My Mom, the Military & 1964

October 10, 2004
My mother, Margaret, is from Cleveland Ohio and at age 27, decided she needed to leave Cleveland and build a life for herself and that life was the military.  Margaret first went to Alabama for physical training which was not great considering it was the Deep South in 1963-64.  She dealt with the ‘white’ and ‘colored’ bathrooms and barracks.  Most challenging was having to rely on her white colleagues to order food at the local restaurants and bring it outside to them for consumption in their car because blacks weren’t allowed inside.

Margaret was excited when she received a notice stating she was being relocated to Japan considering her most recent experience in Alabama.  She had been coming back to Alabama on the Greyhound after a recent holiday from visiting her family in Cleveland.  Because she was heading back to the military base, she was dressed in her full army uniform.  She was so exhausted from the ride that she fell asleep and missed her stop to transfer buses that would get her back to her barracks location.  Once she was realized the error, she asked the bus driver what to do next.  He suggested she get off at the next stop, and take bus 32 which was heading back in the direction she just missed.  

Upon arriving at the next stop, she secured her luggage and walked over to bus 32 and to make sure she asked the driver if he was heading back to the military base in Alabama.  The driver sat for a moment staring at my mother in her army uniform.  He was an older white man in his late 40’s with a blotchy face and swollen belly that exposed his years of drinking.  He finally replied in a dismissive tone, “You’re not riding my bus”.  My mom stood there confused, unsure of what he meant and was wondering if she’d walked up to the wrong bus.  She stepped back, looked at the bus number and approached the driver again.  “Excuse me sir”, she said, “I missed my stop on the last bus and that driver said for me to take your bus to get back”, she said, pointing to the bus she just left.  The driver now was looking at my mom with sincere disgust and repeated those five words, “you’re not riding my bus”.

Feeling utterly confused but also embarrassed, Margaret picked up her bags and headed into the train station.  She went to the ticket counter and explained her situation of needing to get back to her military base.  The ticket agent confirmed that bus 32 was indeed the bus she needed to take to get back and Margaret took a deep breath and headed back outside to the bus 32 driver.  As she approached the driver, she was scared as she realized she was alone but her desire to get back was stronger.  She walked up to the bus driver who was standing on the last step of the bus entrance, drew herself up to her full 5’6” frame and said, “excuse me, but the ticket agent inside said your bus is indeed the bus I should take to bring me back to the Alabama Army Base”.  

The bus driver stepped down and took two steps toward my mom, making sure his full height and belly towered over her.  He looked down at her as if she were an annoying bug he thought he’d ridden himself of and it now had appeared again on the end of his fork.  He stepped so closely to my mom that she had to lean back.  Although she tried to stand her ground, his weight and smell continued to force her backwards and she finally had to take a step back.  She kept her head up and never took her eyes off his.  Finally, he yelled with the level of menace you’d expect from someone who would really like to see you dead, “look, I don’t care what he told you, you are not and will not ride on my bus”.  He leaned forward in one motion with such force that my mom stumbled back, to which he turned, stepped onto his bus and closed the door in her face.

Feeling completely humiliated my mom smoothed out the front of her uniform and tried to avoid eye contact with those who were standing outside the bus station watching the entire exchange.  She refused to cry in front of these people so she bent to pick up her bags and fighting the tightness in her chest and the sting of tears to come, she walked back into the bus station.  She went back to the ticket counter and to the agent she’d previously spoken to.  She relayed the incident to the ticket agent who looked at her with the pity one would give to a child who couldn’t grasp the answer to a math problem and said, “Well honey, if the man says you can’t ride his bus, that means you can’t ride his bus”.   He told her the next bus would arrive in three hours and she was welcome to wait in the terminal until that time.

Margaret sat on the hard station benches for the entire three hours.  Her throat burning the entire time from the tears and pride she’d had to swallow.  By this time Margaret was exhausted and stressed at the thought of missing her curfew.  The bus came when the agent said and Margaret boarded the bus and made the ride back to the military base without another incident.

Margaret would remember that story vividly for the next 20+ years but never shared it with anyone until she told me over dinner two years ago in 2004.