By David K. Shipler
We were the
only whites on the bus, my mother and I. And when a matronly woman came down
the aisle taking names and addresses to be sure she had a complete roster, we
gave her ours and received a surprised, joyous reaction.
We came
from the next town over, Chatham, N.J., known as an all-white community whose
real estate agents and homeowners were only just beginning to come under
pressure to allow blacks to buy and rent property. There was no covenant, but
anti-discrimination housing laws had not yet been passed, and excluding
minorities was a legal practice in towns and neighborhoods across the land. My
middle-class commuter town had a reputation as a white spot alongside its
racially diverse neighbor, Madison, where we had boarded the bus for the March
on Washington.
So when we
said, “Chatham,” the astonished attendance-taker beamed and chirped, “Well,
welcome, Chatham!” Other passengers turned and gave us the biggest smiles I’ve
ever gotten on a bus to anywhere.
