"If you miss me at the front of the bus
You can't find me nowhere,
Come on over to the back of the bus
I'll be riding back there..."
This song came to mind recently as I was traveling the scenic
route from Jerusalem to Beitar Illit to visit my daughter and
son-in-law. This was my first experience on the Beitar Tour
company's regularly scheduled route to this chareidi town.
Having waited a long time in the hot sun, I was relieved when
the bus finally arrived. Shlepping my bag with homemade
goodies, a bottle of ice water and a forgotten pair of shoes,
I gently but firmly asserted myself into the line of people
climbing a steep set of stairs into the bus' cool interior.
Thankful to see that the second seat was unoccupied, I
unceremoniously plopped down.
It took only a few moments for me to realize my faux pas. In
front of me, a bearded chassidic-looking gentleman was
speaking on his cellphone. Across the aisle, two young men
were commiserating on their current economic woes. Three rows
behind me, two men were engaged in a lively Talmudic
discussion. A few women had gotten on the bus both before and
after me, but I couldn't figure out where they had
disappeared to.
It seemed they had made their way towards... the back of the
bus.
A cursory look to the rear (I didn't want to look too
conspicuous) confirmed my suspicions: the front of the bus
was reserved for men. Women were supposed to sit in the back,
evidently, by some unwritten, but universally accepted [non-
Egged-ian] law. Although I had been advised which number bus
took the best route and that it was cheaper to buy a round
trip ticket, I hadn't been apprised of this vital piece of
information.
That's when I thought of that old song:
"If you miss me at the back of the bus,
You don't find me nowhere,
Come on up to the front of the bus,
I'll be riding up there."
Refugees from the sixties may remember Harry Belafonte's song
recounting the story of Rosa Parks, the African-American
seamstress (they were called `Negroes' then) who refused to
give up her seat to a white man on a Montgomery, Alabama bus.
Her act of courage on her way home from work began turning
the wheels of the civil rights movement.
The story has been romanticized a bit, as is understandable.
Rosa Parks was physically worn out, but no more than you or
me after a long day's work. In fact, under other
circumstances, she would have probably given up her seat
willingly to a pregnant woman or elderly person. But this
time, Parks was tired of the treatment she and other African-
Americans received every day of their lives, what with the
racism, segregation and Jim Crow laws of the times.
The rest of Parks' story is American history. Her arrest and
trial for disorderly conduct, a 381 day Montgomery bus
boycott and, finally, the Supreme Court's ruling in November
1956 that segregation on public transportation is
unconstitutional.
But back to the Beitar bus. What was I to do? I asked myself,
as I hid behind my sunglasses and newspaper. Would it be best
to get up and move to the back of the mostly empty bus? I
couldn't do it. I felt that it would draw attention to myself
-- the opposite of what a religious Jewish woman wants. So I
just kind-of slouched in the corner of my double seat, hoping
that no one would mistake me for a defiant feminist (with a
sheitel?) but that they would consider my mistake a
result of ignorance of local custom. Thank G- d, I made it to
my destination with neither comment, disdain, or dirty looks
from either male or female passengers.
I asked myself -- why was my initial reaction one of
embarrassment, not anger? Why didn't I feel like Rosa Parks?
Why didn't I mind, well, not much, the realization that I
belonged in the back of the bus?
I guess it was because I have changed since the sixties. I
realize now that the idea of men and women jostling each
other in the bus, especially when there are usually lots of
passengers who have standing room only, was not the modest,
Jewish way.
I have been mulling over in my mind the fact that the men get
the front while the women are relegated to the back of the
bus. Was this `separate but equal,' another catchphrase from
the sixties? But finally I realized why. Jewish wisdom
accepts the fact and rule that `out of sight, out of mind' is
a good formula, so, okay, we women will sit in the back. It's
cooler there, anyway, and there's more room for the kids.
Rosa Parks, notwithstanding, we will sing our own song:
"If you miss me at the front of the bus,
You don't find me anywhere,
Come on down to the back of the bus,
I'll be riding back there."
