7th grade boy

this won't turn into a blog about every time i see freaks on the train, but this week has been quite bountiful, freakwise.

thursday morning on the bus in brooklyn from midwood to bensonhurst, somewhere on bay parkway a teenage girl says something ugly to another teenage girl. after a few unbelievably boring exchanges ("go make more girls!" "we'll see!" repeat 7 times. really. and i have no idea what they meant.), the girl standing lunges at the sitting one, the one who started. it's nearly a year since i've witnessed an actual physical fight on public transportation. neither girl is a good fighter. there's lots of kicking and bear hugging. the bus driver threatens to call the cops. he stops the bus. both girls are too stupid to stop and finally a man manages to pull them apart and shove one out of the bus. at 7am. but before that, it was wednesday.

wednesday, d train just after school lets out. wild little boy on the train singing, eating cheetos and smacking any available surface with a half-empty bottle of ginger ale. 7th grade or so. only a few other people in this car and he's not my kid so i knit. sit back. watch the show. his rendition of the real slim shady is brutal, off key, reedy. "i am i am i am the real slim shhhhhhhady!" isn't it painful enough when eminem does this? he leaps from seat to seat, swinging cheetos everywhere, banging his ginger ale bottle. finally, a woman asks him to stop. he pauses, looks at her like he's trying to figure her out, then begins banging the bottle on the nearest metal post as fast as he can.

it has been a while since i've spent time with the seventh graders. mine are ninth graders and although you're probably saying, "what's the difference?" it's shocking. like tadpole and frog. this particular tadpole has hit two men with cheetos and scattered the rest of the bag on the floor. he steps on a few, smearing orange powder on the floor of the train. i am tired. i have just come from a two hour class with a roomful of children nobody else wants to teach. i look across at him the way i look at my own students when they call each other retards or fags. eye contact. he looks at teachers all day. he knows what's next. "little boy," i say, loud enough to make sure he's not the only one who hears me. "little boy, are you okay?" this is not what he's expecting, but he's quick. "i'm fine. are YOU okay?" so we've established that we're not afraid of each other. wonderful. i decide to go with what i know and say, "did your mama teach you to act like an idiot?" you're saying it's not nice to say things like that to little boys. idiot is a mean word. but i would never call a child an idiot. i just asked a question. besides, he's in seventh grade. have you interacted with a boy that age? other people on the train are giggling. he hasn't thrown a cheeto or banged on anything since i first made eye contact.

the banter continues until i get tired and say i feel sorry for him because nobody taught him better. he's ready. "i feel sorry for YOU," he roars, then stammers while he thinks, "because..... YOU DON'T MATCH!!!" wow. seriously. i know, man. i know. i just can't figure it out. blues, greens. all those browns. i never match. i try not to laugh because really, this is a pretty impressive thing to say. that's the meanest thing he knows to tell me. i don't match. at 36th, he gets off the train and i go back to my knitting, unmatched, amused. the doors open and close several times, then stay open a minute or two while someone somewhere fixes something. the bell dings for them to close and i feel something small land on my foot. i look up and he's still standing on the platform at the door of the train, smiling. he's flipped his bottle cap at me just as the door closes. i wave, tell him i hope he has a nice afternoon. the train starts rolling.