From that first day of school, what I remember most are the sounds. The explosive impact of rocks and bricks smashing through the windows of the school bus. The quick and swirling glass, missing my face by inches as it shatters. The piercing, frightful screams of injured children frantically crying out for someone to rescue us. My body crouching under the seats of the school bus, crawling, burrowing deep into the floor in hopes of finding refuge.

It is Sept. 12, 1974. Through the chaos, I hear the unforgettable chanting by the angry White protesters as they stood by defiantly with fists held high, singing out in unison, “Hell no, we won’t go!” The words grabbed me tight, slowly eroding what little self-esteem I’d developed at that point in my life.

I watched how smoothly their mouths formed the word “nigger,” how easily it molded to fit their jawline. How effortlessly and unrestrained it slipped through their teeth, eagerly inching its way out into the atmosphere. “Nigger, nigger, nigger” resounded endlessly in quick succession like loud, angry thunder. I felt the word “nigger” bounce off the school bus, float throughout the crowd, then finally sink into the streets and sidewalks, leaving its stain and stink.

I struggled to understand what was happening around me. I’d never known so much fear and uncertainty. There were times when I actually thought I was imagining what I was witnessing. There were so many questions that had no answers. I sat on the school bus, listening intently as my mind absorbed all the anger and incivility directed toward me. My brain was desperately trying to comprehend what it meant to be the focus of another human being’s hate.

On that day, something changed in me. At age 14, though, I didn’t have the language then to articulate what human betrayal actually felt like.

Every single day, as I boarded the assigned school buses with the other neighborhood kids and headed to South Boston, we knew our arrival would be met with extreme resistance. I now think back and wonder how my underdeveloped sensibilities were given a crash course in this country’s long and ugly history of anti-Blackness. So much of who we are is molded by the toxic environment of racism, dictating who is to be valued and who is to be discarded.

I watched how smoothly their mouths formed the word “nigger,” how easily it molded to fit their jawline. How effortlessly and unrestrained it slipped through their teeth, eagerly inching its way out into the atmosphere.

Somehow, at that age I found the wherewithal to steel myself against a world that saw me as an insignificant image of misconstrued stereotypes. With my school teachers, I managed to navigate the forced smiles, the differential treatment, the veiled tolerance and the feigned care. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. In these daily encounters, I came to the realization that my very existence, all the beautiful characteristics that make me uniquely human — my brown eyes, one dimpled cheek, and hair that coils and tightens at the slightest threat of moisture — all triggered a repulsive hatred so pervasive that my basic humanity was inconceivable.

It was impossible to not be overwhelmed by the enormity of emotions that were wreaking havoc on every part of my psychological development — and out of necessity, my brain intervened and saved me. I remember splintering as I became these two entities that were necessary for my survival. The double consciousness that is a requirement for Black people to merely function in an environment that deems you so unfit that parents would rather their children drop out of school than sit beside you in a classroom. How else does a person withstand that level of hate?

Fifty years ago, my life was forever changed when the U.S. District Court Judge W. Arthur Garrity issued a mandate to desegregate Boston Public Schools by means of integrated busing. A decision was fueled by a lawsuit that found the Boston Public School Committee guilty of intentionally establishing a dual school system that deliberately and consciously underfunded schools in predominantly Black neighborhoods.

It is without question that the members of the Boston Public Schools system used their platform as overseers of education to create learning roadblocks for Black children and barriers that maligned access, all while trying to sever our ability to gain knowledge to develop the necessary skills that are directly related to success. 

But the question remains: Why? I go back to that 14-year-old girl who grew up in a world that told her to believe in God, eat your vegetables and treat people the way you want to be treated. Get good grades, be respectful. I was told all men are created equal. And that if I did all those things, I, too, could live the American dream. But that girl quickly discovered that the American dream is conditional with a nonnegotiable caveat, one that would restrict the free will of Black people.

Police protection was imperative in every classroom, hallway and cafeteria. Daily body searches and metal detector screenings became our normal. Rather than experiencing the fun of high school with sports, goofing around with friends or the simplicity of a pimple being the extent of my concerns, I spent most of my freshman year navigating the intersection of structural racism and one’s basic human dignity. I quickly figured out that my sanity was dependent on my capacity to compartmentalize my trauma. I honed my awareness of how to conduct myself in the presence of Whiteness — my movements were calculated, my words careful, my interactions limited. I associated White people with harm and injury, and kept my defenses up. Like so many generations before me, I learned to deal with the constant racial discrimination and moved through bigotry with fluidity, all the while enduring and suppressing the pain so it could be dealt with at some other time.

There were times when the heaviness became unbearable. I wanted out. I wanted to quit. I wanted to get back to what had been my life, to what made sense. I craved the familiarity of my community where I was wrapped in the consistency and comfort of trust. I wanted to smell the sweetness of my dad’s Days Work chewing tobacco and feel the calm touch of momma’s hands that were always moistened with Jergens lotion. But my parents made it clear: I had no choice in the matter. I would go to school and be in my seat when the first bell rang. 

My mother was always staunchly optimistic. Whenever I felt down or discouraged, she’d say, “Don’t be doubtful. God always got a ram in the bush.” Eventually I learned what that saying meant. Basically, when you don’t understand or lose hope, God can do the impossible. And the impossible happened that year while attending school in Southie.

Amid all the ugliness of busing and the overt disregard for our well-being, there was a ram in the bush. Of all places, home economics class became our safe space. In cooking class, I was no longer insignificant. All of us were able to be what we were supposed to be: students. Our teacher was a young White woman who appeared to be barely out of college, with wire-rimmed glasses, impressively dressed in all the latest ‘70s fashion. I remember how her eyes held us in the wholeness of who we were. She seemed to have an apologetic disposition, letting us know we didn’t have to be afraid and that we’d found an ally in her.

Eventually, we dropped our guards and stopped holding our breath. Her classroom became a place where we could actually breathe. We found ourselves in multiple intriguing conversations, with big, open-mouthed smiles that mushroomed into peals of laughter. We were having fun, captivated by the stories she shared of her roommate’s dating adventures. We were encouraged to express ideas, and as thoughts were challenged, our minds were unrestrained with the freedom to explore. Cooking was fun and magical as we created homemade lasagna, peach marmalade and a desert called spumoni. In home economics class, our teacher found the antidote that translated to our collective oneness. Humanity was the relatable ingredient that freed us. 

Unfortunately, though, not every class provided an atmosphere for learning. Education was secondary to survival as we were carelessly thrust into an egregiously violent environment that, at its core, was completely devoid of any level of comprehensive learning. Education was camouflaged in the rhetoric of a school committee that never had the best interest of Black children.

Racism influences laws, our regulations, our society’s institutional practices and even how we interpret and misinterpret history. Until we properly understand and address it, we will continue to have a legacy of distrust and hindered progress.

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