“Best practices to educate children is always a hypothesis. In modern education, we consistently experiment on the youth.”
Busing refers to the practice of transporting students to schools outside their local neighborhoods to achieve racial integration in public schools. This approach was implemented primarily to address the ongoing issue of racial segregation in education, which persisted despite the 1954 Supreme Court ruling in Brown v. Board of Education, which declared segregated schools unconstitutional.
The overall effects of mandated multicultural education can be debated by scholars. This essay is about my personal experience with busing in the late 70’s and 80’s.
I was educated in a melting pot.
As a second grader in Denver Public Schools, I was aware of everything: who had new kicks, who got to sit next to Cynthia in reading circle, who was the fastest runner, who had chocolate pudding in their lunch box, who got chosen to be hall monitor, and more importantly, why? Being chosen to do a task gets you out of your seat and, god willing, into the hallway. While class was in session, the hallway was a long, locker-lined frontier to explore sans supervision. As a kid, I was more aware of the social dynamic of the school than I was of the lessons being taught.
Marcela stood small against our teacher, Ms. Salomon. Her black hair was pinned back by two pink barrets; she had on a fuzzy white sweater, plaid pants, and black patent leather shoes. She clung ferociously to her tote and lunchbox as she scanned the twenty-six diverse faces staring back at her. Marcela, Ms. Salomon shared, had just arrived from El Salvador. She chose me to give Marcela the tour of her new school.
Leaning forward, Ms. Salomon quietly informed me that Marcela doesn’t speak a word of English.
Quickly crafting a less verbal approach to the tour, I took Marcela by the hand and guided her through the lay of the land with improvised hand gestures to further understanding. I purposefully spent extra time at the pencil sharpener, as if to communicate that this was a ‘safe zone’ to get out of your seat for a few minutes. I sent her into the girls’ lav for a quick tour. She nodded slightly as she exited, as if to indicate the facilities were satisfactory. Finally, I returned her to her assigned seat. Staring straight ahead, Marcela absorbed the warbled vibrations of a foreign tongue and attempted to make sense of an entirely new environment.
That afternoon, Marcela missed our science class and went to the ESOL classroom. Within two months, she was speaking proficient English and was singing in choir. The efficacy of the sink or swim method of learning a new language.
Marcela, a child, an immigrant, a person in my life I think about 45 years after meeting her.
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Andre was funny and could draw well. Two skills which were a solid prerequisite for a second grade friendship. He boarded the bus at 6:30 am from the Five Points neighborhood to arrive at our school in southeast Denver by 7:45 am. He’d always tell me about the cool cars he saw on the way.
We were paired up in the buddy system on our field trip to the Denver Mint. Ms. Salomon overheard us singing a song we had made up on the bus called rye bread and sugar, a playful nod to the differences in our skin tone. She asked us to sing our song in front of the whole class, which we did. We were asked to sing our song in front of the school, which we did. We were then asked to sing for the school board as an example of a busing success story. We never got the chance, but the message of integration was received.
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Tuan Cao loved the Beatles and America. I met him in the fourth grade and was immediately swept up in his enthusiasm for both. Tuan’s family arrived by boat, new immigrants from Vietnam. During lunch, he’d regale our friend group with stories of refugee camps and the boat ride over.
We all went to Tuan’s house for his tenth birthday. His eight family members welcomed us to their small two-room apartment in the projects. Flowery, pastel decorations hung in the doorways, and a great spread of exotic food was on the kitchen counter. Tuan guided us through each dish, his excitement overflowing, as he shared his new friends with his family.
Tuan was the only one of his family fluent in English. His mother and father, teenage brothers and sisters, watched us with silent smiles. I imagine now those were smiles of immense relief that their youngest was happy, dashing about with new friends, speaking a new language, and thriving, like a ten-year-old should.
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In seventh grade, it was my turn to be bussed. Arriving at the bus stop before sunrise, we’d travel over an hour from southeast Denver to the Five Points neighborhood just north of downtown. Five Points thrived in the years between 1920–50 and was known as the Harlem of the West.
By the time I arrived, the neighborhood had lost its shine. The post-oil bust of the 80s resulted in economic devastation. Crack was introduced, as well as all the associated crime and police presence. At thirteen years old, I exited the bus into a Denver I had never known. It was my turn to be away from home.
Middle school was violent. I learned what a hair weave was when I saw one lying like roadkill in the middle of the hallway, freshly ripped from the back of a girl’s head during a fight. Some young dudes wore their gang colors as rumors rippled through the hallways that someone had a gun.
As violent as middle school was, fighting wasn’t the only access to status. We also had breakdancing. Breakdancing was a non-violent way for beef to be settled while teachers looked on.
Being neither a fighter nor a break dancer, I found my people in the choir.
Busing created a patchwork choir made up of diverse voices informed by different cultures, access, ancestors, and stories. Our choir was dynamic. The soft goals of busing are similar to the goals of a choir: unity, harmony, integration, and resonance.
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Busing resulted in me being indoctrinated in basic decency; radicalized to see the content of character, not the color of skin. Through forced exposure to different cultures, I learned that every culture has assholes and every culture has wonderful friends. There is no superior race.
As a society, we were moving toward the American dream of one nation influenced and improved by many different cultures. And then racism was re-platformed.
Losing control is the primary fear of the fragile white bigot. The current zeitgeist of xenophobia is a fear of non-white leadership.
To heal the wounds of a nation ill at ease, I suggest the following:
Our Year of Service. A federal government-funded rite of passage where people of every age over eighteen step out of their bubbles into the melting pot of this country. For one year, they would work restoring land, supporting schools, caring for elders, rebuilding communities, working side by side with people whose lives look different from their own.
The purpose wouldn’t be punishment or obligation, but belonging. Unity. Cultural understanding. A lived experience of the common good. It would remind us that America is an ongoing experiment that we need to actively contribute our values and our effort to.
All People are Created Equal should be understood by every American.
-Daniel
Daniel ‘DL’ Landes is an author, entrepreneur, MEA facilitator and frequency healing practitioner with experience in guiding individuals and groups towards deeper connections with themselves, others, and the natural world.