But, you have to admit, some days just....suck.
It was one of those days, September of two years ago, with a newly-begun school year. There's no rational reason why this was such a rotten day-maybe because the kids on the bus were still sorting out their accepted behavior. Maybe because the blistering sun was heating the bus to well over 100, in our last year before the school district bought an air-conditioned fleet. Maybe because it was a Friday. Could've been a full moon for all I know.
But it was awful, the kids were unruly and wild and unresponsive to requests, commands, demands, pleading, negotiating, bargaining, or any other hastily attempted tactics. I didn't get as far as wailing or sackcloth and ashes, but I was pretty close to gnashing of teeth. A normal 30-minute trip took almost an hour because I pulled over to the side of the road five or six times to restore safety and order, to stop the seat-jumping and standing up and leaning out the windows. And then as I made each stop, I took extra time to ask parents to talk to their kids over the weekend about safety and order and rules blah blah blah blah.
Blah blah blah. A whole lot of blah blah blah in the merciless Texas sunshine.
Did I mention it was hot? No AC? That sound of bacon frying I heard all afternoon, by the way, turned out to be the sunscreen boiling off my left arm and the left side of my face as the afternoon sun glared in the window.
By the end of my route I was totally demoralized, ready to go home and try to forget that worst Friday ever, and spend my weekend praying that Monday would be back to normal. So I pulled up to one of the last stops, with only five or six kids left on the bus, popped the parking brake out as I pushed it into neutral, hit the lights, and whooshed the doors open.
And here came Juan. Juan was then a first-grader, one of the quietest kids on the bus. If there was a model for the description "a man of few words", it was Juan. He kept to himself, read his Pokemon book, and nodded to me on the way in and out of the bus every day. Even his seatmates didn't pay him much attention, preferring to holler across the seats to other classmates while he read.
It is the quiet kids that get the least attention on the bus. I always know everything about the noisy or rambunctious ones, because one of the tricks of the trade is to engage the unruly kids I have moved into the "naughty seat" right behind me in constant conversation in order to distract them from the behavior that is driving everybody bonkers. So I always know more trivial tidbits about my very own Dennises the Menaces than I can keep up with anyway.
But about Juan, who sat quietly in his seat and never gave a moment's bother, who nodded mysteriously and silently each day, I knew nothing. Having just spent a solid hour of torturous effort on a whole busload of kids who had been bouncing around like a bucket of screeching ping pong balls, I felt ashamed that I had so thoroughly spent all of my attention and given him none.
"Hey, Juan" I stopped him as he went down the stairs, nodding as always. "What's your favorite flavor of ice cream?" Don't know why I grabbed at the subject of ice cream, other than perhaps I was fantasizing about diving headfirst into a half-gallon when I got home.
Confused as to why I would ask such an out-of-the-blue question, he turned and peered at me uncertainly, then told me that chocolate was his favorite.
Very sagely, in serious tones, I told him that chocolate was my favorite as well, then I told him one more thing:
"Thank you for being such a good rider. You are the best kid on the bus."
Do you think he smiled? Oh, boy, did he! A big ear-to-ear 6 year-old short-hair-cut jug-eared grin that showed three or four missing teeth that had not grown in yet. And his mama was there, waiting to walk home with him. I told her how thankful I was that he was such a joy to have on my bus, and then it was her time to grin and laugh as she took his backpack on her shoulder and led him home, both of them laughing and waving as I pulled away.
That was two years ago, and Juan is still the quiet kid on my bus. Still keeps his head in a book, Pokemon or Star Wars. Mostly nods to me, but we talk a little from time to time. Enough to find out his little brother will be on the bus next year. Enough to find out he is really looking forward to his cousin from Mexico coming to spend the summer with him. Enough to find out he agrees that Jar Jar Binks was the worst thing to happen to Star Wars.
This past Thursday was the last day of the school year. A few of the kids draw me a card or write me a letter at the end of the year, maybe put it with a Starbucks gift card or something like that, Although I appreciate the gifts I get, nothing but nothing beats the feeling of getting a hand-drawn card made by a kid.
Juan gave me a card this past Thursday. On the front, a giant glowing star with rocket exhaust coming out of it, with my name on it. Inside, since he is after all, destined to become the mythical man of few words, just a few well-chosen words, in a neat childish print scrawled across the top:
"Thank you for saying I'm the best kid on the bus. Your friend, Juan."
Sometimes I need a reminder of just how powerful words are. Sometimes I need a reminder that the cost of a kind word is utterly cheap, but the return on that investment is the best one I can make in another person. Sometimes I need a reminder that a sincere compliment can linger in a child's mind for years.
Years!
