When my father had lost the ability to make pithy comments about most things, let alone the ability to open the car door without assistance, we took him to his grandaughter's camp visiting day. There a bunch of enthusiastic fair-skinned, nine year olds belted out the old civil right song- If You Miss Me At the Back Bus
If you miss me at the back of the bus, and you can't find me nowhere
Come on up to the front of the bus,
I'll be ridin' right thereI'll be ridin' right there
I'll be ridin' right there
You got to come on up to the front of the bus
I'll be ridin' right there
My father's comment: “That's what I like about the Jews, they send their kids to camp to sing good socialist songs and you can't find a spot in the parking lot between the BMWs and the Cadillacs.
I take two buses home from school. I stayed at school until almost 6pm. I stayed for the Black Studies College course. The guest speaker spoke about prejudices and segregation. The after-school college class is filled with the kind of student who anyone would love to teach. It was a beautiful two hours in the classroom as the sun set behind us. It was a nasty, rainy day as I ran for the bus after it ended. But the driver waited and I scurried on. I found a spot in the back of the bus, between two members of the class. I joked about sitting on the back of the bus and enjoyed the good company for the first half of the trip. Sometimes I just love my high school students.
Next bus. Now the bus back was filled with rambunctious students heading for a basketball game. It wasn't nearly as enjoyable
They weren't my students.
I squeezed into a seat in the front of the bus and listened to my headphones for the whole way home.
Come on over to the front of the bus- I'll be riding up there
