A few months ago I was riding on the Route 101 Metro bus from Renton to Seattle, after a stop at Fry’s Electronics. I was typing something on my laptop. Presently a white man and a black man who were engaged in conversation alighted the bus; the black man continued past me, but the white man, of the undereducated sort, stopped short to where I was sitting. I suspect that he felt that this “Mexican” with a laptop needed to be taught a lesson in being too “uppity.” He demanded in an insolent tone that I remove my laptop bag from the seat; I did so, even though I did not appreciate his tone of voice. I glared at him, but said nothing. The man shoved himself against me; I might insinuate that he “liked” me in, you know, that kind of way, but I knew that this was a variation of physical assault without actually being called one. I said nothing because he seemed to me a little “touched,” and who knows what such a person might be capable of. He continued to stare hard at me, and when that did not elicit the expected response, he dared me to say something. As the words were exiting his mouth, so did a rain of spittle on my laptop keyboard. At the same time he shoved me again, pinning my arms against the side of the bus; causing me to move forward to release myself. The man instantly stood up and accused me of “violence.” The driver of this bus was of the no nonsense variety, and to her credit told the man to shut up or the next stop would be his. He went to the rear of the bus and sat with his black friend, where I heard them commiserating about their shared prejudices. The driver later told me that he just felt “sorry” for himself, although I had to point out that he wasn’t targeting black people as the source of his “sorrow.”
Leap forward to today. I was waiting alone for the Route 169 bus, having completed my business at a nearby Laundromat. I was standing at the designated stop, a small strip of concrete next to the bus stop pole. At 11:15 the bus approached but stopped far short of the stop, on the grass. It was obviously a blatant and deliberate act to discomfit me, because there was no excuse for the driver to have done that. When I boarded the bus, the driver was smirking at me, which confirmed my suspicion; I couldn’t help but to observe that she was wearing sunglasses on this mostly cloudy day, and a cap worn in the style of a beret: apparently the “Black Panther” look with all the politics (racial and otherwise) that goes along with that. I was fairly certain that she either had some personal attitude about job-stealing “Mexicans”(or those she thinks are "Mexican") who have that "uppity" (as opposed to whipped dog) look, or perhaps she thought I was someone who complained about her before (which wouldn’t surprise me). I murmured something about “these drivers” and took a seat behind the back door (this was one of the “new” buses with the cheap seats), where the guard plate is placed in a tight spot; even the knees of someone as short as I abuts the plate. I had a large duffle bag fill with laundry on the side, and a back pack filled with more of the same on my lap. The driver looked at me several times through the rearview mirror; after the third occasion I put my left hand next to my left ear, suggesting I might call someone.
The bus made a stop somewhere down 256th. I suddenly became aware of the fact that there was this white man standing in the aisle in front of me; I couldn’t tell if he had snuck in through the back door or had just passed by a half dozen seats that were occupied by one person, or did not see that there were only three people behind me in the parallel seating. He stood there staring at me as if I was supposed to read his mind. I had this impression that this was like the “good old days” when minorities were supposed to be conscious of the “fact” that they are supposed to be submissive to the demands of the “superior” white race. The longer he remained in this posture, the more determined I was to not let his attempt at intimidation to bear fruit. Why was he doing this when he could plainly see that I would only be discomfited in trying to find placement for my baggage, when he had so many other more suitable options? Was he, like what the driver, acting on an attitude toward an individual who is perceived as a member of a group that has been under assault by the media and politicians, so much so to point where other “groups” think they can act on their bigotry with impunity?
The truth of this was made abundantly obvious by subsequent events. This white man eventually tired of staring at me and sat in an empty seat behind me. The bus eventually stopped at Kent Station; the bus changed to Route 166, and I decided to remain on the bus until it reached Washington Street. Suddenly the man who tried to intimidate me came up from behind and grabbed the strap of my duffle bag. What was happening here? Was he trying to steal it? I had a grip on strap and tried to prevent him from taking complete hold of it, and while I was doing so I called out several times “Driver!” I should have known better, of course. The man managed to pull the duffle bag from my grasp and ran outside the open back door. I followed him, observing him putting the duffle bag on top of a garbage container. He didn’t immediately leave, but stood there smirking at me and tensing up just in case I attempted some physical response. I wasn’t about to do anything of the kind; I grabbed my duffle bag and went back on the bus through the back door, which was still open. He continued to linger near the front of the bus; perhaps he was afraid that I was going to talk to the bus driver, and just in case I did that he wanted to make sure he got in “his side” of the “story.” I didn’t say anything, except glare angrily.
What did the driver do? She opened the front door and motioned that man to come near, asking him “what happened.” I didn’t hear what he said, but whatever it was, it easily convinced the driver to open the back door and tell me to get off the bus. I couldn’t understand what was happening here, and neither would any other human being. I demanded to know why after what I had just experienced. Then one of the passengers who just got on the bus, a fat white man wearing a cap with fishhooks and other articles dangling from it—i.e. a “real” American—claimed that he had witnessed me being “violent.” Naturally, because all you see in the media are “Mexicans” being thieves or violent, I naturally must have done something of the sort to justify this prejudicial behavior. The irony of this, of course, is that I was the one who was “assaulted,” and this man was acting on pure visceral hatred; the reason why bullies and cowards like this target short people like me is because they feel that they can easily handle any “response” I might attempt, and his actions were such that he likely had always wanted an excuse to do some harm to my despised “kind.” Was it not several weeks ago in Kent that a white man was charged with a hate crime in an assault against a man he assumed was an “illegal immigrant?” While I myself might have a temper, it’s more of the “flash flood” variety, over before you know it. All I want is for people to leave me alone; I have no wish to bother anyone. As for the “witness,” I’ve seen him many times on other local buses in Kent, whining about the things that angry white men whine about.
The driver, naturally, did not ask me my side of the story, and while I sat there stupefied by what was happening, the driver took a phone and at least went through the pretense of calling the police or someone. I thought the better of engaging in civil disobedience in the face of continuing injustice and got off the bus, but not before letting the driver know I wasn’t going to take being shit on silently, and that I didn’t appreciate the Nazi fat man and his perjury. Why am I expected to be silent and accept discriminatory treatment? There is a scene in Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai where the peasants are all prone on the ground because they feel helpless against the bandits who are soon to rob them of their food; one of the peasants stands up and demands that they do something about this, but no one will join him, and he sinks back to the ground. He is the nail that is hammered down in a conformist society, according to a Japanese proverb. “Mexicans,” naturally, must “conform” to popular prejudice, just as the Jews were required to in Nazi Germany. For myself, I refuse to be the nail that gets hammered down, even if it kills me.
So what is to be derived from this incident? Why did the black driver act as she did if she did not have an instinctive prejudice? Many drivers (certainly not a majority) who have never seen me have been courteous to me, exchanging pleasantries when I get on or off the bus. I respond to simple kindnesses; I do not, however, respond well to being defecated on, especially when that is the intent. Why was this driver’s seized with a desire to act in a discriminatory manner toward me and most other drivers do not? Obviously she had some attitude that most drivers did not share. I have noted her attire; it is fair to assume that she sees “Mexicans” as the “enemy,” taking jobs from her own “victimized” race. It always amazes me how these cowards pick on the more “despised” group instead of taking on “The Man.” In that sense she brings discredit upon her “Black Panther” pretensions. What is more, she is just part of the culture of discrimination and bigotry at Metro: I’ve never seen a Latino bus driver, or any other Latino employee, at Metro in all the twenty years I’ve been riding buses here. Between white and black discrimination is a hard place indeed.
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