One Friday night, I called an Uber to my house.
The plan was typical for a weekend night for me — go over to a friend’s “housewarming” party at his apartment in the heart of San Francisco for some drinks, friendly beer pong, and, randomly enough, a Jay Sean concert.
After identifying myself to the driver, I quickly slid into the backseat clutching my plastic bag of White Claws (my signature housewarming gift of choice) and closed the door. I met the driver’s eyes through the rear view mirror.
“How’s your night going?” I asked with a genuine interest, spurred by my excitement for the upcoming plans.
“Pretty good…pretty good,” he replied, his English flavored with a foreign accent I couldn’t quite place. I asked him where he lived and he said “Sacramento” but his family was from Afghanistan. I inquired if he still had family over there and, unprompted, he began sharing how he had been visiting his home country the day the Taliban took over.
I listened as he told me how difficult it was to get himself out and could hear the strain in his voice as he explained how he was still struggling to secure the safety of the rest of his family. While we talked, I caught myself staring outside the car window as we drove through the heart of downtown at night. The dark shadows of homeless individuals camping out in front of high-rise luxury apartments, seemingly built with the pure intention to keep them out, all of a sudden seemed like a surreal juxtaposition. And just like that, the wave of realization toward all the injustices of the world and how out of touch with it I’d become struck me.
There I was in full glam taking a $20 Uber to a luxury apartment to drink for no particular reason with a bunch of overpaid twenty-somethings, only to go out and reak pointless havic in the city. Being privately ushered from my grandeous home in a plush neighborhood directly into the marble lobby of a 44-story complex — all without having to take a single step outside my precious bubble for a moment.
I suddenly felt silly and ridiculous. Disappointed that I had allowed myself to fall so deep in this particular lifestyle. Foolish about the insular “problems” I’d allowed myself to be burdened with. And guilty for the privilege of being able to safely view all of it from behind the protection of a tinted car window.
I’d forgotten how extraordinarily fortunate I am to have the cards I had been dealt with in this life. I also hadn’t realized, up until last night, just how much I actively participate in this system that further increases the class divide. How little effort I’ve been putting into initiating hard conversations and listening to what other people’s experiences may be like.
Honestly, it’s tricky and I’m still learning how to do better.
But if there’s one thing we have in common, it’s that we each live in these bubbles. Ecosystems of different flavors, cultural norms, and priorities that shape how we see the world. And it’s important we don’t forget this. Let this be your little reminder to continue seeking ways to step outside of your bubble every once in a while.
Let this be your reminder that there is always a tint on the window.
Thanks for reading,
Katie Sheldon
(This story actually took place last November)