This past Thursday morning, as I took the #55 home, piloted by Ginger, who is a handsome fifty-year-old black women with her own neatly combed and oiled hair, who has not gained the African American weight stipulated by liberal law, in order to keep diabetic clinics busy, was her normally effusive self. She supervises the boarding of the bus, everyone’s time precious to her. She is the best bus driver the MTA has and is especially protective of white folks who still venture onto her coach, making sure by the tone in her voice that the hoodrats listening know that she’ll tell the cops the truth if they jack up one of “my white people.”

On Kenwood Avenue, a block from where numerous gang stompings by black mobs against white individuals have recently occurred, a twelve year old white boy boarded. He appeared to be five-feet two-inches and weigh about 80 pounds. He was dressed to go to prep school. He had obviously not boarded a bus before, so Ginger stopped him and the coach, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Baby, are you going to take this bus regularly?”

I looked around to see if any of the hoodrat wannabes who have been making noise about busting me up are around, and they are not. I was pissed at his parents, when he nodded “yes,” as I may very well end up going to jail over him if he ever boards a bus occupied by me and not piloted by Ginger.

Ginger then gave him her New White Passenger Speech, modified for his age:

“Baby, Miss Ginger will see you, so don’t go stepping out to get my attention. This is a big coach. Wave if you want. I will stop for you. Now where are you getting off?”

After the boy told her, she said, “Baby, I will not let you miss your stop. Sit right here behind me, and remember, Miss Ginger has your back, Baby.’

She then looked up into the mirror at the junior high school and high school kids on the back deck and said, “You all heard that, didn’t you? That’s right, Miss Ginger’s Baby Boy here is having a nice safe MTA experience.”

The boy was ushered off with much pomp and deference by his ebony mother dowager a stop before mine. He did get up the voice to thank her in a little cracking chirp as he stepped off.

I then stepped up behind Ginger and asked for the next stop, and she said, “You’ve got it, Sir.”

It may seem a small thing to the reader. But that little exchange, followed by my thanking her and her telling me, “I know you have a safe walk, Sir,” was basically Ginger’s way of letting me know, that since she was going to be “witnessing white” during the coming troubles, that she expected me to fight the entire NBA if necessary, to keep any passengers she rated as non-combatants from being beat up on her coach or on an adjacent stop.

It occurred to me that this is how men and women should interact in the face of tyranny, according to a set of expectations that one will stand up to the animals set loose on us, and the other will speak the truth to our mutual master.

10,000 Miss Gingers is all it would take to civilize this 100,000 hoodrat shithole. Unfortunately her model has been discontinued.