When I tell people that I’m afraid of 7th
graders, they usually laugh. I’m not sure if they think I’m joking or if
they’re as terrified as I am and too nervous to admit it. After all, a 7th
grader might be lurking in the bushes.
I have a bevy of irrational fears. When I’m swimming in a
pool, I worry about a shark attack. Even though the rational part of my brain
knows that this makes absolutely no sense, the primal part of my brain forces
me to swim to the side as fast as I can, claw my way out of the pool with a
sense of embarrassing urgency, and scan the pool for sharks every ten minutes
or so.
I’m convinced that if I turn my back on a 7th
grader for even the briefest of moments, they will taze me and dance on my
twitching carcass. I contend that this fear is not irrational. I think anyone
who rode my bus in junior high school will agree with me. Have you read Lord of the
Flies? Well, that book was based on my 7th grade bus.
Our bus driver’s name was Jack. At least, that’s what he
told us. It would have been wise to use an alias with these kids in order to
protect one’s family, but “Jack” would not have been a wise choice, so I can
only assume he used his real name. I say it was not a wise choice because The
Clapper was very big at the time (clap on, clap off). The theme song translated
very well into “Jack on, Jack off.”
Some terrible things happened on that bus – things that only
7th graders are capable of. I’m not talking about the standard fare
of drug use and sexual experimentation. I’m talking about kids slashing the
seats with a knife, ripping the foam stuffing out of the seats, soaking it with
urine, and throwing it at Jack while he was driving. The stench of rage, fear, and unchecked body odor was heavy in the air.
Every day, we would inevitably have to turn around and go
back to the school because of the horrible events that had taken place. The
funny thing is, I have no recollection of what actually happened when we got
back to the school. Inhumane torture techniques were probably used to collect
evidence against the perpetrators. I can remember my mom having to pick me up
at least once a week because Jack refused to resume his driving duties for the
day. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think he had PTSD by the end of that year.
This nightmare probably originated from just 2 or 3 kids who
had some serious issues. I never carried a knife. I never threw things out the
windows. I never assaulted Jack. I didn’t yell obscenities. I kept my pants on.
I didn’t smoke anything. I certainly never urinated on anything on the bus, and
I’m pretty sure none of my friends did either. However, my first-hand experience
of the descent of a few troubled 7th graders into pure savagery still
serves as a cautionary tale.
Every time I encounter a group of 7th graders,
the oldest, most intuitive part of my brain says, “We’ve seen this before.
Cross the street.” I will actually take shelter with drunk, homeless, gang members with
nunchucks to avoid 7th graders. I bide my time in the shadows until they proceed to 8th grade, where their complete lack of regard for the human race turns into punk sarcasm and teen angst, which I can handle with ease.
