THE FORGOTTEN HISTORY OF BUSING IN NEW
YORK CITY
By Ramon J. Jimenez
As I watched the 50th anniversary commemoration
of the famous March on Washington of 1963, hearing numerous stories of the terrible
segregation in the South, I noticed nothing was said about the North, much less
about the conditions in New York City. Two years before the great march, I was bused
from a practically all minority school, PS 127 in East Elmhurst, Queens, to an
all white school, Junior High School 141 in Astoria, Queens. It was then that I was introduced to the
open vitriolic racism existing in New York City. Although I have spent a lifetime picketing,
marching, and protesting, the first protest demonstrations I ever saw were
aimed at me.
I was a 13-year-old brown-skinned Puerto
Rican whose family had moved to East Elmhurst when we purchased a 14 thousand
dollar two story brick house at 23-24 97th St. It was a community in transition as many whites
had left or were leaving. It was comprised
of majority working class Blacks with some sprinkles of Latinos.
I was successful at PS 127, a
school two blocks from my home. I
developed many friendships, some of which have lasted for a lifetime. Among my neighbors in East Elmhurst were
Helen Marshall, now Borough President of Queens, Eric Holder, now US Attorney General,
Randolph McGloughlin, now famous civil rights lawyer, and later, Malcolm
X.
Astoria was an all white enclave of
mostly Italians and Irish, a place where Black and Brown people were not
welcomed, where numerous racial incidences had been reported. East Elmhurst young people knew never to go
to Astoria pool without a group to protect them
This was 1961 and the early integration
busing initiatives solely involved one way busing, from minority communities to
white communities. The bus ride from PS127
located on 98th St. between 24th and 25th Ave.
to JHS 141 in Astoria took about 25 minutes. Naïve and innocent, I never anticipated the
type of reception we would get. The
first thing I observed as the bus arrived was a heavy police presence. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw a
live unruly, rowdy, belligerent crowd. Hundreds of white Astoria residents were
shouting every racial epithet at us. They
called us “dirty savages”, “spearchuckers”, “sambos”, with the degrading sound
of “nigger” shouted at us thousands of
times. There was pure unadulterated
venom steaming from those streets, as palpable as thick air. I was in semi-shock as I walked through a
cordon of police just to enter the school.
Screams and insults pierced the solid brick building. One
could hear them as the teacher took attendance. The pickets would continue for
days, sometimes both mornings and afternoons.
There were numerous racial incidences during the year. Students were beaten up, spat on, painted
white by wild crowds. The pictures of
lynch mobs from down south reminded me of the crowds that greeted me on that
day. It was a year of fear and apprehension. And it was at that moment that I felt my
inextricable, intertwined existential connection with the South. It was no longer the far-away racial hatred
I watched on TV. Actual hate was heaped
on me, and I had no recourse but to adapt to this new reality as a natural part
of my life.
That fact is what connects me to
all non-whites to this day. I live my
life in adaptation, with the knowledge that all people of color accept the
daily outright and deep subconscious and implied racisms against us in every
waking moment of our lives, in every aspect of our lives, and the small drops
of accomplishments society has made – even the election of a black president -
pale in comparison to the oceans of racism we suffer every single day. In school back then, I grew accustomed and
vigilant to the cruel insults of the white Astorians. I learned my lesson, and I remain vigilant to
this day.
