The Way Out Is Through

The way out is through. It has always been this way. We invented ways to evade it – airplanes let you go over, tunnels let you go under, and cars allow you to pass through as though you were in an air submarine, untouched by the outside elements. But all it did is made the way bigger, and more indirect. It does not mean the path was not improved. An airplane can be faster. Sometimes tunnels can be safer. But you must go through, even if you skirt the edges or insulate yourself. The way out is always through, and this has never changed.

I am trying to kill my demons. It is an act of folly because the metaphor of demons describes an inescapable aspect of being human. Rob Bell’s book, Sex God stated that we can be neither purely angelic, nor purely corporeal. We’re human, which means we are prone to errors. Jung argued that we have a shadow self. There is that saying of how is no light without darkness. Some folks feel that religions have no place in our world, being that stories cannot be empirically tested. I disagree. Religions serve as a corpus of how we understand the human condition. Therein lays my point: there is a reason that nearly every religion in the world incorporates some description of human failing, and some sense of its inevitability. It is part of everyone. It is inevitable.

There is also a reason that many religions include some method of trying to escape what we are, trying to enter some sort of salvation, transcendence, or perfection. The discomfort with a dark side and having a pursuit of perfection is as human as having a dark side to begin with.

If I cannot kill my demons, and I cannot avoid my demons, perhaps I can befriend them? It’s the dark side version of “if you can’t beat them, join them.” Perhaps I can invite them over to tea and we can look each other straight into each other’s eyes and I can be kind to them, which is the only way I’ve ever reconciled with my enemies.

Of course, there are reasons one avoids their demons. There are reasons that people avoid the shadows in favor of the bright light of the sun. It is not just a question of safety, but it is a question of cultivation. Mold grows in the shadows. Flowers need the light. In our attempts to be better, we develop the better parts of us. Of course.

For the most part, I’ve been out in the exposed part of the metaphoric field, with some sort of wholesome miracle grow in garden-gloved hands. I appreciate the sun. I appreciate the crops and flowers and clover, and even the well-documented pests with the well-documented and accepted solutions. I’ve avoided the woods, with the dark shadows and the branches that intertwine, with the fact that I can’t discern the details except on the surface of the woods. It’s shrouded. The canopy blocks much of the sun in their own efforts at photosynthesis. It is how it is.

What I cannot do is ignore the fact that the woods exists.

First of all, it’s always there. It looms at the edges of the field. It seems darker and more intimidating the more I wish to avoid it. Second, I have spent time there. It ended badly. It took a long time to find my way back to the light, because my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I failed to see what it was. A youthful mistake of inexperience, I think, and some poor decision-making. The trouble is that you cannot avoid the woods forever. The forest has wood, the forest has streams, the forest has shelter that you will not find in the field. The forest is not inherently bad; it just can be easy to get lost when you cannot see as far into the distance.

I digress.

The way out is through. If I wish to experience the world in its honesty, I cannot cherry-pick the parts I like the best. I cannot filter what I see through the lenses of what I think it is. I’ve made that mistake before. So it is true with being a full human. The way to reconcile light and dark, to befriend my demons, may not be the issue of where to go through. It might require knowing where the end destination is, and passing through the woods with eyes wider and aware.

I think part of my original problem was that I liked the woods too much. I’ve never read Hunter S. Thompson, as the descriptions of what he wrote about were sufficient to give me nightmares. The guys I knew who liked him – and it was only guys who volunteered this information – were the sort of guys who pass pot to their friends to grind because they broke their arm drinking at a midnight bike ride. Trouble, really. I generally find most trouble repelling, but some of it is magnetic. I imagine this is true for everyone. You can’t divide the world into those with vices and those who do not have vices: you can sort people into certain types of vices. I’ve never heard someone say that they liked Thompson because his writing was wholesome. It isn’t – it is compelling, especially if your preferred flavor of shadow aligns with what Thompson writes about.

I am fatiguing of some of my demons, per say. I’m sick of being bothered by them, weary of their irrelevance, and watching some of the relevance creep back into my life. If you could solve a problem by being tired of it, I would have resolved this one years ago. Some pieces did simply expire, and I am grateful for that. Other pieces refreshed and renewed, and expanded my fatigue.

I write a lot, and yet come to few conclusions.

The way out is through, and if thinking through alone was sufficient…

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A few minutes ago, I threw on a pair of black skinny jeans and walked out onto my porch. The air was crisp, breezy, and I watched the last few remnants of a sunset dim into the gray. There was the background noise of the arterial road that my street connects to, otherwise it was quiet. Quiet, peaceful, and safe in this northwest neighborhood of Buffalo, NY.

All of my social media feeds suggest that going outside is completely different in the Ferguson neighborhood of St. Louis. It suggests that a police force armed as the military is attempting to “establish order” in an area outraged by the killing of Mike Brown, a young, unarmed man shot by the police despite not being armed.

I wish I had a more eloquent reaction than horror.

I am hesitant to believe everything I read on Twitter; it’s a rumor mill with alarming efficiency. Yet, I do not disbelieve what folks say about Ferguson because it is completely logical that the first targets that an excessively armed branch of the state would go after would be those who tend to occupy society’s lower rungs of sympathy. I’m less skeptical of pictures than I am of words. The pictures are frightening. It doesn’t seem far fetched in the least bit that our culture, which has become anxious in the face of any potential danger, which has ceded a considerable amount of liberty and privacy to the state apparatus, and which has tolerated or encouraged police forces to acquire the arms of a militia… it’s not surprising to see a police force reacting this way. Lots of folks say that the police are trying to subdue people in their own yards. The photos are alarming.

This is horrifying on so many levels.

First, there is the complete opacity regarding the state’s interactions with Michael Brown. They aren’t releasing his autopsy. They aren’t going to identify the man who shot him. They are going to keep the details as dimly lit as possible. The state has disproportionate power to do so, as we have ceded to it the ability to keep things quiet when it deems it risky. The local government is acting like the federal government.

Second, the news outlets that tend to favor the “small government” rhetoric should be ALL OVER THIS, as this is clearly a demonstration of the militarization of the state against its citizens. Quiet. All is quiet. Of course all is quiet, the state went after those for whom small government types are often quick to blame. Anyone who disputes that the initial death was a consequence of racial bias does not have any ground to stand on for the lack of attention paid to this case. When the FBI stormed the Branch-Davidian complex, we were all watching. There is a hair-trigger response in our culture to blame a black person of causing their own misfortune, especially if that misfortune is delivered by the state. If it weren’t for Twitter, we’d know so very little.

The state is meant to represent the will of the collective. Let us be aware that it can easily become an oppressive force. It has more guns than the people do. It has more authority than the people do. It tends to represent the recourse we always point to: the law. We have our liberties in order to avoid becoming the Soviet Union – parallels which I’ve noticed in increasing amounts.

The expectation in these protests are that the protests will stand compliant and unarmed while the police aim heavy artillery at them, as if somehow this was reasonable or OK.

The expectation is that we’d be compliant and quiet about a complete lack of transparency regarding what appears to be the worst type of police misconduct: stealing a life. Those behaving honorably can be transparent without cost. Their opacity is convicting.

Sometimes uninvolved parties believe their safety is in the distance inherent to being at arm’s reach. I would beg to differ. The racial tensions and biases in Ferguson exist everywhere. Nearly all police forces are extraordinarily armed. This hasn’t happened in your community because the circumstances have not yet aligned. Frankly I am worried because the most readily accessible means of recourse, for me, are the law, and this is demonstrating the long-held truth that the law is not an institution to blindly trust. We need a cultural change, one in which we are less afraid of terror and more skeptical of the state. One where we learn to live braver so we can reclaim our civil liberties and reduce the total arms in our country. We need our authorities to be transparent. We need to be honest about the realities about racism in the United States. We need to stop believing our barbarism was exclusively in the past and work towards ending it in the present.

Most of all, we should not get too distracted by the comfort of beautiful days, forgetting what is.

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Why Are We Doing This? (Race&Church)

I post few photos of myself on the internet, so let me tell you something: I am white. My ancestry is a mix of somewhat recentish Italian immigrants, some German folks, and then there is an English line that has been in the United States since the United States has existed in its current political state. So I’m white. Very white.

Every church I have ever attended has also been largely white, and not by a slim margin. They have been so overwhelmingly white that other ethnic groups comprise of single-digit percentage points of the congregations. These churches include four Unitarian Universalist Churches and one Catholic one.

The Unitarian Universalist churches use a hymnal that takes songs from many religious traditions. Some of these songs are African-American spirituals that date from slavery. Sometimes the hymnal even says, “African-American Slavery Spiritual” or something like that. The church I attend sang one today. I cringed. As is typical of all the churches I’ve attended who sing African-American spirituals, there was a middle-class-presenting and middle-aged white person encouraging the audience to sway and clap in the style of Gospel singers, which is behavior completely contradictory to the usual norms of the congregation. I did not sing. I did not sway. I cringed more. It’s not a problem of this one church. All of the UU churches I have attended did exactly the same thing at some point.

I have no artistic opposition to African-American spirituals. They are lovely, lively songs. I appreciate the history behind them. I appreciate the soulful performances I have heard. I appreciate the compelling composition. I’m sure God, if God exists, accepts all prayers. We are human beings using human tools. I have a lot of opposition to a white congregation singing these spirituals as if they are another nice song to help us worship. It feels like an act of theft and disrespect.

I am white. This means that I, and the vast majority of my ancestors, experience the privilege of dominant race-membership. In America, this generally means an easier life where people presume the best of you. There are African-Americans who share my surname, so it is unfortunately likely that some of my kin were slave-holders, though I have no idea how closely or distantly related they are. Even if I do not have any family who held slaves, people like me (white) in the aggregate have easier lives than people who are African-American, thanks to slavery’s legacy.

African-American spirituals are songs which were written in a time of horrific oppression. These songs are the deployment of art as a coping mechanism in horrific times. Oppression and exploitation have oppressors and exploiters. Do you know who they were? White people, just like the vast majority of worshippers in the congregations using the songs.

When I imagine how it would feel to the composers of these songs to hear the descendants of their oppressors singing these songs, the only sense I could imagine is one of violation and of being robbed. These were songs written to cope with the actions of people like me in the aggregate, people who felt entitled to rob every single facet of being from people like the composers of this music, and now we feel entitled to their spiritual worship too.

It would be different if I were the minority white person welcomed into this style of worship by a Black congregation, or even a congregation with more than a token African-American presence. It would be different if the person leading the service shared some heritage with the composers of the music. This has yet to be the case. They are usually included context-free as part of a worship service about something entirely different.

It especially bothers me because one of the mechanisms through which racism perpetuates itself is how the White part of our population continually pretends that race is of no consequence and systematically ignores the ways that race leads to bifurcated experiences of American society. Racism persists in part because white people like to insist that impression is a facet of history, and deny its relevance to the present. That’s the problem: white people ignore the relevance of race and feel entitled to all parts of American culture, without needing to acknowledge their role in it.

How dare white people sing African-American spirituals while our police forces shoot Black teenagers.
How dare white people sing African-American spirituals when African-Americans are killed on the presumption of criminality by citizens?
How dare white people sing African-American spirituals when African-American men are sent disproportionately to prison on drug charges, despite similar rates of drug use?
I could go on. My point is that the oppression of African Americans has never has ended, and yet white people sing the songs.

I’m not sure if it is widespread ignorance on the part of UU congregations or an unwillingness to acknowledge how racially charged parts of our culture are. I tried to imagine what saying something would look like, and honestly, I could not predict any path which would make it a productive conversation. I suspect I’d be accused of being racist, like I was suggesting we ignore African-American cultural contributions with the speaker insisting that, “Oh, I don’t see color!” …As if ignoring a big part of someone’s identity and our country’s history is doing diversity a favor. At a church a long time ago, I remember someone saying that we should sing more of “those” songs to encourage “those” people to join us, as if listening to the descendants of your ancestor’s oppressors singing your heritage’s music would be welcoming. I am white; I cannot speak for African-Americans beyond the limitations of my empathy. It is a subject that I do not have any business asserting any authority because it is not my heritage, and I personally benefit from society’s racism.

There is a history-blindness going on. If we truly want to be a justice-seeking people, we should open our eyes to these uncomfortable truths. I don’t care that Unitarians and Universalists were often active abolitionists- that does not entitle us to cultural appropriation.

Racism persists in part because the oppression, appropriation, and entitlement are normalized among the benefiting groups. I fear that using African-American spirituals casually in our worship services casually perpetuates racism by perpetrating its invisibility.

I’d appreciate insight from other people into this, especially if you happen to be UU who is of an African-American background. As I said, this is my discomfort as a result of my awareness of social place and a desire to create an equitable society respectful of everyone’s history. Invisibility is hardly respectful; this does not seem much better.


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This Life…

Thursday. I wake up alone at 6:30AM in Washington, DC. I pull the blackout curtains open and sunlight pours in. The hotel room has two double beds, likely one of the last ones that was available for the conference. My suitcase is on the second and I have my conference materials scattered across the desk. I’m energized and exhausted from the previous days. I have been immersed in my professional passions nearly non-stop for days, and the evenings were spent with friends and family that I rarely see.

I start the coffee maker, shower, get dressed, and pack all of my bags. I am wearing the only dress I have with pockets: a black button-down dress with a waist belt. I write a few notes in my journal and head downstairs with everything I brought. My purse is condensed to my pocketbook and my cellphone, which I put into my pocket.

I grab a bagel, coffee, and hard-boiled egg from the continental breakfast. The eating area is packed. I see an open seat and ask if I can join the table’s occupants. They are my fellow National Alliance to End Homelessness conference attendees. Get into a conversation about HMIS (Homeless Management Information System) and RHYMIS (Runaway and Homeless Young Management Information System) with a woman that I would later discover was the director of the Runaway Youth Services program at the United State Department of Health and Human Services. She’s incredibly kind and down-to-earth, in case you are curious. I’m joined by a former supervisor from Friends of the Night People, and we chat. I excuse myself to meet my current boss.

I get into a cab with him and the executive directors of two other organizations in New York State, and we go to Senator Schumer’s office to talk to his, and other NYS Congressional, staff about homelessness in NYS and HUD funding. We return to the hotel barely in time to be admitted to the ballroom for the final speeches of the conference.

This is the reason my purse had to be condensed; the First Lady was speaking and we were permitted to bring nothing more than a small purse. The speeches were all over the place. Becky Kanis’ energy and success were inspiring. The president of the Rescue Missions was great, and hopeful for me. The woman from Multonomah County was bizarre. She advocated not spending money on caseworkers, which is a violation of nearly every best-practice I know. I did not pay that much attention to the fellow from Los Angeles, still stunned about the caseworker comment. The First Lady, who is gorgeous in person, gave a speech clearly meant for the press corps. It wasn’t a terrible speech. It just wasn’t the impassioned and clever oration that Cory Booker gave the day before.

Then, it was over. We, with my other current supervisor, leave the ballroom and grabbed our luggage in the lobby, then a cab to the airport. We flew back to Buffalo and my other current supervisor gave me a ride home.

I walked into the door of my home and my daughter pretty much cheered when she saw me, and hugged me for ten minutes. She then forgot I was ever gone, and resumed playing. Will made me a plate of leftover lasagna, and we all ate together. It was wonderful. After we cleaned the kitchen, Will went to catch up on some deferred garden maintenance, and I took my daughter to the park, still wearing the dress with pockets. She ran and played, and then came home and we did the good night routine.

How did this become my life? I am currently living in the intersection of all my passions. Four years ago I just arrived in Seattle, confused about the next moves. Three years ago I was working for a start-up, uncertain about what I was going to study in graduate school, and battling a distinct feeling that I was faking it. Two years ago I was in the process of leaving graduate school and completely uncertain of which direction my life was going to be. I was confident that I was going to start an adventure, but it was yet to be seen if the career shift was wise. One year ago I was living in my family’s house, fresh of a cross-country move with my months-old daughter, anxious about what my career would turn out to be. And that day, I could be found at Delaware Park in Buffalo, chasing my daughter in the same dress that I listened to the First Lady hours before.

May I remember days like those when I feel like I am floundering, and when I feel like I am losing my way. A lot can change.

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Buffalo is Rising

If you are not in Buffalo right now, you may be unaware. Buffalo is revitalizing. Buffalo is coming back.

Allow me to describe some context: When I left Buffalo in 2010, the story that residents told about the city was of its fall. There were a lot of “used to be”s in the city’s description. Buffalo used to be an industrial city, Buffalo used to be where the most millionaires per capita lived, Buffalo used to be on the forefront of technology, and Buffalo used to be where it was at. People would point to the crumbling East and West Sides, vacant downtown, rampant poverty, and say how it used to be a nice place to live; alas, look at it now.

I grew up in the greater Syracuse metro area. Syracuse is like Buffalo’s younger brother. Similar circumstances but a smaller city. After 18 years in Central New York, and 6 years in Western New York, I felt that I needed to get out to be successful and left for Seattle, WA. I do not regret it. Being on the West Coast broadened my worldview in so many ways. I was there for three years.

Another half year in Syracuse and Will and I moved back to Buffalo. Guys, the story changed.

Buffalo is coming back.

That is the story we are telling to ourselves and to anyone who will listen. Buffalo is coming back. Look at downtown. Look at the West Side. I work next to a site with TWO CRANES, and they is not a wrecking ball to be seen. Heck, the East Side might be getting converted to countryside but those gardens and farms are much nicer to look at then the vacancies. How about some Buffalove? We claim the vacant buildings like they are treasures waiting to be rediscovered instead of blight.

Buffalo is on the rise.

We tell these stories, and we believe them.

On some levels, whether these stories are true does not matter. We act on what we believe. I think Buffalo’s rise is going to happen in part because people believe it will. We moved here on a remote worker’s salary. There is an energy here which is infectious, and this is a rather nice city to live in. We could have lived anywhere. Several people have told me that they came back because they wanted to be a part of Buffalo’s rebirth. Like the person who pursues a higher calling to be a part of something larger than themselves, folks do move to Buffalo seeking to have a hand in its improvement. These are people with potential, and people with passion. These are the people who would have improved any community that they resided in. They came here.

Buffalo’s going to rebirth because the belief that it will is drawing in the folks who will make it happen.

There are worse ways to tell a story.


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A Pile of Rubble

It took a long time, but it happened so fast.

There’s a church on Main Street that has my fancy. It’s a stone’s throw from one of Buffalo’s cultural institutions, the Anchor Bar, known for being the origin of “Buffalo” chicken wings. Built in 1898, it’s been vacant since I was seven years old in 1993. Her name is Our Lady of Lourdes. Here she is.


She’s as stunning as she is decrepit. The beautiful sandstone exterior, which has weathered 21 years of unoccupied winters, shields an empty inside. As you can see here in FixBuffalo, her interior lacks the beauty that churches used to have. Everything of value was stripped and sold. I never saw her when she was a church. She died before digital cameras became ubiquitous and the Internet became popular, so all of the pictures of her reflect her current state. I do not know what she would have looked like with the stained glass that certainly must have been in those giant windows, and the oak paneling that I understand used to exist there.

It is common for Catholic Churches in Buffalo to be on campuses including schools and rectories or convents. Buffalo used to be a very Catholic city. These buildings were filled with people. Our Lady of Lourdes is no different: it has a rectory and school. They were structurally sound, though they’d been vacant for some time as well.


I work within sight of this structure. On Tuesday, I went for a walk on my lunch break and decided to head to the church. I rarely do this. I wanted to see the campus. This is what I saw.


I recognized that type of equipment – I don’t know what it is called – but it is used to snip apart a building. This is a demolition being planned. I posted that picture to a Facebook group of preservationists, and a flurry of energy began. People who are connected to people in the know found out that there is a demolition order not on the church, but on the structurally sound rectory and school. Two weeks was what we were told. It would be two weeks and these pieces of Buffalo’s heritage would disappear.

It turned out to be closer to two hours.


That is the rectory now, now in the form of a pile of rubble next to Lourdes. I imagine the school will come down tomorrow, if it was not taken down after I left work. Gone forever. They say that the property, next to the growing Buffalo-Niagara Medical Campus, is going to become a multi-use facility and the church will be integrated into this project. The reputation of the owner is a bit mottled because I guess he’s torn down other historic buildings before and left them as parking lots? That is what I hear. Part of me wonders if the reason for the expedited demolition was to outrun the outrage. If so, it worked.

I cannot remember why I originally took such a liking to this structure. Buffalo has a lot of gorgeous old buildings, many of the more impressive ones are on the East Side. I rarely had a reason to go to the East Side, though I would use it as a safe biking route to South Buffalo or Lackawanna. It’s a poor area, mostly depopulated, so there were very few vehicles to dodge. I think my fondness must have been one part how Our Lady of Lourdes was on my more normative routes. I saw her a lot. I had many opportunities to admire her. Another part is certainly the beauty of its design and exterior. I am partial to buildings made of that sandstone.

I think the other reason I became so fond of this complex is because the fate of this church seems to mirror that of broader Buffalo. It is beautiful and it was rich in history. It suffered decline, it was abandoned and stripped for parts. The previous occupants did not take a holistic view of the building, they just pulled out what would work for them and damned the rest. There’s a metaphor for Buffalo civic life there. Yet the building keeps standing, winter after winter, and now it sits next to a great economic boon, and it too might come back. Coming back requires losing most of its former anchorings, in that the school, the rectory, and the surrounding neighborhood on St. Paul’s Mall are now gone, to be replaced by the modern “mixed-use” building. Buffalo already lost its anchors. The industry that employed so many are mostly gone. We are acquiring new industries as society acquires the net, and our economy will look completely new.

Otherwise you sit and you sit and you die a slow death.

The church has a possible redemption story, if anyone took the effort to redeem her. This is true of so many places in Buffalo. The West Side is experiencing a renaissance. I think my attraction to the East Side is the same draw towards hope of salvation.

I certainly hope the church itself is reused, as they say it will be. I am too weary from hearing high flung promises by other developers to keep that much faith. A thought occurred to me as I sat on my bike photographing the rubble, “You have to let go of the old to embrace the new.” Buffalo does need change, she needs new things. At the same time, we have an architectural heritage few other places have. I know that rehabbing buildings is ultimately just polishing jewelry; our jewelry is so beautiful that I do not want to let it go.

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Why Sharing the Road With Cyclists Can Be So Harrowing In Buffalo

I did not own a car for the three years that I lived in Seattle, WA. It is not to say that I never drove: I had a motorcycle and memberships in Zipcar and Car2Go. Heck, my husband drove me to the hospital in a Car2Go when I was in labor. The combination of the relative expensiveness of these services, having a bus pass, living in a mild climate which makes bicycling year-round desirable, and residing in delightfully walkable neighborhoods ensured that I drove very infrequently. Generally speaking, if I was on the street, I was walking or biking.

In Seattle, the greatest obstacle to bicycling is the terrain. It is hilly. Those hills are STEEP. It makes for places with stunning views of the surrounding lakes and mountains, presuming you are not too exhausted to enjoy it. The greatest obstacle is not the cars.

Drivers in Seattle are a courteous breed. If you get to a four way stop, it is not uncommon for everyone to signal to everyone else to go first… and no one moves. This Pemco car insurance commercial, below, was popular for a reason.

Cars slow down and signal to pedestrians that they will not hit them in crosswalks. Speed limits are followed. Drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians respect red lights. Pedestrians don’t jaywalk, which is one part the result of ticketing, and another part the result that you do not have to jaywalk to ensure that you will ever cross the street. You will have an opportunity. Cars will wait for you to clear the intersection before driving through. Overall, drivers in Seattle are polite and respectful. There are tensions  between cyclists and drivers, but it was my overwhelming experience that drivers and bus operators paid attention, paid space, and communicated with cyclists and each other. 

This does not describe the driving culture of Buffalo.

The speed limit on the New York State Thurway is 65 miles per hour. The modal speed of drivers is about 73 miles per hour, I’d say, judging by the rates of which I am passed and the speeds I need to take to pass others. It is taken for granted that people do not follow the speed limits on Buffalo’s roads and highways.

Buffalo has a lovely parkway system, rife with stop signs. For every driver I’ve seen make an honest-to-goodness stop, there is another who employs the “rolling” variety, treating stop signs like yield signs. When I go to cross the street, I am often waiting awhile for the traffic to clear, because I cannot guarantee that, despite having the “walk” sign on the crosswalk, drivers will defer to me as is their legal obligation. At Elmwood Avenue and Chatham Avenue, for instance, there are almost always a car driving through the intersection when the walk sign turns on – a driver who blew a red light. Buffalo drivers hit the gas when they see a yellow light. Seattle drivers slowed down. I have a child with me most of the time, so I am not willing to be too assertive when crossing the road,  but I have to be. Merging on the 190 generally requires driving up to the bumper of the car ahead of  you in the leftward land and just moving over, because no one lets you in with enough distance to be safe. They’d rather you go behind them. Some folks just turn without bothering to communicate this plan to you with a turn signal.

Buffalo drivers are, in the aggregate, discourteous and aggressive. 

Why are we surprised that many of the cyclists are too?

First, many cyclists have cars. There is not a distinct bicycling culture separate from a driver culture. Those who bike to work tend to be either the least or most educated in society, and that second group most certainly have access to a vehicle. Second, you see the same sorts of behavior of drivers among bicyclists. Bicyclists treat stop signs like yield signs and blow through red lights when the traffic is clear. They do not signal to other cyclists, or pedestrians, that they are about to pass them, which you are supposed to do with either a bell or saying “on the left.” Cyclists irregularly signal their turns. At Delaware Park and on bike paths, they regularly go entirely too fast, making being on these paths an anxious experience for those walking with small children.

The differences in cycling culture was first apparent to me in the positioning. In Seattle, there is a particular position that some cyclists take at red lights that I’ve never seen done in Buffalo:


If you are in the habit of stopping in traffic and sharing the road, this is the most efficient position to start moving again. Why is this not true in Buffalo? Perhaps Buffalonians don’t keep their brakes in as good repair as Seattleites do: the hills demand efficient brakes. So does this position. I suspect the other reason lies in the relative frequencies of actual stops at intersection.

I still follow the Seattle norms when I use my bicycle to get to work or run errands. I stop at the stop signs, I signal my turns (though I am not confident that Buffalo drivers understand what the arm signals mean, in particular the right turn), point straight if I am going that way, make eye contact, wave an acknowledgement if I am let in, and so forth. I would characterize my experiences on the roads of Buffalo as largely positive as a result. I notice that my behavior is not the norm, though I wish it were. Perhaps it is a function of fatigue: stopping a lot requires more strength than continuing to go. I suspect it is another facet of a discourteous driving culture. People say they are afraid to use a bicycle as a form of transportation for fear of cars. I have found that the experience is far less scary when one’s behavior is predictable to everyone.

If Buffalo wants her roads to be safe for everyone on them: cars, bicycles, and pedestrians, we need to change our road culture to a version that is far more considerate and patient. Laying the blame for unsafe roads exclusively on the behavior of cyclists or drivers is misplaced. Buffalo has a road culture problem, and it is time that we owned it.

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