One of the most heartwarming parts of this often thankless job is receiving Valentines from our passengers. Now I’m not deluded enough to think these notes of tender appreciation were cooked up spontaneously from the heart. They were squeezed out in school under duress from scowling teachers.
But even so, it’s nice to get a Dear John note from a constantly contentious passenger who easily could have faked being sick when the cards were assigned.
It also stirs the ol’ sentiments and nostalgia to see young love blooming in my big yellow nuthouse.
(This blog is based on actual events, though names, places and some personal details have been changed to protect the innocent as well as the guilty and avoid libel suits.)
Sometimes I find what we used to call “mash notes” on the floor. The first time I noticed actual romance was when Penny, a pretty eighth grader, attracted the attention of Mumford, a clearly smitten classmate who started sitting with her during morning trips to their school. A short while later Ethel, a seventh grader, proudly regaled the bus with updates of her long-distance romance via text with Butch, a fellow rider who had moved out of state. Judging by the flood of messages he sent her each day, Butch wasn’t focused on academics in his new home.
My middle school fearsome foursome of sixth graders — Sassafrass, Zoothorn, Wisenheimer and Lulubelle — talked constantly of popularity, dating, rating the personal appearance of classmates they considered fodder for canoodling, and (unfortunately) lewd acts.
Even intermediate schoolers on my bus have not been immune to the ways of amore. Ophelia and Esmerelda, two somewhat saucy fifth graders, were catnip to Ignatz and The Stooges, a trio of enterprising lads who swarmed around these ladies each day. I couldn’t help overhearing a lot of chatter about who was asking who to the dance, and I loved this pithy statement by Ignatz to his pal Satch: “Just because she talks to you doesn’t mean she doesn’t hate you!”
Before I started driving a school bus, I’d never heard seven-to-nine-year-olds discussing dating let alone committed relationships. Fourth-grader Beetlebomb declaring, “I don’t want to hang out with my ex!” was arresting enough, but that declaration was topped by this corker from his pal Brutus: “I’m dating a supermodel.”
My, how times have changed.
When I was in grade school, girls had cooties and they thought likewise of boys, though there was some tee-hee activity about who likes who that I still hear from modern kids. Just the other day a group of third graders on my bus were accusing each other of having crushes on classmates. Gasp!
It wasn’t until middle school, probably mid-seventh grade, that I began to feel and behave awkwardly as nature worked its wonders. More than a bit of a nerd who was picked on by the cool toughs and jocks in my school, I nevertheless had a hopeless crush on Susie Gelman, who belonged to a group of popular girls who would never look twice at a chump like me.
But the day Susie spontaneously said “Hi, John” to me as we passed in the hall was a thrilling confirmation of my existence. Nothing more came of it nor the clumsy peck I later planted on Barbara Finch’s cheek at a Junior High dance, more out of a sense of “that’s what you’re supposed to do” obligation than any raging passion I felt. And my school bus was never the scene of romantic escapades for me or my friends.
Fortunately, what goes on now is more brazen chatter than action, though I have heard some salty tales from other drivers who told of kids being caught in the act on buses. Maybe it’s only a matter of time on mine before I spot a buss on my bus or worse. The world kids grow up in now is hyper-sexualized and I can only imagine the pressures they must feel. When I was a teenager I succumbed to the belief that I was nothing unless I had a girlfriend and “got lucky.”
Marjorie and Muffin are two sixth graders who sit well within earshot and make it impossible to not ignore them while they loudly compare notes. By any measure, Marjorie is what you’d call Boy Crazy. If you took the word “boyfriend” out of the English language, she would be mighty quiet.
A typical stream of her conversational snippets that find their way into my ears each day: “Everyone thinks I have, like, 500 boyfriends. I only had one in September … I didn’t date in first grade … He’s cute … I have a crush on him … That’s the boy who is in love with me … He broke up with his girlfriend … I broke up with him … This is my random boyfriend. That’s a photo of his foot …”
And this genuinely alarming statement: “I don’t even know who I was dating. We didn’t even like each other!”
One wonders when Marjorie has time for her school work or to do things like sleep and eat, but she’s obviously planning for her future. “We should go to college together,” she told Muffin. “We’d be real hot and go to all the parties and get all the boys!”
Maybe not if her mom still has anything to do with it. “She found out about Bartley and Lochinvar and made me stop dating them,” Marjorie groused one day. “She says I’m too young to be dating.”
A few rows further back is Sheila the Siren eighth-grader who attracts lovingly ham-handed treatment from Ichabod and his sidekick Poopowitz. Whenever Sheila is aboard, the two lads cram into her seat, grab her belongings, mess up her hair and basically display male behavior that has been seen since the days of the cavemen. I keep expecting Sheila to complain, and I’m ready to move the two mashers to the roof if need be, but she assured me there’s no problem and continues to bear their “affections” with bemused grace.
All things considered, in a setting that is usually full of bickering, barking and bitter recrimination (usually mine), it’s good to see some expressions of affection though the ones that raise red hearts are much more heartwarming than the ones that raise red flags.