7th Graders are Terrifying

When I tell people that I’m afraid of 7^th 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 7^th 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 7^th 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 7^th 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 7^th 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 7^th graders into pure savagery still serves as a cautionary tale.

Every time I encounter a group of 7^th 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 7^th 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.