High horse

Something about looking down from the shuttle at the people leaving West Oakland BART as we waited for our scheduled departure time reminded me of lords and ladies in their fancy carriages looking out in some mixture of wonder and disgust at the commoners below. Maybe it was that there were two men who walked by that could have been the working class doppelgangers of guys who normally ride this shuttle that the dichotomy was so apparent, that the divide was so tangible.

I should feel lucky, I guess, being among the privileged ones, being a member of the intelligent and comparatively well paid elite, but it doesn't sit well on me.

I am reminded of the women I saw in Mayan villages walking maybe half a mile to carry water back to their windowless cinderblock houses with dirt floors as we passed by in our tour van on the way to the nature reserve at Celestún, knowing this wasn't even close to the worst of it, and wondering if I was more part of the solution or part of the problem.