The Story of the Magic School Bus
I found myself walking alone along the marina at dusk one day.
The marina has always spoken to me. Its windy concrete path meanders its way down the shoreline, displaying on its right hand side a breathtaking view of the glittering Pacific Ocean and the city of San Francisco in the far distance. I visit whenever I need air or space.
The evening had a biting chill to it, one that kept most people indoors and air clean. I buried my point and shoot camera in between folded arms and strolled down the path, pausing only to bend down and snap a few shots of the water.
The colors that evening were special, a rich pink filled the skies while the city emanated a cool blue tint. It was a clash of colors, each fighting for control as the sunset waned.
A few minutes into my walk I noticed something peculiar, not on the right hand side where the colors wrestled for attention, but on the left hand side where the road was. Parked on the road’s shoulder was the most flamboyant bus I’ve ever seen.
It was a school bus. A plain yellow, 3rd-grade field trip type school bus. Except it was covered in hot pink graffiti. The graffiti matched the hue of the skies so well, you’d think it was a painting.
The graffiti made out the most interesting concoction of images — bees, planets, and space. On the front, right above the windshield was the word ‘HONEY’ in lightning-like lettering.
I couldn’t stop staring.
Immediately, I took out my camera to capture the scene. Questions filled my head — who’s bus was this? Why is it left out here? How did it come to be?
I edged closer to the bus to take photos. In that moment, I must not have noticed a figure coming out of the bus because when a man came into my view, it was as if he materialized out of thin air. I jumped a little, startled.
He was a short, stout man, wearing a weathered red flannel and some working pants. Guillermo was his name, as I quickly came to know, and he was the keeper of this bus.
I asked Guillermo for the story of his bus, and he smiled knowingly. He spoke slowly with a heavy accent, making it difficult for me to fully understand his words, but I got the sense that he knew what he wanted to say.
“Honey, it’s what bees produce when they pollinate their world… honey is the product of sharing, the most powerful thing in the world. Just like how bees go from flower to flower, we must also do the same. We must share what we have and what we know with the world in order to keep on going… that is why my bus is painted with honey, bees, and planets.”
It turns out that the bus served as a food pantry. Guillermo would drive the bus, stocked up with the freshest food items straight from farms, into the city of San Francisco, where he would distribute them to communities in need. He often spends his time in the Mission District or near Chinatown, serving Asian communities that he can barely communicate with.
“Family. Sharing. Community. That’s what food encourages. That’s what life is about,” he told me.
I thought that was the most powerful thing in the world.
I thought back to my communities at UC Berkeley — student organizations, friends, housemates. I thought back to my family — my parents, my grandparents, my extended family. I realized that I could be doing more.
Our generation puts so much emphasis on individualism and achievement — we are oftentimes lost in a whirlwind of busyness and ambition. We seem to be too busy changing the world to look after our own people…
When’s the last time I called my grandparents? When’s the last time I did a favor for my family? When’s the last time I expressed gratitude to my friends? We truly need to ‘pollinate’ more.
As the sun finally set, Guillermo and I bid each other farewell. Before he left, he gifted me a tub of organic yogurt and a cucumber. I said my gratitudes, and he climbed back into his magic honey bus to head home.
As I walked back to my car, I smiled, marveling at the fact that I met a man so virtuous on a random walk down the bay. Despite being alone, I somehow felt more connected to the world than ever before.
