Bus 28

[bailarinaemily]

My mother’s side of the family is Portuguese. And my grandmother, or Vava, was always keen on me learning to speak Portuguese. So she was mildly disappointed when my best Portuguese remained limited to phrases like, está frio lá fora -- it’s cold outside. She also seemed to take it personally when I chose to thoroughly study Spanish, a language which does not belong to either side of my family. It is not just her then, but most able-sighted people, who are startled to hear a fluent stream of Spanish slide out of my Irish-looking features. Peliroja y ojos verdes -- red hair and green eyes. But in my capacity to be slightly less caucasian than that damned scantron bubble might indicate, I became guilty of something common to most humans: the sin of omission. I sat on a bus and witnessed something that deserved words, but somehow only prompted silence.

Like most days of my fifteen-year-old life, I boarded the number 28 after-school bus to catch my ride home. My school breakdown was 85% Mexican-American, 13% Portuguese-American (white), and 2% other. And in the Great American Tradition of segregation and cooperation my school seemed to place the few white students in the front of the bus and everyone else in the back. The first five stops were in the ghetto surrounding my “wrong side of the railroad tracks” high school, and the final stop (mine) was past six miles of cotton fields, on the hardly-paved Road 268. The last few lonely miles were like having my own obese taxi, but the few preceding were much less comforting.

My town, which almost exactly marks the middle of California is consequently, the breeding ground for gang violence. Norteños and Sureños stood on opposite sides of my high school campus and in patriotic, yet ironic form, my school colors were red, white, and blue. We might as well have cheered, “Go Mustangs, fight-fight-fight!” while wearing the actual school colors: blood, crip, and neutral.

Everyone knew that there were gangsters on the bus, because everyone knew that there were gangsters pretty much everywhere. Kids skipped boxing and karate lessons because neither did much good in a gunfight. So on the bus you just minded your own business and let out a sigh of relief every time the bus drove away from a particularly dicey stop. One day, after a sketchy stop (stop #4), I realized that the only passengers left on the bus were me (up toward the front) and four not-so-conspicuous Sureños (all the way in the back). Subtlety is not achieved by most gangsters; the more tattoos of the Virgin Mary you have, the more times you’ve probably had to ask her for forgiveness. Despite my conscious efforts to ignore their presence I began to pick up scraps of their whispered Spanglish.

… pero, ¿qué pasa con la gringa? … [but, what about the white girl?]
They were talking about me.
… puta estúpida no puede oír mierda… [stupid bitch can’t hear crap]
It would be a death sentence to correct them by remarking, “En realidad, esta gringa obtiene buenas notas…” [Actually, this white girl gets good grades]
… ok, ¿Quién va a conducir? … [ok, who’s driving?]

The cholos continued to discuss their evening plans, which involved robbing a gas station as a part of an initiation. I didn’t dare look back and give them a hint that I understood. I sat in silence for the remainder of the ride, trying to seem casual while simultaneously translating anything I could pick up. I knew every detail: the place, the time, the weapons, the people involved, who was bringing the spray paint, even the type of car. I thought about the handshake I would get when I told this crucial information to the police. No one would even suspect the gringa… but when the bus pulled up to stop number five I choked on my silence and one of the boys made a kissing noise as he passed by my seat. I thought I might throw up. I took the bus to my stop, did my homework, and went to bed. The next day the newspaper reported:

Act of gang violence at a local northside gas station. No one hurt. Theft and damages -- $30,000. Culprits unknown. Sureño tagging displayed.

I felt an obligation to do “the right thing”. I was ashamed of my silence. But I’d like to think that my sin ultimately saved my life. I took the bus with those same boys for five more months… until three of them dropped out and one of them landed in Juve.

Gracias, Mary. Amén.

[Vermont Reviews]

Nice job keep writing.

[KatherineEWall]

Interesting slice of life. I think we can understand the motivation of the young girl and you really capture the world she lives in.