The Bus Driver

It was a hot muggy august afternoon. As the bus pulled up, a cloud of red dust swirled around her. She hated that red dust. It always clung to her shoes and clothing staining it a rusty mud color that proved impossible to clean. The doors of the bus creaked open and she stared blankly at the bus driver, hoping that it was the right bus. The woman read her puzzled look and barked in a low voice "Olive branch middle school?" The frightened girl answered "yes". As she began to make her first step onto the bus the woman barked again "yes, WHAT?" The girls face looked even more puzzled than before and she stood there frozen frantically searching her brain for the "what" in question. Offended, the bus driver barked again "Yes ma'am." and glared at the girl as if she wanted to slap her right off the bus steps. "Yes ma'am" the girl repeated as she stepped onto the bus feeling as if the bus driver had just asked her to speak Chinese. It seemed strange to her, and she felt strange that she hadn't known better. She was in Olive Branch, Mississippi now, but her demeanor still screamed Yankee mulatto, even when her thick Midwestern accent didn't give it away. She sat down on the bus in a lone seat, unsure of what the rest of the day would bring.

The Dream

The roar of the crowd dulled down to an anticipatory silence. You could feel the impatience hang in the air like the smoke of the city hangs motionless in a summer heat wave. She stepped up to the microphone and at first, it seemed the room was bare; but once she strained her eyes past the spotlights she could see thousands of faces peering up at her in amazement, their eyes fixed, their ears open. They were intently listening for that note they knew so well, for the drum beat that would send their souls spinning and make the hair on the back of their neck stand in sweet satisfaction. She was ready. She had been practicing all day. Going over it in her head in order to preserve her voice, making sure it was beautiful, emotional, perfect. She drew in a breath as the band took their places, she knew she had to start everything. Her first notes were A Capella and they had to be dead on. No pitch pipe, no reminder, just the mastery of her mind. Her pulse quickened and her cheeks began to twitch as they always did when she was nervous, but she appeared calm and collected as her heart jumped waiting to be released. She didn't know what was going to happen next, her two feet seemed cemented to the stage. She needed to let go to be set free. To release the moment and become fearless. And as she exhaled the note washed over the entire stage spilling over the audience and as it hit their ears they stood and cheered. It was their favorite song.

The Beginning

"Mommy, why don't I look like you?" the girl looked up at her mother with a puzzling look as if she had just discovered the phenomenon. "Honey, you look just like me, see." Her mother held her up to the mirror and brushed away her tangled curls. She pressed her cheek up against her daughters, as if the closer she got the more apparent the similarities would be. "You have my nose, and we have the same cheeks" pinching the girls cheeks, she evoked a stubborn grin. "And look, you even have my smile." The little girl's grin soon wilted into frustration for she was not satisfied with her mother's evidence. "No mommy, I have swirly hair. You have hair like my Barbie" Now her mother saw that her five year old was asking a much more complicated question. She understood she was different, the way a green apple sticks out in a basket of red ones. The little girl had not been exposed to many biracial children, at least not in a way that she could grasp at such a young age. She herself was not aware of her own mixed heritage. At five brown is brown, no matter how it got that way. She understood that babies came from mommy and daddy, but to explain the genetics involved in the baby's appearance to a five year old would be futile. So her mother pacified her with her usual answers until she was old enough to understand how. Of course, this question could not be answered by the simple fact that white mixed with black makes brown. It didn't explain why she felt different and why that difference felt wrong.