For My Dad, Who Worries I’ll Get Assaulted by My Uber Driver
By: Rachel Gilman
Tags: Humanity, Relationships, Strangers, Family, Connection

My Dad is a disaster expert. All his life he has proactively prepared himself for disasters great and small, with the fervor just below that of a doomsday prepper. Why have one pocket knife, when you can have three? Why have one tent, when five different types fit all potential scenarios you may encounter? And you never know when the power will go out and you’ll need four different types of energy sources. Recently, on my way to the airport for a trip to see my brother on the east coast, my Dad said to me, “I know you’re getting in late and will most likely need to take an Uber to get to your brother’s house, so I want you to be extra careful when you get picked up.” He then proceeded to relay his list of cautionary tactics to ensure I wouldn’t get abducted by some nefarious individual posing as an Uber driver. But then I interrupted him — “so you mean I should double-check that the license plate in the app is the actual car that picks me up? AND that the picture and name of the driver is the same as the one I have in the app?” He seemed surprised that the app would give you such crucial information. “I don’t remember that being available when I used it one time…” Sure Dad. I laughed off these warnings, but I could at least appreciate where my Dad’s worry was coming from (there are the rare horror stories about unsuspecting females getting attacked). However, I am not that female.

You might think me foolish to say this, but I have 30-ish years of experience being a mediocre white female, of athletic build, Michelle Obama arms in a tank top, and a walk that says to the people not looking at me, “yep, no one looked up when I walked in just now.” I am that person that Asian tourists stop randomly in the street for directions (even if I don’t live there), that children wave to for no reason, that old people look kindly at, and homeless people ask for money from, most likely because I make eye contact. I also greet dogs, hold doors, and pick up trash. I was raised on Mr. Roger’s after all. I smile at strangers because we’re both walking down the same street. Except for creepy older men who smile back in a way that I know is not friendly. To them, I scowl and swing wide.

So to you, Dad, and perhaps other fathers and mothers who worry about their noticeable daughters or feeble sons getting caught in a horrible stranger-danger situation, let me tell you about three different Lyft drivers (I confess, I chose a side after the Uber-supporting Trump debacle — it matters) that I had the pleasure of being picked up by.

The first man drove me from the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., to a friend’s house in Maryland. He was from Djibouti. Djibouti! Have you ever met anyone from Djibouti? Well, I have, and he used to dance in the streets with his friends on pieces of cardboard while the lights were red at intersections to Michael Jackson songs (this was the 90’s!). He dreamt of leaving his country so he could find a job. Now after 20 years of being in D.C., he was happy raising his two daughters, but still thought of his home country. We parted as friends, I think both better for having shared happy memories about where we are from. I might’ve told him that you, Dad, used to wake us up in the morning for school by playing Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album. Or how I was in Argentina when Michael died, and strangers came up to me for consolation and asked if I had known him (it was northern Argentina, I was the only white person in town). Music can bond people across the furthest borders.

The second man I met in Salt Lake City, Daniel. He was a Vietnam vet like you, Dad. I sat up front with him like I was family, and he drove me from the airport to the Trax station to try and catch the southbound train. When we missed it, he raced me down to the next station. While navigating the streets, he told me about his injuries from his time in service and how they had affected his ability to work the rest of his life. He used his hands a lot while he talked, like he was excited, even though his story evoked pain. I thought of your recent diagnosis of Parkinson’s because of your exposure to Agent Orange in Da Nang. But Daniel took pride in his time serving. I told him you did too. He was sad for you and wished you well. A fellow veteran. He took care of me just like a dad would’ve, concerned that I would make my train, doing all he could to drive us safely there on time.

The third man I met in Los Angeles. Carlos picked me up from my friend’s house in La Cañada and drove me to LAX to catch my flight to New Zealand, a flight I had missed two days before. I was in the back seat, but slowly crept to the middle seat, and then was leaning forward as I got to know Carlos better over the 50-minute drive. His very solemn profile picture was not indicative of how cheerful, even jolly, he became as he told me more about growing up in Brazil, his time traveling throughout the U.S., and then as our conversation switched to Spanish, how he encouraged me to keep practicing my language skills. My questions to Carlos were out of genuine interest in his varied and fascinating life. He was a good man, making an honest effort at living in a country not originally his own. And more so, here was someone, in my view, taking care of me — a stranger — with compassion and kindness. When he dropped me off, he helped me with my bag and when I held my arms out, he offered his, and I hugged him like I would have hugged a friend or an uncle.

Dad, I don’t take Lyft very often, but when I do, I look men and women in the eye and ask them about their story, and I’ve heard a familiar one each time I’ve asked. In that rearview mirror, I see a friend, a father, a brother, a mother, a sister, or just a human being much like me. I see you too, Dad, because I know that despite your fear for my well-being in the company of strangers, you would ultimately do the same. I think we all would. So, I’m going to be okay Dad.