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 97^th 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 98^th St. between 24^th and 25^th 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.