Thank You for My Bus Ride, Rosa Parks

If not for Rosa Parks, I wouldn’t have had such feelings for my fellow man.

The Good Men Project

4 min read

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Just now

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By Paul Meyer

Eyelids half closed, a wiry man in his sixties angles toward me. Dropping in the aisle seat at my side, his landing seeming to slam shut his lids, he leans into my shoulder.

Though we’re zipping down a straight stretch of Chicago’s Clark Street now, his shoulder presses harder into mine. He’s that worn out. It’s a good thing we’re like conjoined twins since the bus suddenly rolls left. I lean into him to counter the centrifugal force that could send him onto my lap, and perhaps headfirst into the hull. Got him! “I’m okay,” he mumbles as if he doesn’t want my assist.

I get it. He’s proud. Clean-shaven and wearing a pressed tattersall shirt, he takes pride in his appearance. Refusing my help may instead stem from his not trusting the white man I am.

I’m not dissuaded: as the bus slows to a stop, and, just as slow, he starts leaning forward, I quickly but softly catch his shoulder with my right palm before he can slide off his seat. I gently move him back into place. His eyelids raise a bit. “You can lean on me,” I whisper to him, the heartfelt Bill Withers’ song rolling in my mind.