Would You Get on the Bus?

May 4, 1961. It was a sunny day in Washington, D.C. I was getting ready to board a Greyhound bus to ride through the Southern states with other black students and many white college classmates. Even though desegregated buses were illegal, we wanted to test whether we really could ride together peacefully in the deep South. We didn’t realize we’d one day be called Freedom Riders and make our mark in history.

That morning I packed my bags and kissed my family goodbye. They were proud of me, but I could see concern in their eyes. Traveling on a Freedom Ride bus is like driving through a dark tunnel. No one knows how to get out or what is at the end of that tunnel. It could be something good or something bad. None of us knew what to expect. We all  rode, crossing our fingers as we hoped for a safe trip. But, man, was I wrong.

My bus’s first stop was Anniston, Alabama, a state rooted in the old ways of strict segregation. When we arrived, we drove down a street toward a crowd of white people. I sat silent, too terrorized to say anything. I closed my eyes and remembered my sweet family. I prayed and hoped that these men and women were there to welcome us, not to hurt and beat us.

When our bus stopped, the first sound I heard was a loud pop. The crowds had become a mob, popping our bus tires. I screamed as I heard glass shatter.

“No!” we all yelled as a bomb whizzed through the back of the bus, exploding the gas tank. The bomb was followed by bricks and rocks.

I ran out of the bus, past the mob, and fell in front of a tiny grocery store.

A little white girl greeted me, holding a glass of water. She washed my face and let me drink. Her name was Janie, and I will never forget her kindness and the gratitude she showed for the stand we had taken.

Even though the experience was far from peaceful, I will never regret taking that bus ride.