No Moon For You

In July of 1969 I found myself in Houston, Texas, completing the training to become a VISTA Volunteer, our nation’s domestic Peace Corps.  As part of the training , we were placed in poor communities living with families that survived on surplus commodities like government cheese, peanut butter and powdered milk. Each day I would make my way from my “home” to the training session in downtown Houston.  One particularly muggy morning I decided to take a bus in early and find a small air-conditioned café to hang out in until the training meeting began. The 42 Holman pulled up to the stop half a mile from the home of the family where I was living.  I boarded, sitting near the front. Only a handful of people occupied the bus. Two more boarded at the stop after mine.

 Waiting at the next stop was an elderly black woman carrying a package and holding a cane. As she boarded the bus, her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees onto the bus steps. I looked up and noticed the driver remained still and looking forward. Nobody moved. This woman, easily in her 70s, grimaced and made a futile attempt to rise. Time stopped. When it was painfully clear that nobody planned to move, I leapt up and ran to her. Helping her to her feet, I escorted her to a nearby seat, gathered up the package and the cane, and asked her if she was OK. A raspy “Thank You” dribbled from her mouth, breaking the ringing silence. She smiled as I returned to my seat directly behind the bus driver. One block later the driver reached over his shoulder and still looking forward, handed me a small black and white card. He never made eye contact. I saw only the massive starched gray back of his uniform shirt and the stubble of his auburn flattop. ACCIDENT REPORT read the 5X8 card. I had only to answer a few simple questions about time and place as the “witness.” I kept wondering what would have happened if I weren’t on that bus? Did the drivers always remain seated when a passenger fell?

After the morning training session, I was still upset. My anger crystallized as I filled out the report and bummed a stamp to get it into the afternoon mail. I attached a sheet with my questions about why the driver never moved and what kind of accountability existed? I spoke briefly with Rev. Miles Simmons, one of the VISTA supervisors and a longtime resident of Houston about the incident. He told me not to obsess about my wording of the report form. He reminded me I would probably never get a response and that in all likelihood the “incident” was over. “Welcome to Houston,” Miles added. I sulked the rest of the day. No one ever called or contacted me about my accident report.  In the years that followed, I realized that this incident occurred right around the time of the Apollo 11 Moon landing.  We VISTA trainees were escorted out of town because of planned demonstrations in Houston by community groups opposed to government spending on the space program.  The fear was that VISTA Volunteers would get arrested in the planned demonstrations incurring further costs and bringing criticism to the program.  

So I missed the moon landing.  The kid who grew up with the space program, was obsessed with satellites and idolized astronauts, spent the day on the beach along the gulf coast unable to see this history in the making.  While the world was focused on Neil Armstrong’s one small step for a man, I was still wondering why nobody recognized or cared about one small step of a woman.