1970

In my life, all that I am, started in my old hometown. In so many ways, I want to return to that girl, that feeling of innocence and hope. There was a magic to my existence where all things work out in the end. I believed that good was inherent, and I trusted the faces I knew. It never occurred to me how fragile our lives really are, until one spring day in the sixth grade.

In 1970, on a beautiful spring day, I walked out of my classroom and down the big, wide hall that was often transformed into a stage. School was out for the day. I ran out of the old building. I left the creaky floors, the tall, heavy doors, and the desks in rows in favor of the outside with blue Carolina skies and limitless possibilities. I headed for my bus. My friends and neighbors were already there, standing in line to clamber aboard. The bus door was open, and Mr. Morrow a teacher, was about to change hats and become the bus driver. All of my classmates were laughing and talking as if we were heading for an adventurous vacation, but actually, we were only heading home. My time arrived to climb the two stairs into the bus, and I was in my favorite dress. I jumped from one step to the other, holding on to the big metal bar. The bus smelled old, well worn, and I had been inside it many times before. Today, there were no empty seats, and so I walked to the back to stand and hold onto the bar above the back of the seats. More friends climbed on the bus to stand in front of me. We waited until Mr. Morrow said, “Time to go.” He shifted the old transmission into first gear, and let off the clutch with a lurch, and off we went. The engine was loud and grinding as he moved into second. Each time he changed the gears, the people in front of me would fall slightly back. We made the left turn onto South Thompson Street, and then turned right onto West Graham Street towards town. We passed houses where people I knew lived. Big trees shaded the yards. The bus was in motion, and so were the passengers. We were headed home. Mr. Morrow had music on the radio playing. It was a backdrop to the chatter of other sixth grade classmates as they talked back and forth across the aisle of the bus.

I attended Oak School on Oak Street. It was a school set aside for sixth graders. Not an elementary school, and yet, not a junior high school. I was born in a small brick house two doors down from this school’s front door. When I was about three years old, my family moved from there to the other side of town. My dad was the school superintendent of the city schools in the small rural town in which we lived. He loved people. He loved community. And he was a builder of both. Before I was born, he began the task of desegregating the schools. When I was a baby, a police officer sat in front of our house. In my dad’s dedication to the people of both races whom he served, the transition went without incidence. Complete desegregation of our schools occurred in 1971. My dad hired many African American teachers. The three teachers that impacted my sixth grade year were young men of color who were educators just starting their careers. Mr. Harris, Mr. Kincaid, and Mr. Morrow opened up a new perspective to my mostly white world.

As the bus headed for the first light entering downtown, he downshifted. It was a warm spring day. The bus smelled like hot people. It was loud and energized. Mr. Morrow stopped at the first light. When the light turned green, he put the bus in first gear, and it lurched forward. The students in front of me leaned forward, holding onto the metal seats, and then as the bus lurched into second gear, they all fell back onto me. I had nothing to hold onto. They were laughing and yelling, and suddenly the back door of the bus flew open. I found myself falling in slow motion towards the road. I was afraid a car would hit me. The bus kept going as the door swung back and forth. My friends were looking at me as I hit with a painful thud on rough asphalt. I got up with my favorite dress torn, and blood pouring from my elbow. My heart was racing. I looked for a car, but luckily for me, there wasn’t one.

For some reason, I held my head up as I fell through space. I think mid-fall, I was thinking ahead to getting myself back up. So I never gave in to the fall. I stood there for a second, gathering my wits, and then ran into an open florist on the street. Two ladies were staring at me. I was shaking, disheveled, and bloody. I nervously said, “I just fell out of the school bus, may I call my mom, please?” They never came near me. They said cautiously, “The phone is on the counter.” I called our number, and my mom answered. I said with a shaky voice on the verge of tears, “Mom, I just fell out of the school bus, can you come get me?” She sounded nervous, “Where are you? Are you okay?” I said with a quivering small voice, “I am at Betty Jo’s, and I don’t know. Come get me.” “Stay right where you are,” she said, “I’ll be right there.” I was walking towards the door, and it opened. Mr. Morrow walked into the store. The door had bells on it that jingled and alerted the shopkeeper of entering guests. Mr. Morrow saw me, and he too was distraught and shaking. He reached down and said, “Are you okay?” Tears began to fall, and I said, “I don’t know.” He said, “We will make sure you are all right.” I told him, “My mom is on the way.” He asked the ladies at the florist for a Kleenex. And they ran to get some for me. So Mr. Morrow and I stood on the sidewalk in front of Betty Jo’s Florist, waiting for the wife of the superintendent of the schools to arrive. Think about the magnitude of this, it was 1970 and the superintendent’s daughter just fell out of the school bus, and the bus driver was a black man.

I saw my mom’s Oldsmobile crossing the railroad tracks. The school bus was pulled over, and all eyes were gazing out the windows at me. The radio was still humming, but the bus was otherwise silent. My mom pulled over, and in her swift, yet calm way, she took over. Her arms embraced me, blood got on her shirt, her pants. She told Mr. Morrow everything would be all right. She was rubbing the back of my head. If my mom said things would be okay, I believed her. Mr. Morrow started apologizing, and Mom interrupted with, “Accidents happen.” You could see the anxiety drain from Mr. Morrow’s face. Mom said she would let him know how I was. Mr. Morrow thanked her, and looked at me with a kind smile and a sigh, and he walked back to the bus, his head hanging down. The engine started, and with the squeal of the transmission grinding into first, he pulled away. A slow hum of voices rose from the bus. A quiet discussion as I walked to the car. The ladies at Betty Jo’s watched from the seasonal window lined with spring flowers in all kinds of arrangements. Roses, tulips, sprigs of daisies outlined their blank faces. We drove to the emergency room, and my mom called my dad from the front desk.

My dad said he would be right there. He walked in the hospital door in his dark suit and tie, wingtips, and his hands in his pockets jingling change. He walked over to me, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Are you all right?” I showed him my bloody arm, my legs sandpapered by asphalt, and the torn dress I so loved. He said, “We will get you fixed up. Okay?” I nodded, hanging my head, my disheveled blond curls falling across my face. The doctor came in, checked me over, and said I would be sore, but soon, I would be as good as new. We quietly left the hospital, mom had her hand on my back as we walked to the car. I climbed in, and we drove home.

My arm was very sore. I landed on my elbow, and it was black and blue, raw and ravaged. Over the next several days, the story unraveled a bit. My friends thought it was funny that I fell out of the bus. In my misery, I soon began to feel like a klutz. My ego was very damaged. Then my boyfriend of several days told my good friend that he did not like me anymore. In those days love became like in a momentary relationship. The finality, however, still cut deep. I felt like an outsider to the school where days before I had belonged. My dad wanted me back in school as soon as possible, he would ask every day, “Why don’t we try school tomorrow?” But this was not about we, or so I thought. In my eyes, it was about me, and I did not want to leave the safety of my bedroom walls. I was sure my dad was angry at me for falling out of the bus and that feeling lingered for decades.

Any other parents would have blamed the school, the bus driver, and the change about to happen in our small town world. The next year, schools would be completely integrated. For many people, that was a fear. The fear of having a black person drive the school bus or teach history, or drink from the same water fountain after recess. My dad was not angry at the school, the bus driver, or of the future where our community was heading to beome one. My dad loved me, but he was not going to allow a black man to be blamed for an accident that was not his fault. Harper Lee wrote it best: People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for. My dad was not going down that road. He always had a feeling about people. A measure of their integrity. When he hired someone, he believed in them. Color was not a part of his measuring stick. He wanted me to go back to school, hold my head up, and move towards a bigger vision.

I did not ride the bus again. School was almost over for the year, Mr. Morrow was there and still kind to me, as if the incident never happened. Summer came and summer went. I moved on to junior high school. The years passed. At a class reunion, someone without fail brought it up, “Remember when you fell out of the bus?” Everyone laughed and laughed, except me. I just said “Yes,” and walked away. Not long ago, someone mentioned it on Facebook. I could see her laughing in my mind. I ignored the comment. For as much as I have grown and changed, my hometown is much the same. If the incident happened today, the chips might fall a different way. But I can still see my dad, adjusting his glasses, “You are okay, let’s go to school today.” In this moment, with clarity, I now know it was not just about me. It was us. He needed me, to simmer the talk, and I did. I still do. Mr. Morrow was a fine man at Oak School. He was the best. My father left all of it at that. My arm healed, I healed, the country, my community were moving to a better place, and luckily for me, I called that place home.