THE BUS
(from the book “America! America?” Copyright 2003, 2005)
I had been in Amarillo for two or three days, when Mrs. Harding suggested that I might take a city bus downtown to bring some files to her husband’s office. Apparently he had forgotten them at home. I was glad to do it; it would give me the chance to explore a bit, to get an impression of what “downtown” with its tall “Santa Fe” building was like. She told me where the bus stop was, which bus to take and where to get off. It seemed easy.
Indeed I found the bus stop without difficulty. The problems began when I got into the vehicle. The little city bus was full. There was only one empty seat in the last row, way in the back. I sat down between a rather pretty young lady with tightly curled hair and an elderly dark skinned woman who was wide enough to need two seats. But the bus did not move.
People turned around and stared at me. What was wrong?
Someone yelled: “Get out of there!” Was I not supposed to ride on this bus? Why did they want me to get off? I had put the required coins into the glass container as I got in. Was it my European clothes? What did they want? Everyone kept staring. Even the large lady next to me moved away a bit, but she did not stare at me. She tried to look in the other direction. The pretty curly haired lady on my other side smiled. She did not seem to be bothered. So what was wrong?
Finally, the bus driver walked toward me. “What is wrong with you” he growled. “You can’t sit there!”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t I sit here?”He must have recognized my foreign accent. His face became a bit less hostile. “The back of the bus is for Negroes. Whites sit in front. Unless you are a Negro you can’t sit there!”
“But there are no seats anywhere else!”
“Then you stand. Or we clear out the row of Negroes that’s closest to the front. You can sit there.”
That I did not want. I stood, but I did not understand what the whole thing was about. It sounded crazy.
A couple of bus stops later, the pretty young lady with the curly black hair got off. As she walked past me toward the exit in front she smiled and whispered: “I like you.”
It felt good. But the whole experience did not feel good. And, I think, nobody else in the bus liked me, especially the people who were sitting in front.
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