(Scene 1)

“Thanks for your reboarding pass, Ma’am—right up that way,” said the smiling, African American attendant, lowering his head as he spoke to me and ushered me onto the bus, helping me with a hand up as I went. I smiled and continued about three quarters of the way down the isle to our seats, sat down and waited for Matt to join me. Repositioning our backpacks to no longer be sitting at the foot of our seats, I took out a book and began to read. A few minutes went by before I realized he didn’t seem to be getting on the bus. Dropping my book, I stood up and looked out a window on the opposite side of the bus. To do so, I had leaned over an old black woman who let out a matter-of-fact statement under her breath, “He ain’t getting back on this bus with you, honey.”

I couldn’t fathom it. I had never seen such behavior in person. Why weren’t they letting him get back on the bus with me? We traveled together. We arrived here together. We had exited the bus together, gone to get water together and had left our bags together. We were clearly a couple and I didn’t understand what was happening. The little voice from the old woman positioned next to me spoke up again, “You white. He black. You ain’t leavin’ this place together if dem folks have anything to say about it. You might as well just sit on back down.”

I didn’t sit back down. I gathered our packs, one on each shoulder, a messenger bag around my chest, his hat placed backward on my head and heaved the duffel bag out of the top compartment. The woman to my right looked stunned but as I began to walk off the bus I glanced back in solidarity and saw a small smile dawn her face.

***

(Scene 2)

“Excuse me, sir—where do you think you’re going?” the Caucasian bus attendant firmly questioned the 20-year old, half-black northerner.

“To get back on the bus with my girlfriend?” replied the young male, confused as to why he wasn’t being allowed to reboard the same bus he had previously exited.

“I don’t think so,” replied the Greyhound attendant curtly, “You just let her go on ahead—we’re going to need to search you.”

This particular trip had already been the definition of exhausting. Not only had I proposed on a bus just one day ago using an onion ring, it being the only ring shaped thing in my vicinity when I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this woman, we’d been traveling for two and a half days straight. We drank some water in Virginia that was highly questionable and left us running for the compact corner toilet of the bus—now, we’d had this unfathomable situation dropped in our laps.

I wasn’t entirely surprised though. It wasn’t my Dropkick Murphy’s tee, ripped jeans or attitude they were concerned with, as I had been nothing but respectful up until this point. It was my lack of Ebonics, the black of my skin, the white girl on my arm—they wanted to right a wrong they had seen, split up an unnatural bond in their eyes.

I felt angry. My fiancée was already on the bus, all my belongings I was moving with, everything I cared for was on that Greyhound. I could feel my blood boiling, the hate surrounding me and all I could do was keep my head down, so I didn’t stir the pot. I knew the second I made eye contact with this old, white bigot I would be in a far worse position than I was already. What did I have to lose? I already lost my girl—the bus was loaded, all except me. The black driver, keeping his head low boarded the bus and started the engine. My whole life was about to drive off with no sign of how I’d get out of this mess. Until I saw her, bags in hand, struggling to make it off the narrow steps with my hat awkwardly placed on her head, smiling down at me.