It was the fall of 1970, and I was in my sophomore year of high school in Lexington, Kentucky. Something new was afoot: busing was initiated to achieve integration because clearly segregated residential neighborhoods had resulted in essentially segregated schools. Subdued and quiescent black students joined our classrooms and filled our hallways. Overt racial tension was absent, in my view, but was replaced by clear ethnic disconnection. Blacks and whites isolated themselves into concrete social groups. It was the implicit code of conduct that commingling was a social death-knell.
PhysEd class was mandatory and separated by gender. The curriculum changed every several weeks, and basketball was our current sport. As a warm-up drill, the teacher lined us up into two groups to practice two-handed chest and bounce passes. Marcia, a muscular and athletic black teenager, elbowed others out of the way so that she could be my warm-up partner. As the whistle blew, she began volleying basketball passes to me that felt like cannonballs while the hint of a smile graced her dark complexion At age 14, I was a petite, will-o-the-wisp girl, and my small mass barely sustained the barrage targeted my way. But I was stoic and stubborn, and I kept an impassive face as I endured stinging ball receptions.
I knew Marcia thought of me as a wimpy and entitled white girl, but I did not understand why every aspect of her demeanor was so fierce. Now I know; she was mad as hell. Powerless and disenfranchised, she was bused to an all-white high school in an affluent part of town where students who looked like her were in the minority, and teachers who looked like her were non-existent. To restore a vestige of pride, she resorted to bullying. I do not blame her.
Public school integration in Kentucky was met with less volatility and resistance than the Deep South, but it was not particularly smooth either. I understand now, what I did not comprehend then, is that busing was a painful and troubling solution to a complex problem of lower-quality facilities and lower-paid teachers in black neighborhood schools.
My regret about not interacting with people of color in high school borders on shame. I wish I knew then what I know now: we are more alike than we are different, and what separates us is not the color of our skin but the exterior veneer of our pain. I like to think that Marcia and I could have been friends if I had been more understanding, compassionate, and extroverted. We might not have been best buddies or gone on double dates, but we could have respected and appreciated each other.
I could have been chosen to be on her basketball team, serving as her able assistant, dishing up passes so that she could make a game-winning bucket. I would high-five her, compliment her, and remind her that I was on the team just to make her look good. In return, she would teach me to toughen up, gently elbowing me while I defended her, standing tall with arms raised to block my shots, and chiding me for bad passes.
And I suspect, she would occasionally pass the ball to me so I could take an outside shot. She would respond with a whoop if the law of averages caught up with me and the ball found its way into the net.