On December 1, 1955, I was 27 years old. I rode the Cleveland Avenue bus home everyday after working at my job at Joe’s Motors. On this particular day though, a woman by the name of Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on the bus. I could understand where she was coming from, myself also being black. I was sitting next to her by the window and one white man was left standing up. The bus driver comes back to the row of seats I was sitting and tells us, “Let me have those front seats.” I looked at him for a second and pondered getting up. Eventually, I decided to get up and let the man have the seat. I got up, but then the woman who was sitting next to me moved over towards the window and refused to get up. The bus driver asked her if she was
