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Busing has been a metaphor for race relations in this country since the 1920s. But Rosa Parks’ radical decision to sit at the front in 1955 thrust the issue upon the present. Soon to follow were the 1961 Freedom Riders trips. Angry mobs stopped these buses every chance they had. Riders were pulled off and beaten, and the buses bombed. Our buses were meant to deliver us from ignorance. But the transportive nature of the bus has instead kept us idling for fear of the truth of a collective history we refuse to embrace.

I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I likely don’t need to announce that we are the most segregated city in the country. Our racism is sleight of hand. It’s in a state of flux without ambition. Its expression is found in inner-city, white flight, and chartered schools. It’s a 10-mile drive around one’s city (not through it). It’s hearing about the nightly drumbeat of shootings in specific neighborhoods.

Seven and entering the 3rd grade, I was bused to school. Never consulted on the empirical social experiment that became my elementary and middle school years, I could not have imagined it would become my albatross. “The experiment” was executed by guilt-ridden (and guilty) whites; by politicians and lawyers; by my parents. Well enough meaning people, but people who lacked the genuine backbone to face an overwhelming fear. They didn’t hesitate to put forth others in their stead—even their own children.

Busing was meant to be a new beginning for Blacks and whites, a reboot if you will. And I was among those at the forefront of the sea change. As a former subject of “the experiment” that continued for six more years, I report today that it failed more than it succeeded. Inherent in the power struggles that expectedly prevailed were taunts that led to disruption in the hallways and on playgrounds. Ultimately, often ending with violence. These playground battles left the children of desegregationists (Black and white) spending time in detention and, even worse, being sent home for days at a time.

But “the experiment” was not without merit. Success is incrementally measured. Those who did not practice what they preached were cowardly to be sure–choosing instead to put even the youngest in the crossfire of a fraught past colliding with present-day mores. Those of us on the frontlines (mere classrooms) could only be but so courageous. I didn’t know that then. Because of the lack of support, our efforts toward sharing space were a predictable failure. By definition, something doesn’t mix itself. Extraordinarily, many of us eventually held one another in high esteem. We experienced the differences as emboldening: food, hair, clothing, and language. We knew things our parents didn’t. We saw things our parents couldn’t. And maybe that was part of the problem.

Raised with enough privilege that my parents saw fit to put me on a bus as a test case and not to receive the best possible education, I represented the white guilt faction. I am quick to admit that I did not want to go. I was seven and no longer able to walk to my neighborhood school and play with the friends I had known since kindergarten. I was pissed. I felt I was there because my parents and the rest of their generation were unwilling to put themselves in the crossfires. They did little to makes themselves vulnerable to the experience of difference, and indifference. Yet they did not want to risk their social standing as White, liberals against racism. And they honestly did wish for a better world.

I had the rare chance to intimately understand people who were different from me and to be seen by them as someone different from them. This part is key to accepting the other. It is our narcissism that determines we are not different but they are. What remains for me is an enduring, deep, abiding faith that “the experiment” was not for naught and my childhood was not in vain. Rather, I believe that one day soon my city and my country will come together and fashion the nuanced understanding that we are different from one another and that that difference is not sinful but redemptive.

Listening to Kamala Harris confront Joe Biden about her personal experience being bussed instantly brought back a flood of memories from my own childhood. I’m voting for Senator Harris for president because her campaign is committed to social justice and civil rights. I’m voting for her because I believe in an equitable world. I’m voting for her because I’m so tired of living in a present that denies the past. I want to live in my city with and around all people.

I met Senator Harris many months ago when she was in Milwaukee stumping for Senator Tammy Baldwin. Among throngs of people, I said coyly, “I know you haven’t declared you’re running, but I’m voting for you anyway.” Her reply was a motherly, if sly, “You’re a little troublemaker.” The rhetoric of change is not a slip of the tongue but a deliberative refrain of 2nd class, 2nd class that Senator Harris wove into her answer to the question of busing that was never asked. So maybe that’s why I’m voting for her. She will answer questions no one is asking.

I have lived my life, quietly and daily, fostering what began over 40 years ago. Never did I imagine we’d be here today. But we are. I did my part and went to the school my parents chose so that they could say they were good whites. And I made friends with Black people. As Jerry McGuire said, “I love Black people!” and I’m not afraid to say it and loudly if necessary. But that’s not enough. Long ago the government began something they didn’t finish. Busing has had many fits and starts. Probably because it was bigger than any of us could have envisioned. But this doesn’t mean we can’t return to it in a new light. Artists revisit their work all the time and over years. It’s about being creative, purposeful and thoughtful. It’s insisting on getting it right.

The white shroud over America’s history of slavery is combusting and it’s killing us all in slow motion. Milwaukee is burning and a relentless, tireless xenophobia is the tinder that ignited it. I have never given up on the idea of peaceful coexistence but it takes political will, a willful politician and clearly the courage of seven-year-olds everywhere to enact it. Let’s make some trouble!

nmhorvath

Writing since July 2019 · 1 story contributed