Inner Monologues and Rider Dialogues

"Inner Monologues and Rider Dialogues" is a reflection on the conversations I have with my Uber passengers and the memories they stir—some I share, others I keep to myself. As I navigate late-night drives, I find unexpected connections between my past and present, blending humor, career shifts, and personal history into the quiet moments between pick-ups.

6 minute read

I have terrible insomnia. Always have. It’s why I drive so early in the morning, where the quiet stretches of the road feel like a kind of purgatory between wakefulness and sleep. Sometimes, the exhaustion makes me more talkative. Other times, I let the hum of the tires do the talking. Either way, my mornings are filled with stories — mine, theirs, and the ones I keep to myself.

“So, are you from Madison?” It’s the question I hear most often.

I’m usually the one steering conversations in my Uber, but every so often, a rider surprises me — chatty, curious, and ready to dig in.

“No,” I tell them, “I’m from Suamico — what was a little town about 20 minutes north of Green Bay.”

The response is always predictable: “You must love the Packers.”

And, of course, I do. Loving the Packers is practically a birthright where I’m from. Then comes the follow-up: “Ever been to a game?”

I nod. “Yep, my dad used to get free tickets back when they were terrible.” That usually gets a laugh.

When the conversation shifts back to Madison, I add, “I’ve been here since 1993. But I knew UW pretty well before that because my sister went here, so I’d visit a lot. I even lived with her my freshman year — a choice I’m sure she regrets.” I pause. “She’d probably say I was a bit much.”

I don’t always share what I’m thinking — that I’ve always looked up to her. She’s the most patient and kind person I know, shaped in no small part by our grandmother. Thinking about my sister always leads me to my grandmother, whose dementia and memory loss took her from us way too soon. That fear — that my own memories might someday slip away — isn’t something I bring up in casual conversation. Some thoughts stay in the quiet corners of my mind, just beneath the surface.

“So where’d you go to school?” they usually ask.

“I came here for my bachelor’s, went to Boston for my master’s, then returned to Madison for a doctorate. Except for a brief stint in Miami, I’ve been here ever since.”

If they ask about Boston, I share, “I studied at the New England Conservatory of Music.” I leave out the struggles — being young and underprepared, the sting of a beloved teacher telling me I’d never sing beyond the Des Moines Metro Opera. Ironically, they never hired me, but the Lyric Opera of Chicago did.

“I wasn’t a lead,” I say, “just part of the chorus — where the best gossip happens.” I joke that opera choristers could win Olympic gold for gossiping, critiquing lead singers, and sharing weather updates during endless downtime.

My undergrad years at UW often make me think of Davin, my first true heartbreak — unrequited and unforgettable. But when I think of Boston, I think of Melanie, the friend who helped me survive it. “Any time you want to call him, just call me,” she’d said. That kind of kindness stays with you, even if it’s too raw to share with a rider. And every Tuesday, we’d have lunch at Pizzeria Uno — Fat Tuesday, we’d call it — where we’d eat about 2,500 calories worth of pizza and brownie bowls. Those afternoons were a mix of indulgence, laughter, and the kind of friendship that cushions life’s sharp edges.

Driving gives me time to think — sometimes too much. It’s in these quiet stretches that my thoughts wander freely, often circling back to those fears and aspirations I keep tucked away. Every conversation feels like the tip of an iceberg, a fragment of something much deeper. The doubts, triumphs, and failures I don’t share often loom larger than what I do.

“What about Miami?” they’ll ask.

“The weather was incredible,” I reply. “The people? Let’s just say I prefer bad weather and great Madison people over the opposite.” That usually gets a knowing nod.

Eventually, they ask, “What’s your doctorate in?”

“Opera,” I say simply. It’s easier than explaining classical voice.

“How’d you get into opera?” is next.

“I wanted to do musical theater,” I say, “but a professor told me I was too fat. That kind of comment wouldn’t fly today, but it shifted my path.” I add with a smile, “Funny thing is, I ended up loving opera — I just didn’t know it was an option.”

Sometimes they’ll ask me to sing. For a moment, I’m tempted — Nessun dorma! comes to mind, the famous aria from Puccini’s Turandot. Its refrain of ‘None shall sleep’ feels all too apt. But it doesn’t fit my baritone voice.

“Singing opera is like being an athlete,” I say. “It takes daily training, and I’m way out of practice.”

They’ll often press further: “Where was your favorite place to sing?”

“I spent a few years as a supplementary chorister with the Lyric Opera Chorus in Chicago,” I say. “It was the singing job of a lifetime. But commuting from Madison became too much, so I stopped singing.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Back then, I hated driving to Chicago so much I gave up singing. Now all I do is drive.

Before the ride ends, they ask, “Do you have another gig?”

I share that I raise funds for student leadership and community engagement at UW-Madison. “I love it,” I say. “It’s my dream job, setbacks and all.”

As we near their destination, the conversation fades. I wonder if they’ll tell their next ride about the Uber driver who used to sing opera — or if perhaps Nessun dorma might have said more than I ever could.