Lessons On A Bus

She'd openly challenge the stubbly- faced bus driver who'd announce, "All NEGROES to the BACK of the BUS!" as we'd board the bus going into town.  She'd have all us kids sit-wherever there was a seat-in the back of the bus if need be-and then she'd sit behind that bus driver and talk over his fat shoulder-like Jiminy Cricket.  She'd say something like, "You folks should be ashamed of yourselves!  Why, you treat the blacks like they were nothing more than good horses, NOT REAL PEOPLE FOR HEAVENS SAKE!" 

That bus driver, he'd just keep driving, but his face would get redder than his neck-and my Mom, she'd just keep talking!  "Would it HURT to give these folks a little respect?  C'MON!  We are ALL HUMAN BEINGS for HEAVENS SAKE!"  Mom always punctuated her rantings with "FOR HEAVENS SAKE," it seemed.  A heavenly plea for people to just get along!  She was so frustrated by this stupidity in the world and couldn't suppress it-not that she tried.  It was too important a thing to stay quiet about, she'd say.

Any time these so called small injustices happened-and they happened a lot-my Mom wouldn't keep quiet.  Like in the local A&P grocery store- when rude people would bark orders at the bagger Billy, a large man with skin as black as coal.  He'd shuffle his feet, look at his own toes and mumble, "Now, I fix that, maam. Sorry, maam.  I double bag that for you now.  I'll get that juss' right, maam.  Sorry, now?"  My Mom would "tsk tsk" and glare at the rude customer.  Then she'd pull Billy out of his self-deprecating soft-shoe and say something like, "Hey, Bill! How are ya today?  You sure do a nice job!  The eggs always make it home safely when you pack 'em up!"  Like that.  Something so simple, like that.

The bus would get really quiet when my Mom would not so quietly lecture that driver.  I remember once there was a  black woman, sitting next to me, as we rolled along in silence, silence but for my Mom's litany against the driver and any Southerner within earshot.  She wore a faded cotton dress, scattered with flowers.  She smelled faintly sweet, tinged more heavily with the salty smell of sweat.  Her ample butt filled the seat and pressed against my body-heating my flesh with her own.  On her feet, there were nylon stockings that had been rolled down like little collars around her swollen ankles.  I dared to look up at her. 

She just smiled at me and purred in a low, throaty whisper, "Uh huh, you be listening to yo' Momma.  She right.  She sumpin'!"  And then, there was this  satisfied, low sound- it bubbled up from her big belly, and the jiggle nearly pushed me off the seat.

A white lady with a pinchy face, three seats forward, turned and glared at us both.  I wanted off that bus- right then.  Over the whine of the engine, I could still hear my Mom.  But she would soon sense the quiet, stilted air in the bus and casually shift her attention and commentary to the scenery outside the little square windows. And we'd roll along.  And, now and then, that lady with the rolled stockings-she'd just smile at me, for no good reason, as far as I could tell.