CARTA Diaries: Janay Rice's story matters everywhere
I took a seat on the bus behind a small child with a round face and a buzz cut. He was near a blond woman, her hair slicked back in a ponytail. She was clearly responsible for him, though their exact relationship wasn’t clear. It was a jostled ride, the driver hitting the brakes hard at red lights, train tracks and in the face of fast-merging cars. I kept sliding forward and tipping from side to side as we cruised from downtown up Bailey Avenue. The kid’s feet were propped up on the edge of her seat, and he was fidgeting hard from the shifting momentum of the bus and the usual boredom kids face when asked to sit still for too long.
"Stop kicking me," she said. He squirmed into a new position in his seat but kept his feet resting on the edge of hers.
The bus hit another jolt. "I said to stop hitting me," she hissed. Her eyes narrowed on him like a cat ready to pounce.