PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMER ON PART 1 BEFORE TAKING OFFENSE.
After high school I moved back into the city with a friend. This time we were on the north side near Wrigley field. It was another learning experience. At first I thought all the men were gay. I grew up in a biker bar on the south side of Chicago. The men I’d known were rough, loud and sometimes violent. The men I was meeting were more “refined” for lack of a better term. It would take some getting used to and I actually don’t think I ever did get used to it.
There was also racial diversity in the neighborhood and at work. That seemed kind of scary after my high school experiences. I got a job at a bank downtown through a youth training program. I was placed in a department where the boss was a black woman. To my relief everyone was friendly. I was young, immature and recently escaped all the tension of high school. It was a whole new world for me.
My boss was a successful business woman climbing the corporate ladder. She was always friendly and seemed to treat everyone fairly. For the first time I experienced inter-racial discrimination. I guess that’s what you’d call it. Many of the girls in the office criticized her for trying to be a success. They used to say that she’d forgotten who she was and that she was just trying to be white. This just added to my confusion. I never really got a grasp on how they treated her until a few years ago. I love Tyler Perry and he produced a scene in a movie that explained the jealously that was going on in that office years before. As I’ve said before, ignorance knows no color.
Again, as in high school, I made two black friends. One was a woman who was just biding her time. To her it was just a job and she wasn’t looking to advance. She lived in a low income, high crime area of the city and didn’t seem to be interested in moving. She was complacent but fun to be around.
My other friend, still one of my favorite people to date, was the complete opposite. She was handicapped, not able to walk without braces and crutches. She explained to me that it was a financial advantage when it came to reaching her goals. She applied for everything the government had available in the way of aid. Today there are so many people playing the system so they don’t have to work. That was not the case here. She was a worker and she had a plan. She got financial aid and went to college three nights a week, studying for a business administration degree. She had a daughter from a previous marriage and saw her single mom status as an advantage to get more help. She received a grant to customize her car with hand controls instead of pedals. She got the bank to give her a prime parking spot in the building’s garage because public transportation was really not an option. She moved out of the dangerous area where she grew up and into a condo on the up-and-coming west side. The first time I visited her new place she had no living room or kitchen furniture. She joked, “Yeah, black folks just need a stereo.” Eventually she furnished her house. She always had a plan and she worked it. After she got her degree she landed a management position with the phone company and moved out of state. We lost touch, but she is still an inspiration to me.
One day, while working at the bank, I had a very harrowing experience. Although Chicago has an awesome public transportation system, I hated taking the El or the bus. Years ago you could park all day in front of the Planetarium, right off of Lake Shore Drive. It was only a quarter an hour and the meters went for 10 or 12 hours. Those days are gone. Once in a while I’d leave really early for work and get a parking spot on the street there. The walk up the lake shore was a great way to start the day.
That particular day I parked, fed my meter and started up Lake Shore Drive. I hadn’t gotten very far. I was in front of the Shedd Aquarium when I noticed a man walking toward me. It was about 7:00 a.m. and the only other signs of life were a few cars buzzing passed me on the S-curve of LSD. Immediately I had a horrible feeling. He didn’t look up at me, but I knew in my gut that this was not good. He passed me and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn around and step at me. Without hesitation I stepped into Lake Shore Drive. A couple of cars swerved to miss me and kept on going. Then a CTA bus driver slammed on his brakes, fish tailed the bus to a skidding stop, threw open his door and I ran to jump on. He pulled the door closed and floored it as I grabbed the seat right behind him. As we drove away I looked back to see my potential attacker staring from the curb. He stood and watched as we drove away.
When I regained a conscious state of mind I realized that I was being screamed at by the bus driver. He told me that he’d put me over his knee if I were his daughter. Repeatedly he yelled that I was about to be drastically hurt and I had put myself in harm’s way. I just remember holding tight to the pole right behind the driver’s seat and listening to him yell. When I got off the bus downtown I thanked him. I was extremely quiet and humbled, probably in shock. My hero, the driver, was probably frazzled all day.
As I walked to work on the crowded street, I analyzed what had just happened. A blonde, white man attempted to abduct me. God only knows what his plan for me could have been. My hero, the bus driver, was a middle-aged black man with children of his own that he’d shouted at me about. He risked his life, his bus and his job to save me. He broke so many CTA employee rules, along with putting himself at risk of physical harm. I am forever in his debt.
Later that afternoon, riding another bus back to my car, I was contemplating fearfully how I would get from the bus stop at the end of the Planetarium peninsula, back down the street to my car. I had plans to remove my heels and run for it, just in case the blonde man was somewhere waiting. I was sitting in the front, across from a different bus driver. When we turned down that road, the bus stopped right next to my car. The door opened, but it was a few seconds before I realized that the driver, another middle-aged black man, was staring at me with a grin. I nodded, jumped off and got in the car, locking the door behind me. The bus pulled away slowly, as if he was making sure I was safe inside.
I’ll never know how he knew which car was mine. Did he know what had happened that morning? Was it obvious that I was still petrified? He broke the rules and stopped in the middle of the street for a scared little white girl he didn’t know.
Through my experiences with people I was beginning to sort out the race thing. I began to see people as people for the first time, but it would be years before my mind was completely reprogrammed. It’s been over 30 years now and my hero has probably gone on to Glory. But when I think back on that day, I always ask God to bless those men, especially the first one, and their families.
To be continued . . .