But none of that mattered to people like Mrs. Westfield, who saw a leather vest and imagined gang violence. Who looked at weathered men on motorcycles and saw only danger, not decades of quiet dignity.
The first call came the next morning. Cindy Parker, mother of twins I’d driven for six years.
“Ray, this is ridiculous,” she said without preamble. “Jacob and Jason are devastated. They said the substitute driver wouldn’t play their game this morning.”
The boys and I had a routine—they’d call out car models, and I’d honk once for American-made, twice for foreign. Simple thing, but it was ours.
“Sorry about that,” I said, unsure what else to offer.
“What exactly happened? Everyone’s talking, but nobody seems to know the truth.”
I explained about Mrs. Westfield, the rally, the petition. Cindy’s response was immediate and profane.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You’ve been driving my kids since kindergarten. What does your motorcycle have to do with anything?”
By afternoon, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Parents I’d known for years, calling to express outrage. Even a few school board members, speaking “unofficially,” of course.
Then came the knock on my door. I opened it to find Emma Castillo, a quiet girl who’d ridden my bus until she graduated three years earlier. Now she was a journalism student at the community college, notebook in hand.
