Joe Biden said that no one liked busing. I disagree.

It was winter break of my 7th grade year in school so I was in Jr. High. The calendar rolled from 1971 to 1972 while we digested the news that we might be going to a different school due to something called busing. 

We are a white family that moved to Maryland in 1969 and we were living in a privileged neighborhood with relatively good schools. We’d moved there from Washington State and were told by the realtor that this was a white roof neighborhood. When I asked my mom what that meant, she said, it meant that primarily white people will buy these newly built homes. That wasn’t true actually as several professional black people bought homes next door and down the street, but at that time I didn’t really understand that they were the few.

We went to Catholic school, so my life was incredibly sheltered, however, my sister with a developmental disability had a chance to attend a private school in Washington D.C. that was expensive. My parents asked us if we were okay with going to public school to save money. We were all excited to attend public school (wear normal clothes) and be with our friends so the four of us readily agreed.

Shortly thereafter we were all affected by busing. They chose certain grades that had to go out of the district and other grades where children were bused in. My little sister in elementary school and my brothers in high school got to stay in their “home” schools while I was the only one who was bused seven miles away every morning to school, getting up almost an hour earlier than before. My siblings all lost friends who went to their “new” school as the boundary was only a few blocks over from us.

We were very close to Washington DC and clearly had heard a lot about what was going on and while it seemed it would never touch us, when it did I was secretly thrilled to be a part of such a huge social experiment. I’d grown up in the MLK and JFK era and was inspired by their vision of a better world for everyone. I was scared but also happy that I got to be a part of history. It didn’t hurt that one of my best friends and the boy I liked were also being bused. 

I peered out of the bus that first day and was shocked at the neighborhoods we drove through and more surprised that there was a barbed wire fence around our school with a gate that locked behind us when we entered. It was prison like and terrifying. We were later told the barbed wire fence was not to keep us in but to keep others out. I didn’t know who the others were and was afraid to ask. 

I’d been in neighborhoods like this one before, but only to drive through on my way somewhere else. I was to spend the next couple of years in that neighborhood attending Fairmont Jr. High and I would get to know the people of that neighborhood as they followed me to my home High School.

That first week was rough. I had no idea where to go and fumbled around with the few kids I knew from my old school. There were about 40% of students from my school and 60% of students that remained. The first day I went to the bathroom, it was like something from a movie about inner city schools. The room was filled with cigarette smoke and while it would be several months before I too began smoking, I soon realized it was where the girls would bond.

I didn’t understand many of the kids whose home school this was. The students who came from the neighborhood were primarily black with a few white kids. They all spoke with an accent I wasn’t accustomed to. I felt there was a communication barrier almost immediately.

I was super shy, but also almost six feet tall and very skinny so attracted attention just because of my stature. One small white girl from the neighborhood was in what she termed a gang and for some reason wanted to dominate me. She bullied me almost daily and took my lunch money. It was so cliche but also a reality that I couldn’t believe I found myself in. I got good at avoiding her, mostly by going to lunch before going to the bathroom to bond first. I saw her and her family at Disney World during Spring Break and she looked so ashamed and small without her “gang” at school. She never bothered me again after that.

In the first month, a girl who was black talked to me in class and asked me for some help with her work so I helped her. When I later saw her in the hall with her friends, I said “Hi”. She looked me up and down and said, “Why’s that white girl talking to me.” She and her friends walked away laughing. I was humiliated and angry, not understanding why she did that. But later, Edwina and I became friends, first just in class (I never talked to her when she was with her friends again) and eventually in public.

I’d been brought up to believe that we are created equal and to love everyone. I wanted so badly to be a part of helping to create equity and equality for everyone, so while I was nervous, scared, and intimidated, I was also open to doing my part in my most innocent ways. I was woefully unprepared for the experience as were the teachers and students. I’m not sure how we should’ve been prepared, but for an innocent white girl, I was so out of my league. I had no idea what it was like to be a person of color and even though I wanted to understand, of course, I never really can or will.I’m just as certain though that the kids who remained were equally unprepared for us and upset about losing friends to a new school. 

When the semester finished, I got on the bus on the final day and thought to myself, “We made progress”. As the buses with white children pulled out of the school yard I began to hear small pinging noises and girls screaming in alarm in the seats ahead of me. Our bus windows were being peppered with rocks by the children from the neighborhood. In my naivete I somehow believed one semester could make a difference. I went home deflated and wondered if it would all be worth it. 

The following year I learned never to go to the bathroom during class. My bladder betrayed me, as always, and I had to go. Upon trying to return to class, a group of black kids cornered me and a small student up front told me to give her my jacket. It had been hand made by my mom. We were a big family and couldn’t afford new clothes so she made a lot of mine. I refused. I couldn’t believe someone would ask me for a piece of my clothing and I wasn’t giving it up. She got closer as did they all, and she said it again. I again refused. She then pulled out a switchblade and snapped it open and replied, “I said, give me your jacket!” 

I am stubborn. It was made by my mom. For some reason I made eye contact with the only boy in the back and made a silent appeal. I then steeled myself and said “No.” In my mind, I wondered what the hell was the matter with me and promised that if she asked again, I’d take it off. The boy said something (I have no idea what) and they kind of melted away. I don’t recall ever seeing any of them again. I had to return to the bathroom to relieve myself once again.

My brothers stayed at their high school and a young man who was bused to their high school was a boxer. He was creating quite a name for himself and years later came back to talk about his experience at the Olympics. His name is Sugar Ray Leonard. I was friends with his sister at my school. She was delightful and so proud of her brother. She had a little boy while we were in High School and named him Sugar Ray in her brother’s honor. 

My experience is just one of so many. While it had its moments of terror, so do all new situations we find ourselves in. My mantra in life is, to know someone’s story is to love them. We needed time to know each other’s story. We needed time to learn to understand one another and to learn that we were not a threat to each other (with the exception of the few). We needed time to find common ground. To get caught smoking and suspended together. To goof off in art after our teacher fell asleep. To cry together when one of the kids got shot. To be allowed to say “Hi” in the hallway and to weave our stories together through it all.

Busing is hard on kids, but kids are resilient. I learned that we all want the same thing no matter the color of our skin. I learned that we all want to be loved for who we are. I learned that there is so much inequity in the world and that I can be a part of tearing down barriers one friend at a time, one hello at a time, one story at a time. 

I went west to go to college and when I heard that they had reversed busing I was saddened. I wrote to my congressperson about it and begged them to understand how important it was since access to housing dictates where someone goes to school. Inferior or superior. Every child is worthy of a wonderful life, and I was disappointed that what I thought of as a successful social experiment was now ending. I worried for the future of our world and the cultural divide that would continue to separate children who are black and white. 

Joe Biden said that no one liked busing. I disagree. There were many of us kids, both black and white who learned from one another, who eventually embraced each other and who lifted each other up. Without busing that never would have happened and I like to believe that the little slice of history that I was privy to was important. I know it was for me. 

There were so many wonderful moments at Fairmont Jr. High that I haven’t revealed. But the best one was when we drove away from that school the following May. Instead of kids throwing rocks at our bus, they waved goodbye. Progress was made. Lives intertwined and my hope for a new generation of people who would bury racism once and for all was revived.