A school bus saga

Some of my earliest childhood memories are becoming hazy, however, one particular moment on a school bus remains vibrant as if it occurred yesterday.

It wasn’t until I was delving into auto-biographical work during grad school that I was able to name it as a traumatic racist incident.

In those 1970’s school-buses there was a metallic, rectangular box next to the driver’s seat.

This box was the perfect size to occupy small bums and someone had figured out they could fit onto this make-shift seat.

In those days, safety wasn’t our concern.

From that point forward, taking turns sitting-on-the-box became a cool way to pass the time while riding to and from school.

As I was sitting in the first row directly behind the driver, my five year old self had been assessing the situation. At long last, it was becoming clear my chance was next if I wanted it.

With the box vacated, I saw it as my opportunity to get a close-up view of the driver opening and closing the door. The maneuvering of the long stick with the black ball at the top was also intriguing.

I carefully ducked under the bar and took my position on the box next to him.

No friendly greeting or welcoming smile?

Without glancing in my direction, with his four-eyes and cap-wearing head affixed on the road, he began ramming his left elbow repeatedly into my small frame.