waiting at a Greyhound station

I was angry.

Frustrated, disappointed, irritated but most of all, I was angry.

I was sitting in the Greyhound station in Los Angeles waiting for Bus No. 7181 to San Jose. Everyone, including the ticket counter attendants, had told me that the bus would be here at 1 pm. It was now 2:15 and the bus was nowhere to be found. In situations like this my Sunday School training to be a good Christian is usually tossed out the door. Yeah. I know. “The old man is dead” and you are a “new creature” and all that good stuff. I was frustrated though. The station was a melting pot. Hot and stuffy temperatures and people from different races and cultures all waiting for Bus No. 7181. That’s when I saw the black family. I was sitting on the cheap hard metal benches that Greyhound provides with my head down clutching Velvet Elvis. I was reading the part about God’s love and how we should emulate that love.

That’s when I saw the black family.

Stereotypical. Black. Family.

The mother was about three times the size of the entire family put together. Yet, she was dressed about two sizes too small. The husband wore over-sized clothing; a large tshirt and pants that were falling off. Daughter was an exact copy of the mother, only about a quarter of her size. The son was a copy of his father. There was a baby in a stroller. I felt sorry for the kid.

I was already frustrated so I hope, dear reader, that you will understand these thoughts of mine that are about to be undressed and paraded naked in front of you. I took a deep breath and looked up. The family had cut to the front of the line. You must be wondering what the line is, so I’ll explain. Not many people are as cheap as me and choose to ride Greyhound. When you step into the station, you know where your bus is going to come. For example, Bus No. 7181 was supposed to arrive at gate number 10. Everyone just puts their bags in a straight line. It’s understood that you aren’t supposed to cut to the front.

This black family cut to the front.

I shook my head and laughed. The black family was loud and obnoxious. Everyone around them were just shaking their heads but quiet because they knew saying anything would just aggravate the family more.

My mind, already frustrated about Bus No. 7181, was churning with some dark thoughts. I was pretty damn angry, man. I could hear the voice of God through my conscience: “They’re my children too.”

My response? “Ya, I know, God. I can’t stand them though.” And then the kicker happened, what we call the crossing of the line. I let my thoughts cross over into a completely irrational direction.

“Why are all black people like this?”

Obviously, this was stupid. I was frustrated though. Yeah, I know, that’s not much of an excuse but it’s all I got. My mind started working again: “Seriously, why the heck are all black people like this? Goddamn!” This started a conversation between me and God.

God: Hey!

Me: Oh, sorry God. Please forgive me.

God: They’re my children too.

Me: I’m telling you, they’re some annoying siblings.

It didn’t occur to me that the family seemed to be a loving and caring family. They may have seemed loud because everyone in that station was quiet. They were just breaking the mold a bit. I was starting to get used to them when the little black kid turned on his cd player and started blasting some really crappy rap music. They started dancing to the rap music. I decided to ignore it all and just dive back into Velvet Elvis which happened to be talking about God’s love. I really didn’t care about it. I wanted Bus No. 7181 to come to get me away from Los Angeles and its melting pot.

As I was reading further, I overheard an animated conversation. A Hispanic fellow was talking to a large Hispanic family. He was shabbily dressed and wore a dirty backpack on his shoulders. The conversation was obviously about money. It seemed he didn’t have enough to do something. Probably trying to buy a bus ticket. I ignored the conversation and dove right back into the book. All of a sudden, I hear footsteps. A big black guy had gotten up from his seat and was walking rapidly towards the Hispanic fellow. This is another big black guy.

My mind: “Great, the black guy is probably gonna jump him.”

He walked up to the Hispanic fellow.

“Yo man, how much money you need?”

“What?”

“How much you need? Tell me”

“Like six dollars, man.”

Black guy pulled out his wallet, took out the cash, gave it to the Hispanic fellow, and walked away without saying a word. The Hispanic’s face was lit up as he walked away.

I turned and watched the black guy go back to his seat and sit down. The black family was still dancing to the rap music. Their little kid’s face was delighted as he watched them dance around him.

God spoke to me again.

“I told ya so!”

It took six dollars for my stupid prejudice to be shattered completely. God surely is love. The black guy taught me. And he didn’t even know it. I ignored the Hispanic man. The black guy saw a need and fulfilled it. He was better than me.

I closed the book, leaned back on my metal bench, and closed my eyes to hold back the tears.

I put my head in my hands to pretend like I was really tired, but I was just trying push the tears back in.

Bus No. 7181 did finally show up.

Through my head, the quote just kept tumbling through.

“They’re my children too.”