “You can’t sit here.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a guard start a slow walk towards us, his hand on his still-belted billy club. I stood up, and as I quickly scanned for another table, the woman gestured. “Come this way.”

I followed the woman as she walked along the exterior walls to an unoccupied section on the far side of the room. “There is a woman that is in the processing room now, and she has been visiting for the past thirteen years. That was her table.” There was a hierarchy, and I wasn’t part of it.

The stranger patted a table bathed in scorching sunlight, and as I sat down she sat at the table next to me. The guard slowly walked past, his hand still on the billy club. I stared at the top of the table. Eventually, he walked back across the room, nearer to the fan.

The woman turned to me and whispered, “It’s a little hot over here, but no one bothers you and it is out of earshot.”

My mom and sister finally caught up. As they sat down, my mom smiled at the strange woman at the table next to us.

“How are you Margie? How’s Jim?”

“You know. At least he has Joe.”

“I’m sorry. I’m glad they can be there for one another. Margie, this is our Maria. She just arrived from California.”

“Yes, we’ve met.”

An older man in a prison uniform approached, and Mom waved. He nodded a greeting as he sat down across from Margie. My mom whispered, “Have a good visit.”

Across the room, I saw a familiar face. My dad. He was in a prison uniform and looked thinner and healthier than I remember. I stood up to help him to our table, but my mom grabbed my hand and pulled me down. “Maria, we are not allowed to hug or have any physical contact. Anything that gives attention to dad in here is bad. Don’t do anything that gets him noticed.”

As Dad walked past Margie and Jim, he gave a slight nod. This was bizarre. Nothing my dad ever did was nonchalant. He had a presence that lit up the room and a volume to follow. But here, it seemed he was just trying his best to blend in with everyone else.

When he sat down at our table, he just smiled with a tear in his eye. “Maria, it is good to see you. Thanks for coming.”

Chapter 2: Am-a-du It

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I hit the snooze button for the second time.

“Maria, stop hitting snooze. The only person who is getting more rest is you,” Joe rolled away from me covering his head with a pillow.

“Just five more minutes, I promise.”

“Forget it, I’m up,” Joe moved the cat to my side.

“Joe, I’m sorry, I’m just tired. This weekend was a lot for me.”

He looked at me with a small amount of empathy, but his lack of being a morning person overtook any pity. “It’s fine, I had to get up anyways.” I fell asleep again as he stumbled into the shower.

The snooze alarm blared again, and I quickly disabled it rustling out of the covers myself. Joe kissed me on the cheek on his way out the door.

“What time do you work today?”

“10-6.”

“Are you home for dinner?”

“Yes, Joe, I’ll cook something. Are you?”

“I’ll try…I’m late!” And he was gone.

I grabbed the first business suit I could see and threw it on. I put my hair up in a bun and sprinkled on a little blush and lipstick so I didn’t look completely pale. I never understood why I needed to wear a business suit while working at a university. To me, college was not a corporate affair. But what did I know?

LA traffic was light, so I stopped for a breakfast sandwich at the mini-mart down the street. As I walked into my office, a voice behind me called out, “The top seller still needs to get to work on time!” I turned around to see my longtime friend Dave grinning.

“Late on your first day, and you’re calling me out?”

“Second day. Where have you been!”

“In all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this dressed up.”

“I clean up well, don’t I?”

“Not bad.”

“But really, where have you been?”

We both fell silent as we entered the Admissions Office. The office was empty, except for a short man in a much more expensive suit leaning against my desk. He looked at his watch, looked at us, and said, “Amadu. Conference room.” I looked at the calendar next to my desk, and sure enough, “Corporate Visit” was written in my handwriting on today’s date.

We followed my boss into the mostly-full conference room, the large screen in front projecting “YOUR FUTURE IS HERE.” As we took two seats near the back, my boss stepped to the front.

“You all know Amadu, he is visiting from London to spend the week here with us.”

A dapper man in his 30’s in a three- piece designer suit and shiny, pointy Italian shoes interrupted in a thick Nigerian accent. “Amadu thanks you. Today Amadu is going to graciously teach you all that you need to know to work for the job of your dreams.”

Both Dave and I tried to hold in our laughter, but I was not as successful. I quickly grabbed a tissue from my pocket and turned my cackle into a big sneeze. Unfortunately, that did not cut it.

“Excuse me Ms. What-is-Your-Name?” He looked over in my direction.

I tried to look past him thinking he was referring to someone else.

Amadu now addressed his official sidekicks, “Who is this?” Pointing to me.

My boss was quick to throw me under the bus. “Her. That’s Maria Costanzo, she’s one of my speakers.”

“Maria Costanzo, Admissions Department, stand up.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to tell you what A-ma-du.”

With that, I heard the faint giggle of Dave, and it was over. My small cackle turned into a roaring laughter and Dave’s voice followed.

“You two think this is funny, now, don’t you?”

I tried holding my giggles in as I stammered, “I’m sorry.” Dave cut me off, and said with a straight face, “Ama-not-du that again. Am-a sorry. Mr. Amadu.”

Amadu stepped back, and paused in front of the mirror next to the lectern. After considering his reflection, he turned back to us. “Both of you separate, do not let this happen again or Am-a-du what Am-a-have-to-du.” I bit my lip and we both walked robotically to opposite corners never making eye contact again during the meeting.

As soon as Amadu signed off saying, “Am-a make it a great day and that’s what Am-a-du today,” Dave and I broke for the door. I looked at the clock. It was around 11 am.

“You want to grab lunch?”

“Sure.”

My boss intercepted us as we veered towards the exit. “Maria. Anaheim, Econ. First class starts in an hour. Jacqueline called out sick.”

“But that’s at least an hour in traffic!”

He handed me file, with a post-it on top with hand-written directions. “That’s exactly how much time you have.” And he disappeared down the hall.