A Jamaican Experience: The School Bus Date

By: Baron Stewart

Even though I lived in Cipe’s beautiful home on Filors Lane—where she cooked for me, invited me to fabulous dinner parties with her friends, and provided a space of intellectual and artistic stimulation—I was lonely. I was in my late twenties, surrounded by people two or three decades older than me. Cipe and her friends, sophisticated and worldly, had already lived through the struggles and passions I was beginning to navigate. Their conversations fascinated me, but they couldn’t quell my more profound longing—for the company, the laughter, the touch of a young, beautiful woman.

Making things worse, I didn’t have a car. During the week, I got by—Cipe would drive me to school, or I’d take the bus. But on weekends, when she left for Brooklyn or her apartment on 10th Street, I was alone in that vast house with only a tiny TV and two cats for company. I felt trapped in a place that, while comfortable, only magnified my sense of isolation. The stillness, the absence of human warmth, became suffocating.

I grew restless, then depressed. One evening, Cipe noticed my mood. She was perceptive like that. “Don’t suffer in silence,” she told me. “Go do something about it. Go into the city. See a Broadway show.”

I took her advice. I wandered Manhattan, sat in dark theaters watching brilliant performances, and felt the rush of culture and art wash over me. It helped briefly. But more high-level stimulation wasn’t what I truly needed. I didn’t need another dazzling performance—I needed someone beside me in the dark. I needed connection, intimacy, and the simple, electric thrill of a woman's presence.

I started questioning my choices. Had I made the right decision to leave Lennette? Loneliness makes you rewrite the past, making you wonder if the pain of separation was worse than the emptiness that followed. Deep down, I knew why I had left. But still, the nights stretched long, and doubt crept in.

Desperate to break my solitude, I found a solution—borrowing the VW school bus I used during the week to drive kids to soccer games. With that, I had freedom. On Friday nights, I climbed into that old bus, pointed it toward town, and went searching for life.

At the time, disco ruled the night. In New City, the bars throbbed with Bee Gees anthems, mirrored lights casting flickering beams across dance floors filled with men and women in silk shirts and bell-bottoms. I tried. I stepped into the clubs and watched dancers move with a studied cool, their bodies gliding through the basslines. But I felt like an imposter. The glossy world of disco—its effortless glamour, its electric sensuality—wasn't mine. I didn’t own the right clothes or have the right moves, and more than anything, I didn’t connect with the music.

I was a fish out of water in the mid-70s in Rockland County.

Eventually, I found a place that suited me better—the Red Rail- a country and western bar in New City. It was rough around the edges, dimly lit, with a wooden dance floor that creaked under cowboy boots and beer-soaked conversations. Live bands rolled through weekly, bringing with them the wail of steel guitars and the twang of heartbreak ballads.

And even though I was often the only Black person in the place, I felt welcomed. No one looked at me sideways. No one made me feel like I didn’t belong. The beer was cold, the music was raw, and the people—rugged, working-class, unpretentious—made room for me in their world.

The Red Rail became my refuge. My place to sit, sip a drink and forget that I was alone for a few hours.

But real connection was elusive even there, surrounded by warmth and whiskey-soaked camaraderie. I met many people, but only one girl gave me a little attention—a fleeting moment, a flicker of something, but nothing that could anchor me.

Restlessness gnawed at me. I needed more.

So I got back in that VW bus and pointed it toward a place that still felt like home—my old stomping grounds in Stony Brook, Long Island.

It was a Thursday night, and I found myself looking for an escape at Chester’s, my regular watering hole during graduate school. The Full Hand Band was on stage, belting reggae rhythms, and the dance floor was alive with movement. The bass thumped in my chest, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat, beer, and something unspoken—something electric.

I joined in, letting the music take over, my body moving instinctively to the rhythm. And that’s when I met her.

She was beautiful—a white girl with an easy smile and a spark in her eyes that told me she was up for the night’s adventure. She took a fancy to me, and I to her. We danced, drank wine, and talked—about nothing and everything: the music, the moment, the energy of the room. It wasn’t a deep conversation, but it didn’t need to be. It was precisely what I craved.

For the first time in months, I felt whole again. A woman was at my side, music was in my ears, and my body was lost in the rhythm of the night. I was excited. I was happy.

As the night ended, I turned to her and said, "Let’s do this again—next Saturday in the City."

She didn’t hesitate. "Yes. Let’s go have fun in Manhattan."

Wow. I had a date—my first date since divorcing Lennette.

Things were looking up.

I took her number, promising to call during the week. The plan formed quickly in my mind—I would rent a car, pick her up at her home on Long Island, and take her on a proper night out. We’d start at Lincoln Center, have a beautiful dinner, and then dance the night away at one of the reggae spots in Lower Manhattan.

It was the perfect plan—except for one flaw.

I lived 100 miles away in Stony Point, so meeting her in the city made far more sense. But I wanted to be a gentleman and do this the right way.

Excitedly, I told Cipe about my plan. She listened, then shook her head.

"No. Don’t do that. Don’t waste your money. Drive the school bus. If she doesn’t like you on the school bus, she’s not the girl for you."

I laughed, but her words settled in my mind.

Was she right?

I had a decision to make.

I decided to take Cipe’s advice.

Dressed in my Sunday best, I climbed into the VW school bus and set out on the 100-mile drive from Stony Point to Stony Brook. The irony wasn’t lost on me—rolling through Long Island in a vehicle meant for shuttling kids, yet heading out for what was supposed to be a romantic night. But I trusted Cipe’s wisdom.

Before I left, she had given me one final piece of insurance. “If anything goes wrong,” she said, “call these numbers.” She handed me a list of three of her Parsons students. “Tell them I sent you. They’ll be happy to go out with you.”

It was a strange kind of backup plan, but I took it.

I made the two-hour journey, arriving a little tired but eager. The bus rumbled to a stop across from her house, and I took a deep breath. This was it.

I walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

The door swung open within seconds as if I had been expected. A man stood there—older, stern-faced. I barely had time to register his presence before he barked, “She is not here!” and slammed the door in my face.

I stood there in shock, the sound of the door slamming reverberating in my mind. It wasn’t confusion that held me in place—it was devastation. I knew exactly what had just happened. It wasn’t about my arrival on a school bus or a misunderstanding. It was about the color of my skin. Her father had seen me; that was all he needed to decide that I wasn’t welcome.

I walked away, my legs feeling heavy, my chest tight with something more profound than disappointment. This was rejection on a level I hadn’t fully prepared for, even though, in the back of my mind, I knew such things could still happen. I made my way to a payphone, holding onto some small hope that I had misunderstood, that she would answer and clear things up. But when I dialed, the same voice from the door exploded in my ear:

“SHE IS NOT HERE!”

Another slam. Another door shut in my face, this time figuratively.

I didn’t call again.

I breathed, exhaled the frustration, and dialed one of the backup numbers Cipe had given me. The call was easy—Cipe’s name carried weight, and her students respected her. The woman I reached was kind, even apologetic, but she was sick and couldn’t meet me that night.

So, I adjusted my plans. Instead of sulking in disappointment, I met up with my graduate school friend, Leroy. We spent the evening at Lincoln Center, followed by dinner in the Village. It wasn’t the night I had imagined, but it salvaged my spirit enough to remind me that one bad experience wasn’t the end of the road.

This moment could have deterred me and made me hesitate the next time an opportunity for connection arose. But it didn’t. I believed then—and still think now—that men and women want to feel connected. And no amount of rejection, prejudice, or unforeseen setbacks would stop me from pursuing that connection when the opportunity presented itself.

And as it turned out, this wouldn’t be my last experience meeting the father of a white woman I was dating. The next time, things went very differently—but that’s a story for later.