Colored Exuse

Walking onto the bus, a normal part of schools end, seventh grade and eight graders unable to give packed the buses for a ride. A girl not very lucked, in the mix of all things, a back pack on her back and her flute case in hand. She has had a hard day, like usual, she just wanted to go home.

 

She sat in the middle of the bus, around a few of the boys, though she never talked to them. Walking to her seat, she found it taken, she didn’t like that much, not that she really cared, but there were no other open seats on the over packed bus, and like all buses there were a signed seats.

 

“Excuse me, that is my seat, “She said in a soft voice, to the black kids who happened to be in her seat. He was laughing to some friends, his feet in the middle of the aisle.

 

He looked up at her, and glared. It was impossible to know what was on his mind, but it was quickly known. “So?” He didn’t care to see.

 

“I asked you to move, that is my seat,” She glared, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The bus driver always had to make sure she was on, after all she rarely talked, it was a wander if the guy even knew her name. Still she didn’t care. Usually the bus drive missed her stop, because she never knew if she was on.

 

“You want the seat you’re going to have to move me,” Which was more than impossible, since she was four feet something and only about seventy to eighty pounds.

 

“Fine,” Frustrated from the day she through here flute at him, hit missed and banged against the window.

 

He jumped up, and looked down at her, “What is your problem?” He question.

 

“You know move,” she muttered, her voice never yelling or even much above talking.

 

Finally the bus driver came, “What is the problem?” She questioned.

 

“He took my seat,” She muttered.

 

“Move, it is her seat do I need to show you the seat chart?” The bus driver asked.

 

The kid moved from her seat. Sitting down she pulled out her MP3 and listened to some music, the whole time hearing his big mouth, on how he was made to move, because he was black.

 

This was the beginning of something that lasted years. She isn’t racist, nor did she care to be. It was what he used to get sympathy, something many people seem to be doing. In a school of mostly white, some Mexicans, some Asians, and only a hand full of blacks, but mostly white, whatever white is.

 

If someone hates you of a different color, you just make everyone believe they are racist. It is just one thing to prove none of the fight was their fault. Blame is on the color.

 

She never understood as he started the crap, calling her a b***h, or anything to get her mad, one little thing and she was racist. It was stupid, to her, maybe no one else.

 

To make yourself popular in a place of different race, you make everyone who says something about you seem racist? A stupid reason, I don’t care if you are white, black, Asian, or well any other color under the sun. If I don’t like you, it has to do with you… Don’t make up a lie that your color is the reason others hate you, because that is just bull…

 

This story was about me and a kid at my school who is actually pretty well liked…I don’t like cocky people, but with the way the world is going and all the talk of race I figured I should tell just one of the stories that had happened to me… I do not hate black people, I would have made anyone move >.> <.< Now looking back I should have tried to find someone to sit with but, o well.

Author's Note

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

Reviews

[Zachary_James]

Wow i loved this good job!

[.]

I couldn't agree with you more. It is the substance of a person that matters, not their color, or their exterior shell. It is a frustrating happenstance I see, as in our current state of governmental affairs, that everyone seems to be making one's color the issue again.
It seems to be a level of mental insanity that a large portion of society simply can't let go or disregard. It's as if their entire mind is tacked to the surface of their skin and no wisdom or insight ever seeps into what doctors might call the brain.

Thanks for sharing your story. It adds a light onto another aspect of our current worlds crisis.

Tara M Stone