CHAPTER 32 The Bus Ride From Hell
The moment before my foot touched the bottom step onto the Greyhound, there was an announcement on the bus station PA system; "Ladies and Gentlemen, President Lyndon Johnson has died". I felt a moment of hesitation, then made the jump to the next step and up into the aisle. As the long afternoon hummed into the evening, we threaded our way through Tallahassee. As I slept, we rolled north into Alabama - the heart of the deep South.
I awoke somewhere near Montgomery, Alabama realizing I may have missed my west bound connection. Perhaps it was the regular Greyhound route, but perhaps it was something more. I was completely surrounded with black men. I cast around with my eyes and mind trying to make a connection with someone, but they might as well have been pallbearers at my funeral. I was more than casually uncomfortable.
As we pulled into Montgomery, I got off the bus for a break. Walking into the terminal, I thumbed through a rack of paperback books full of civil rights manuscripts by Martin Luther King and others. I thought of "Black Like Me", the first book I had ever read dealing with racial inequality. I thought of some of the Blues songs the musicians like John Lee Hooker, Ledbelly and others had etched upon my undeniably white soul. I became suddenly aware of a policeman hovering within arms reach, who looked as though he was ready to bust me on a moment's notice. I nodded, he nodded solemn acknowledgement. I got the feeling that I was allowed to touch the books as long as I didn't READ one of them, and that they were not for sale. They were brown and dog-eared and had been touched a lot by travelers like me over the years. He was incidentally, a white man. There was a dreamlike quality to all of this, but I was not dreaming. I was traveling through a country that was in mourning for a dead President. It happened that this part of the country had experienced something very personal with him.
My dreamlike state of stress was causing me distinct color blindness. Rarely had I experienced that before. I wondered at the meaning of it. We headed toward Birmingham with stops at every small town along the way. It was part of the Greyhound service. White people got off the bus, black people got on. A few men around me made small talk, but I might just as well have been the driver. No one spoke to me. From Birmingham to Tuscaloosa and deep into the night, there was mumbled conversation and deep sleep. Somewhere near Meridian, Mississippi the cops caught up with us. They were obviously trying to round up someone who they thought might be on the bus. As they spoke with the driver, I wondered if it might be me they were after. My circle of black men and the black ladies on the bus closed even tighter around me. There was no question in my mind that I was being ushered or escorted, or being shown something. I must have stood out visually since at this point I was the only white person on the bus except the driver. I thought long and hard about the beatings and riots that had marked these very bus rides in these very bus stations less than ten years before. I wondered what was in store for me as the
feeling of tension increased. We pulled into Jackson, Mississippi and I stepped down from the bus where a police officer was waiting. I let off a big blowing breath as I stepped down, as though it were a sigh of enormous relief, like I was EXTREMELY glad to see him. He let me pass. Either he was after someone else, or my pretense at relief had worked. I stepped into the cafeteria.
It wasn't that I had ignored the "Colored" sign, I just did not expect it, therefore I did not see it. It was a segregated cafeteria and I simply followed the other people on the bus, into the line. Strangely at this point, I was almost completely color blind from fatigue. The food was just as colorless in flavor. I sat and ate in silence, beginning to notice the white people on the other side of the room. Some of them seemed about to choke on their food. I did not really enjoy mine, but I wasn't hungry any longer. I put away my tray and made my way back onto the bus. As a matter of habit when traveling, I position my duffel bag or baggage in the overhead rack, in a certain way to make sure they are not tampered with. I checked my bag when I got back on, to be sure no one had perhaps, planted drugs or anything else in it. The bag was OK. One black man sitting nearby made small talk. I made even less of it.
While trying to nod off to sleep, a strange glowing presence began to push it's way down from the ceiling, to just above my eye level. It was unquestionably, the strange fiery spider from my very early childhood. It was in other words, what must be in my own mind, the manifestation of my most inner fears. It hung there for several minutes, long enough for me to determine that it was entirely personal and not seen by anyone else. When I finally made that determination, I was able to confront it.
Perhaps it was part of an old family curse for after all, there had been a number of cases of insanity in our family in the past. Whatever it was there could be no question that one of us would be the master of the other. I am pleased to report to you here that after some considerable struggle internally, I am for the time being at least, the winner. When it left, all fear inside me left with it. I owe an odd debt to Jackson, Mississippi as well as Greyhound Bus Lines and the Civil Rights Movement. I no longer fear for myself. Now, I only fear for others.
I awoke somewhere near Montgomery, Alabama realizing I may have missed my west bound connection. Perhaps it was the regular Greyhound route, but perhaps it was something more. I was completely surrounded with black men. I cast around with my eyes and mind trying to make a connection with someone, but they might as well have been pallbearers at my funeral. I was more than casually uncomfortable.
As we pulled into Montgomery, I got off the bus for a break. Walking into the terminal, I thumbed through a rack of paperback books full of civil rights manuscripts by Martin Luther King and others. I thought of "Black Like Me", the first book I had ever read dealing with racial inequality. I thought of some of the Blues songs the musicians like John Lee Hooker, Ledbelly and others had etched upon my undeniably white soul. I became suddenly aware of a policeman hovering within arms reach, who looked as though he was ready to bust me on a moment's notice. I nodded, he nodded solemn acknowledgement. I got the feeling that I was allowed to touch the books as long as I didn't READ one of them, and that they were not for sale. They were brown and dog-eared and had been touched a lot by travelers like me over the years. He was incidentally, a white man. There was a dreamlike quality to all of this, but I was not dreaming. I was traveling through a country that was in mourning for a dead President. It happened that this part of the country had experienced something very personal with him.
My dreamlike state of stress was causing me distinct color blindness. Rarely had I experienced that before. I wondered at the meaning of it. We headed toward Birmingham with stops at every small town along the way. It was part of the Greyhound service. White people got off the bus, black people got on. A few men around me made small talk, but I might just as well have been the driver. No one spoke to me. From Birmingham to Tuscaloosa and deep into the night, there was mumbled conversation and deep sleep. Somewhere near Meridian, Mississippi the cops caught up with us. They were obviously trying to round up someone who they thought might be on the bus. As they spoke with the driver, I wondered if it might be me they were after. My circle of black men and the black ladies on the bus closed even tighter around me. There was no question in my mind that I was being ushered or escorted, or being shown something. I must have stood out visually since at this point I was the only white person on the bus except the driver. I thought long and hard about the beatings and riots that had marked these very bus rides in these very bus stations less than ten years before. I wondered what was in store for me as the
feeling of tension increased. We pulled into Jackson, Mississippi and I stepped down from the bus where a police officer was waiting. I let off a big blowing breath as I stepped down, as though it were a sigh of enormous relief, like I was EXTREMELY glad to see him. He let me pass. Either he was after someone else, or my pretense at relief had worked. I stepped into the cafeteria.
It wasn't that I had ignored the "Colored" sign, I just did not expect it, therefore I did not see it. It was a segregated cafeteria and I simply followed the other people on the bus, into the line. Strangely at this point, I was almost completely color blind from fatigue. The food was just as colorless in flavor. I sat and ate in silence, beginning to notice the white people on the other side of the room. Some of them seemed about to choke on their food. I did not really enjoy mine, but I wasn't hungry any longer. I put away my tray and made my way back onto the bus. As a matter of habit when traveling, I position my duffel bag or baggage in the overhead rack, in a certain way to make sure they are not tampered with. I checked my bag when I got back on, to be sure no one had perhaps, planted drugs or anything else in it. The bag was OK. One black man sitting nearby made small talk. I made even less of it.
While trying to nod off to sleep, a strange glowing presence began to push it's way down from the ceiling, to just above my eye level. It was unquestionably, the strange fiery spider from my very early childhood. It was in other words, what must be in my own mind, the manifestation of my most inner fears. It hung there for several minutes, long enough for me to determine that it was entirely personal and not seen by anyone else. When I finally made that determination, I was able to confront it.
Perhaps it was part of an old family curse for after all, there had been a number of cases of insanity in our family in the past. Whatever it was there could be no question that one of us would be the master of the other. I am pleased to report to you here that after some considerable struggle internally, I am for the time being at least, the winner. When it left, all fear inside me left with it. I owe an odd debt to Jackson, Mississippi as well as Greyhound Bus Lines and the Civil Rights Movement. I no longer fear for myself. Now, I only fear for others.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 11:12 AM
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