Tale of a Greyhound bus at border checkpoint

Tale of a Greyhound bus at border checkpoint

By Linda White

It is Martin Luther King Jr.’s holiday and I am returning from a
weekend in San Diego aboard the trusty red,white and blue Greyhound
bus. I usually try to catch up on my reading for school or try to
catch up on lost sleep, both often resulting in a refreshed Linda
upon arrival in Los Angeles.

Tonight is different though.

I feel compelled to write ­ most likely because if I were
to break out in a soliloquy, I would be ushered off the bus much in
the same manner a young man was just moments prior.

Those of you familiar with the San Clemente Border Check may
understand what I am referring to. Commuters can usually expect
delays at this point between L.A. and San Diego as everyone must
slow down to be "checked." Ah, the border check as homogenous
control ­ anyone looking suspicious or shady (good word
choice) is asked to pull over for further questioning.

Tonight, the bus is visited by one of those delightful border
control guards. Murmurs of dissent for the interruption of our
journey are squelched as the man asks for proof of immunization, or
if one is a U.S. citizen, to just state it.

Echoes of pieces I’ve read in The Bruin concerning Proposition
187 reverberate in my mind ­ images of blacks on buses during
the Civil Rights movement flicker from recent TV clips ­ and
here I sit on the Greyhound, noting that I am indeed a minority
amongst the riders. IDs are scrutinized, visa pages are counted to
see if they are legitimate, discerning glares from the guard as he
compares IDs to people with his flashlight …

But, oh, I am special. I feel special. I simply state, "I am a
citizen."

My blond locks and my blue eyes precede me ­ my honorable
WASP heritage bonds with the guard ­ indeed, I could be his
proud sister in an Aryan nation. Ahhh, white privilege at its
finest ­ my mere coloring absolves me of presenting supporting
documents.

Row by row, seat by seat, the guard is thorough and I can feel
the tension in the warm air on the bus. In fact, it feels the
temperature has risen 15 degrees and the darkness is rather
oppressive.

Everyone waits in anticipation. What will he find? When can we
get going and leave this incident behind us? Now the search is
practically over. The border check has reached the back of the
bus.

There is a bit of commotion ­ it seems as though a man
cannot find his ID. The guard orders the young man off the bus. I
watch as the guards triumphantly tower over him, and the contrast
is startling. Tall, blond, white men with crew cuts authoritatively
question the stylish young man with slick, jet black hair and deep
brown eyes. No ID is found.

They disappear inside the station and away we go on our merry
way …

"America is going Greyhound!" I am uncomfortable, perhaps by the
warmth, but certainly not by the darkness. I prefer it. I feel
anonymous. I want to feel anonymous. I don’t want to feel special.
I don’t consider myself to be any better than anyone on this
bus.

Didn’t we all pay for a ticket? How can I prove to these people
that I do not support Proposition 187? How can I relay to them that
there is beneficial change as I sit as a minority in my classes at
UCLA?

Oh, but I am white and I sit idly by as everyone around me is
forced to prove their identities and their intentions. As the bus
hurtles through the darkness toward the downtown L.A. depot, I sit
quietly and reflectively.

Upon my arrival, I will again be a minority. Oh, but I am
special.

White is a junior majoring in English.