Some new stuff.
I wish I knew where to find Mrs. Keller, because she was totally the awesome kindergarten teacher who would have worn these. I would send her a pair in each color and tell her that she was the only reason kindergarten didn’t make me want to dive head-first from the top of the tube slide.
Speaking of school, on the 45 minute drive home from work today, I passed a school bus. I decided in about four and a half seconds that a truly comprehensive sociology text should contain a chapter devoted to the relationship implied when a rural schoolkid says, “yeah, I know him/her, he/she rides my bus.”
Driving out my road, every kid out farther the little blue bridge (which is now the little gray, flat, ugly bridge) were the Kids Who Rode My Bus. For thirteen years I spent forty minutes in the morning and forty minutes in the evening with people with whom I had only one thing in common: location. We learned about sex, shared music, made jewelry, copied homework, learned to respect our elders, we all knew every one of Mitchell’s allergies and avoided setting them off, we knew what amount of shit each one of us had – sports equipment, instruments, lots of books, or maybe you were one of those myserious kids who never took a single thing to or from school… we were the beginning and end of every school day. There was a self-contained hierarchy that was never broken, and I’m sure it has not changed. And each little bus-world was different: Danny’s bus was the best, Blanche’s was the worst (how could it NOT be – “Blanche” is a notch below “Large Marge”), you could get away with food on Gary’s bus, ours was one of the few with a video camera, thanks to the Henderson boys. Only a handful of drivers actually PLAYED the radio, and some would even turn on the station chosen by majority vote.
The town kids were the outsiders who just hitched a ride for a few minutes each day. They would never have had the power to start a foodfight, overtaking a substitute driver, or stop a foodfight when a kindergartener got hit in the eye with a skittle and cried. They would have never had the right to claim an empty seat when someone got dropped off, or had the balls to ask the driver to turn up the heater in the dead of winter when you could see your breath in the back. They just climbed the steps, perched nervously on the edge of whatever seat contained one glowering occupant who had just had his or her luxurious empty seat invaded, and skittered away as soon as we arrived at school without ever saying a word. Who cares if they were your friend in Real Life.
Being allowed to move to the back of the bus to sit with your friend or cousin or sibling was a huge deal. Being ordered to sit in the front seat with all of the kindergarteners was the ultimate punishment. You literally ran to the bus as soon as the final bell rang so you could get the one person seat in the back, or the larger one on the left-hand side and then refuse to share. You sighed collectively when the elementary school kids were picked up and prayed that no one would vomit on the ride home. If someone behind you asked you to put your window up or down and you refused, you were the ultimate asshole and no one liked you for a few days.
One very strange thing that I realize, looking back, is that social class disappeared on the bus. We all knew what each other’s homes looked like. We knew who had coats and backpacks and brought lunches and who didn’t. We knew if there was a parent that cared to drive to the end of a road to save their kid a long walk on bad days, or if they would have to walk in the snow and rain. Cheerleaders and jocks and band nerds and misfits and rednecks and dirty kids living well below the poverty level spent over an hour together every day in close quarters. Once when I was in elementary school, creeping very close to the junior high/highschool cutoff (approximately seat six) I overheard an older kid making fun of another kid’s body odor behind his back… “hasn’t he heard of deodorant?”. One of the mean boys got really, really pissed off and said “shut your f***ing mouth, his family can’t afford it.” When I was in junior high, a family with 3 or 4 kids moved from Cleveland to our town, and several weeks into them being suddenly mingled in with all of us – us, who had been together for 7 or 8 years – one of them looked at my brother and I just before we were dropped off and said “you’re rich, aren’t you? I’ve seen your house.” I’d seen their house, too. Yes, we were rich compared to them, compared to half of the people on our bus. But nothing like that had ever been said….. after that question, no one spoke. We all just looked at each other in confusion, as if we were all of a sudden aware of some huge, uncompromisable difference that had never before occured to us, and now we didn’t know how to return to ignorance. Conversation was over and we all stared out our respective windows, and then it was time to be dropped off. The next morning we were once again all the same smart and as popular as everyone else, all with the same amount of money.
