No Black Girl Left Behind
By: Walker Sands
Tags: Culture, Race, Motivation, Self Improvement, Black Women

Facelessness is a betrayal to basic humanity. It is violence. (Source: Altered image from courier-journal.com)

The bus was crowded. My nose, in fearful anticipation of the funky haze curling and creeping through my nostrils, twitched with agitation. Its hairs, small and brave, recoiled, preparing to be singed by the orchestral funk floating from the bus’s backside. Packed like sardines, everyone was checking for their personal shield — Damn a personal space.

The night sat on top of that bus, the fogged window corners dotted with water. Inside, the bus felt even heavier. Folks jostling their headphones, neck pillows and each other — It was time to go! Eyes rolling angrily into the backs of bedheads, akimbo hipster beanies, and cascading braids, we were preparing for all the sleep we were going to get on our four-hour bounce back to the City. Amongst all the fuss, Sister sat quietly, head down, minding hers and meditating amongst our millennial bodies fidgeting on all sides. I nestled into the seat’s scratchy red velvet. Such finery could only be afforded by my trip rewards card — and only three stickers from a free ride! Eyes low, I looked down the aisle past my lashes, past my fidgeting bus buddies, through the bus’s sprawling windshield, and into the darkness waiting just beyond the wipers. I accepted the angry lullaby of the bus engine’s rumble, laid back and hoping to wake up at the home station. As my head lowered to the right, I saw Sister quietly place her jacket over her books and gently make her way past the empty seat to the aisle. A bump-free potty break is imperative; especially if you’re hovering — I imagine. Eyes closing fast, I heard Sister’s passing, faint “Excuse me”. It danced like a feather over the crank of the bus and the hot air drawing down my eyelids. I turned away from the back of the bus so not to earn a whiff of Sister’s reluctant destination. Then, quiet.

The calm haze cloaking the aisle suddenly blew back and, unfortunately, up my nose. The doors squealed open

“We — we are coming on!”

A rattling voice cracked against the opening doors and ping ponged off the walls of our collective cranium.

“For real? Last minute and loud,” I thought. My eyelids recommitted to their tight seal.

I gave in and opened my eyes to see Sister’s open seat, then an almost cartoonish, Tasmanian twister of pointing fingers and tapping fingertips, prying for their desired and rightful seats.

“We need to sit? Can you move for us? We need to sit.”

The shrill voice ripped at the steady growl of the bus. The voice had a bob cut, tousled and troubled; like it’d been on a safari with adventure to match the harried excitement of her voice. Yes, The Bob — coming to a sticky bus aisle too near me. It was all I could see without elongating my torso like a meerkat and drawing The Bob’s attention toward me.

“Excuse me, excuse me!”

The Bob, and what appeared to be her mate in tow, pushed down the aisle like she was chopping at invisible palms and brush. Her sharp whispers begging to shout, “We need to sit now. We are together. The bus is trying to leave. We sit together. We need to — okay?!”

Their heads darting up and down at each seat in the aisle, like pelicans dunking for fish. Don’t come by me, bird — I mean, Bob. My fellow travelers just looked — looked her up and down, looked around, or simply looked deeper into anything that meant not looking at her: books, eyelids, seatbacks, neighboring crotches, shoes, floor stains.

“We need a seat — Are you sitting here? We need a seat. We need a seat — can you move for us?” So many hard consonants in her chalky “requests.” Bob moved closer, bumping seats and shoulders in her wake.

I slid deeper into my seat and my music, protected from the encroaching couple by Mint Condition’s swooning harmonies. My eyes darted under their sealed lids. Maybe playing dead works on bears and Bobs. “Please pass me” ran across my mind like a repeating, LCD ticker. They were getting closer. I exchanged Stokely Williams’s caramel vocals for my own pitchy hymn to pray that Bob away… “Keep her from here, Good Lord. Keep her from here! Oooh Looord — Don’t come by heeeere.” If you sang that in the key of Kumbaya, you’re a G. I was totally off key, but it worked.

Eyelids still glued, I felt the force of the looming twosome rush to a sudden stop. “Sit! Just sit here. Who cares? Who cares?!”

It wasn’t a question. I peeked across the aisle in disbelief, watching The Bob pillage Sister’s (former) spot on the bus. Did Flora the Seat Implorer just snatch up Sister’s seat, destroying her Northface nest of snuggly intention?

Sister’s place was unguarded, only protected by the thin membrane of common courtesy; already worn down by the stale air we were all inhaling.

They passed Sister’s belongings like scrap metal down a conveyor belt; plopped into the newly liberated seat and the adjacent aisle seat (the seat one of them could have begrudgingly sat it and pouted for the whole four hours, five feet from each other’s precious person). Not even the days of school museum trips and company rope course challenges saw such blatant disregard for society’s saved seat policy. Of course, the de facto rules of seat-saving have their limits, but sans fair negotiations between the seated and seat seeker, this was an act of war.

The Bob and her hipster Sancho Panza had spotted the seat, decided it was theirs for the taking and charged; regardless of the neatly coiled Northface and enjoyment-worn copy of Phoebe Robinson’s latest. My eyebrow raised sharply witnessing this one-sided war for a seat. Where was the seat’s rightful inhabitant — Where was Sister? A bubbling stew, my stomach had words and my mind had questions. I removed my headphones and l cautiously leaned forward, freezing in place, lips refusing to part, but thoughts flooding my head. “Should I say something? What happens when she comes back to her stolen seat? Is she gonna flip? Are people gonna stare? They gonna look at me?”

The assembly line of doubt and disgust continued. “Who does she think she is? If I speak up, she comin’ after me? Will I sound strong enough or will she say I sound ‘gay’ — call me out of name? She might have an epithet for me — She’s reckless. Then what do I do? They’ll kick me off this bus. I wanna go home, too.” My back had raised from the back of my seat, arms tense above the plastic armrests. I sat, a still frame. A balloon was steadily inflating in my throat, blocking any hope of a simple, “That seat belongs to someone in the bathroom.” But the persistent lump wouldn’t give me those three seconds that decency was requesting of me. Fail.

Sister returned to her gentrified seat. My eyes opened wide at her reentry in a way my throat refused. “Excuse me,” with calm assertion Sister’s head swayed in wonder and disbelief, “that’s my seat.”

“Not anymore. You got up. We need to sit together!” Her voice sent a fiery sound wave pulsing through the growing audience of spectators.

Is that my stom –No, not my stomach. My heart just sank and sucked in.

“And I don’t want any of your black girl attitude either!” The Bob sliced the air as she whipped around, giving Sister her back.

Pop! Splat! There goes my right atrium. Why would she say that? I know that “why” too well.

Oh, but hark! Before Sister could even conjure wind to respond, the bus driver sprinted towards her. Okay, now! Here we go! Set it off, brotha! I felt my aorta slowly reconnect to what was usually my strongest muscle. Like my faith in another’s humanity, my heart slowly restored, reforming its walls with the bus driver’s every step to the rescue. He’s about to do what I couldn’t. I was mind melding with him — in my mind. I just knew what was next, sending him my kinetic wish list: “This Sister is a Queen and you’re about to Shaka Zulu that ass, baby, Natasha accent and all! Yeah, I said it! Get ‘er! Get Kremlin Karen!”

“Sir, this is my seat”, Sister’s assertive whisper pushed against the hot air.

“Damn, he really could turn up the A/C after he handles this,” I thought.

Sister’s eyes pleaded. I looked away so not to add to the chorus of eyes set on the Battle of the Beet Red Seat, but maintained my silent cheer for justice. Flora the Seat Implorer would certainly be foiled, this day! Bye, Bob!

“Miss, it’s late. We don’t want any trouble. Just move for us. Ok?”

Then, quiet. I waited, facing forward, a smirk curling on my face as I waited to hear The Bob fumble her way to another seat. Still quiet. Where’s the rummaging that comes with gathering your things? Where are the bemoaning calls for the driver’s manager? Where are the summoning calls for her porcelain privilege — for justice?! Was her Sancho Panza simmering with rage, about to propel his Urban Outfitters-clad frame at the buff bus driver who dare challenged his supposedly sexy seat marauder? Still quiet. I looked up to see Sister. She was talking but I couldn’t hear her. Desperation seemed to slowly wrap the words from her lips, pulling each one down to the speckled floor; eventually enveloping her face, and lowering her eyes.

Yep — He was talking to Sister. It is she that must go. The Bob sat satisfied with her righteous work.

The bus driver’s eyes were low, tired and selfishly saving their light. “Thanks, ok — just move?” The bus driver looked at her with an impatient empathy — if that can exist. We were already trapped in an illogical vindaloo, so why not? Sister seemed breathless, knowing the knife of public opinion waited for her response, inches from her throat. The deafening silence had taken the bus and her voice, only outdone by the loud white corneas fixed on Sister’s next move. No movement from us onlookers, until it was time to look away. Our once attentive eyes dragged the aisle floor like toilet paper following a bus mate back to his seat from bio break.

I watched as Sister relocated, maybe with a sliver of humanity intact. She quietly picked up her Northface, the familiar sound of microfiber moving over down, folding, and bunching in her arms. Grabbing her faded, favorite book, she did us the favor of looking down; freeing us to continue watching, sitting in false comfort, more squishy than plush, more cold than cuddling.

Like that it was over. Three and a half minutes of humiliation, disguised as humility, with no sign of humanity. Sister sat, reassigned. The Bob’s well-being, and the sanctity of her bond to her dutiful Sancho Panza was safe. At least he’d done his duty, no matter how passive-aggressive or perturbed. My duty sat on the shelf — unused; all to keep my seat on the side. Sister shoed to the side. How many times had this happened to her? How many times have I let this happen? How many ways is she left alone in the light?

I looked at Sister. Her feathered bang covered her eyes like a courtesy. She sighed. Maybe her sigh was a formerly denied exhale, the release from her public uprooting. Maybe it was from something else. Maybe it was from another clash with the unspoken laws for society’s lilies or another social grace’s cousin to the Black Codes itching to seat her. Maybe it was a much overdue yawn from an already long day. I looked at her from my seat on the side, waiting for her to sense my kind gaze and receive it with eager appreciation. (Creepy, I know. Sorry.) The balloon still sat lodged in my throat — and to be clear, not a pretty, red, blue or pink one. It was one of those dusty white balloons, that aren’t even really white, but like off white, and only inflated enough to plop in place. But I needed to speak. I needed to make it right. She finally looked forward. Now, was my chance! “Go ahead,” I said to myself. Speak it. Tell her. I sat up slightly, feeling the pinched kiss of the binds that ghosted just above my skin. I inhaled.

“That was wrong. That was fucked up. That white girl was on some bullshit and that brother ain’t shit for making you move. I told him so, and he said when we make the next pitstop, he’s gonna make them move for you.”

Sigh. I have a vivid imagination than I have courage. I didn’t say a word. Again.

No words for Sister. No haven.

But I have her injustice on my back. It’s rightfully mine. It can’t live there long enough.

Alice Walker’s words never rang louder, clicking between my inner ears like a revolving ticker. They leap straight off the yellowed pages of my 10th grade term paper: “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” Each word sapping between my synapses. They burn. And the rising smoke says, “Never again.”

Never again. No black girl left behind.

For Breonna.