Ellen Yeomans

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

STANDING UP ON THE BUS

Halfway through my third-grade year we got a new bus driver. Our old bus driver, Mike, was reassigned to the high school routes, and instead we got—well, I’ll call her Belinda. I liked our old driver and I assumed I’d like Belinda, too. But while Mike was relaxed and friendly, Belinda was anxious and snappish. As the months went by, she became downright mean.

According to Belinda, we lived in a “horrible neighborhood.” She mocked our parents and called us names. She began by calling us “animals.” I had no idea that grown-ups could be so mean to kids. This was my first experience of someone not liking me without actually knowing me. The more Belinda tormented us, the more the kids on our bus acted up, until every day was nerve-racking. Students on her other runs, the kids who lived in “better” neighborhoods, never knew her to be cruel. I was a quiet, shy girl—at least on the bus, and at school—and I felt this injustice to my core.

As the months passed, Belinda added more names and more insults. And she became more creative with the way she made fun of our parents, our small houses, and the “trashy” neighborhood she had to drive in to pick us up and take us home. I hated the bus ride. By the time we got to school each day I had a stomachache. Daily, I wished Belinda would get transferred, or we would move, or I’d be allowed to quit school. Of course, none of that happened, and a couple of years with Belinda went by.

This was a small town with a small school district. Just about everyone knew everyone. My brothers and I complained to our parents about how Belinda treated us. At first, we protected our parents from that other truth: that she made fun of them and all the parents in our neighborhood. Later, we would share this, too. But I don’t think our parents ever believed us. My mother dismissed our complaints, saying Belinda was a “good person,” just a “nervous sort” and “overly sensitive.” Our mom insisted we behave on the bus and not cause trouble.

One winter day, I’d had enough. I couldn’t bear being called any more names or hearing again about our “good-for-nothing” parents. Just before my stop, on that full and rowdy bus, I put aside my fear of being noticed and stood up in the aisle. I shouted at Belinda that she was cruel. I told her she was an adult and should have better manners. The bus went absolutely silent. And then, I heard some kids behind me whispering that now I would be in big trouble. I was shaking, and I’m sure my face was red. I could feel it burning. Would I be kicked off the school bus forever? How would my parents drive me to school? Driving me would be impossible with their work schedules. And just how angry would my parents be when they found out what I’d done? What would be my punishment?

But Belinda said nothing as my brothers and I got off the bus. I was never called in to see the principal. My parents never knew. Things got a little better for a little while. Belinda continued to drive our bus, and the less she insulted us the more the kids behaved. But eventually, the shock of my outburst must have worn off because she went back to mocking us. However, it was never as bad as it had been before. It’s possible Belinda uttered the worst insults under her breath or decided we weren’t worth the energy to torment. A few years later my brothers and I moved on to middle school, and my younger sister never endured the same terrible treatment from Belinda.

I know now that she was a bully. Back then, I thought only other kids could be bullies, not adults. Driving a loud school bus in all kinds of weather must have been a misery for her. She certainly made it a misery for us. I try to see what would make someone act this way toward children. It seems she channeled all of her anxiety into picking on the people she valued the least: the kids who lived in the run-down neighborhood, the ones she figured were powerless to change things.

If I could, I would tell ten-year-old me to talk to my parents again. And if my parents wouldn’t listen, I’d tell younger me to find another adult and tell them—again and again and again, until someone paid attention.

But first, I would congratulate the shy ten-year-old me who recognized how wrong our cruel bus driver was. That ten-year-old girl was brave. She stood up against a bully, took action, and shouted at injustice.