A Dose of Humility

My iPhone was stolen this week. Right out of my pocket when riding the bus. The front pocket of my jeans.

It was the first day at our new volunteering project in a Quito preschool. We were still learning the routes to and from, so packed light (no backpack). Our trip home involved riding the Trolebus during the lunch rush. I checked my phone in the station to mark the time for how long it took to get back. The first bus arrived and was packed. We probably should have waited until the next one, but hopped on and barely fit. We were all standing in the crowd with Erin pushed to one side, the Boys in between us, and many random passengers pressed tight. (These scenes are not uncommon on Quito buses, with bodies filling all the available space.) I pulled the Spanish grammar guide from my back pocket and was quickly reviewing ahead of our upcoming class. Two stops later, the crowd thinned out to afford some breathing room. I reached for my phone (right front pocket) to check the time again. It was missing.

Panic set in. Did I move to another pocket? Did I somehow drop it? Did I even take it out on the ride? What else was I missing? What else did I bring? I quickly realized the harsh reality: my phone had been stolen by someone who was pressed against me during the last 5 minutes and I didn’t even realize it.

We’d been warned about this. I’ve been wearing my backpack on my chest for the past weeks to keep a watchful eye. Nothing valuable ever in our back pockets. Keep cash and credit cards to a minimum. But never expected my phone — a device that often feels like an extension of my body — to be swiped so easily from a pocket so familiar, and I never felt a thing.

A sinking feeling in my stomach; I was helplessly vulnerable. The Boys heard me utter a few choice words. I tried to reenact what happened. Did I feel something? Did I notice someone? Anything unusual? Nothing came to mind and it was mortifying. Then a wave of anger washed over and I wanted payback in some meaningful way. Maybe I’d go back to the same bus tomorrow with a fake phone in my pocket to lure the culprit and catch red-handed. Or somehow issue revenge toward not just the person who stole my phone, but anyone who had ever snagged one. Retaliation towards those who have taken advantage of someone else. Along with mistrust of anyone Ecuadorian, male, ages 15 to 35.

When the emotions subsided I realized how foolish these feelings were. My thoughts were now actually becoming mildly racist. And realized how quickly bigotry can enter one’s mind: how one real or apparent affront by someone of a different race/culture/religion/persuasion can lead to biases against an entire class of people. One bad apple spoiling the bunch. Perhaps without this bias ever being realized until it becomes reinforcing, self-fulfilling, and eventually hateful.

This experience served as a good wake-up call to be even more vigilant in those chaotic situations. Thankfully it was a phone and not a debit card (our only way to easily access cash) or passport (tragic). Nobody was hurt in the theft. Erin and the kids were okay, even despite some new vocabulary. And hopefully my judgment towards those who had nothing to do with my bad fortune will not have changed for the worse.