El cantante

On my ride home from school a man boards the bus with guitar in hand. He seats himself in the back and begins playing and singing beautifully. I'm riding along with a busful of dark-haired heads, all swaying in time to the wheels of the micro. This is not where I grew up. This is not Oregon. Maybe I've become too comfortable here. I don't realize where I am. As the singer leaves the bus, I hope he knows that my lack of donation is not apathy, but rather the realization of my cultural fear.