One day, probably 20 years ago or more, I was riding a rowdy bus. I can’t remember if it was an AC Transit vehicle or a San Francisco Muni, but I recall it as an afternoon event, traveling eastward in a rather full conveyance. As is my preference, I had a seat near the back of the bus, on the starboard side (that’s away from the sun during my regular commute).

The riders were a fair reflection of Bay Area diversity: white, black, Latino, Asian, other. But the rowdiness was all black.

There was a group (or two) of adolescent males aboard, with complexions of varying tones, but all looking darker than white and sounding culturally black. They got louder as the bus proceeded, and ruder too. They were classically obnoxious.

I didn’t feel unsafe but I sure felt annoyed. More than anything else, those boys needed to hear some stern mama-talk: Sit down back there and behave yourselves! You oughta be ashamed. Act right or I’ll slap you silly. Something like that.

But I sure wasn’t going to say it. I wouldn’t dare. I’m not black.

So I looked forward in the bus, to where some mature black people sat, and I wondered why none of them stood up and dealt with the loud jerks.

Whoa!

No sooner did I harbor the thought than I saw my own idiocy. What was I thinking? Why was I trying to make anyone responsible for the rude kids but the rude kids?

I sure don’t feel like I get the credit or blame for how a white jerk acts. Or a loud Jew. Or a wussy woman. I’m not the defender of white collar workers or an apologist for Berkeley extremists.

I was amazed at my own stupidity but I got it right away. And although I contain prejudice still, no matter how much I despise it, that was the brief example, the amusing one, the one that illuminated the issue for me like a parable.