Free Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin

than man
.
    I copied the passage in a little pocket notebook. A Negro woman, her face expressionless, flat, highlighted with sweat, watched me write. When I turned in my seat to put the notebook in my hip pocket, I detected the faintest smile at the corners of her mouth.
    They called the bus. We filed out into the high-roofed garage and stood in line, the Negroes to the rear, the whites to the front. Buses idled their motors, filling the air with a stifling odor of exhaust fumes. An army officer hurried to get at the rear of the white line. I stepped back to let him get in front. He refused and went to the end of the colored portion of the line. Every Negro craned his head to look at the phenomenon. I have learned that men in uniform, particularly officers, rarely descend to show discrimination, perhaps because of the integration of the armed forces.
    We sweated through our clothes and I was ready to leave and try for a later bus when they allowed us to board. Though nominally segregation is not permitted on interstate buses, no Negro would be fool enough to try to sit anywhere except at the rear on one going into Mississippi. I occupied a seat to myself not far from the back. Muffled conversations sprang up around me.
    “Well, here we go into Mississippi - the most lied-about state in the union - that’s what they claim,” a man behind me said.
    “It’s the truth, too,” another said. “Only it’s Mississippi that does all the lying.”
    We drove through New Orleans under an overcast sky. Airconditioning in the bus cooled us comfortably. As we crossed the bridge, the water of Lake Pontchartrain reflected the sky’s gray tone, with whitecaps on its disturbed surface.
    The bus stopped at the outskirts of town to take on more passengers. Among them was a striking Negro man, tall, slender, elegantly dressed - the “Valentino” type. He wore a mustache and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard. He walked toward the rear, giving the whites a fawning, almost tender look. His expression twisted to a sneer when he reached the back and surveyed the Negroes.
    He sat sidewise in an empty seat across the aisle from me and began to harangue two brothers behind him. “This place stinks. Damned punk niggers. Look at all of them - bunch of dirty punks - don’t know how to dress. You don’t deserve anything better.
Mein Kampf
! Do you speak German? No. You’re ignorant. You make me sick.”
    He proceeded to denounce his race venomously. He spoke fragments of French, Spanish and Japanese.
    I averted my head to the window and watched the country fly past as we traveled through an area of sunlight. I did not want to become involved in any discussion with this strange man. He was soon in a violent argument with one of the two brothers. They quarreled to the point of rage over whether Juárez was in Old Mexico or New Mexico.
    The elegant one shouted. “You can’t lie to Christophe. Christophe’s got brains. No ignorant punk like you can fool him. You never been to Juárez!”
    He jumped abruptly to his feet. Fearing violence, I turned toward him. He stood poised, ready to strike the other, his eyes narrowed into slits of hatred.
    “If you hit me, you’ll be hitting me in the wrong,” the poorly dressed Negro said, looking calmly up at Christophe. His seat companion added with a gentle smile, “He’s my brother. I’d have to take his part.”
    “You threatening me?” Christophe whispered.
    “No, now look,” the brother placated. “Why don’t you two agree just not to talk.”
    “He won’t say another word to me? You promise?” Christophe said. He lowered his fist, but his face did not relax.
    “No, he won’t - will you?”
    The poorly dressed one shrugged his shoulders pleasantly. “I guess - ”
    “Don’t speak! Don’t speak!” Christophe shouted into his face.
    “Okay … Okay …” he said, glancing toward me as though to say the elegant Christophe must be insane.
    Christophe glared at him for some time before