Bus Number Seven Anonymous

As an underclassman, I took a city bus and a connecting school bus ride lasting over an hour to get to school. Little did I know that bus number seven would open my eyes to a new group of special people. I was surprised to find myself surrounded by a cultural barrier. Everyone else on bus seven was African-American—including the bus driver. During the first ride, everyone was asked to introduce themselves to each successive pickup. Fortunately for me, I was the first one on the bus, and therefore got to know everyone individually.

I started to hear about the struggles of the hardest working parents to send their children to an expensive, independent school. I started to understand the socioeconomic differences apparent between urban and suburban families. As a first generation immigrant myself, I could sympathize with their hardships. More importantly, I started to make a special connection with these students. They often asked me to aid them with their schoolwork, and I tried my hardest to lend a helping a hand. The friendships I formed as part of bus seven live on today, and many of the students I tutor as part of community service are the companions with whom I spent mornings and afternoons sharing a ride home.

However,...