Published in the Point Reyes Light circa 2005

I’ve been driving a school bus in the Point Reyes area for about five months now, and would like to relate some of my experiences—and my on-the-job education—to readers of The Light.

The kids I transport are great. I never had children of my own, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I did appreciate that children have to learn an awful lot in a short time, with fewer ideal adult role models than one might wish, and I’ve always respected them for how well they do. I also knew that they inhabit a universe not very congruent with mine, and I shouldn’t expect more than a very little overlap; indeed, sometimes communication takes on a surreal science fiction interdimensional quality. But we’re working well together, partly because they sense that I do respect them, but more because they have—on the whole, and with few exceptions—a healthy attitude about who they are and where they’re going.

Me at the wheel, near the Point Reyes lighthouse

Some of them are downright heroic. There are a few who spend three hours a day riding the bus to and from school. The afternoon run can entail three bus transfers by the time they get home. They do this without complaint—even when my bus breaks down and they have to wait an hour for the relief bus! I can only admire them.

But what I really want to share is two epiphanies I enjoyed early on the job. The first came when I was driving, for the second time, the noon run from Inverness School to Point Reyes Station, transporting kindergarteners. The first time I’d done it they must have been slightly in awe of the big strange man who was impersonating their regular Katie, because they stayed pretty quiet. This time, though, they tested my mettle.

Two little girls were sitting directly behind me, and they discovered the sheet metal plate that separated my seat from theirs, down at floor level. It has louvers cut in it, and they found that running something hard—I guess the soles of their shoes—across them made a magnificent racket. I was trying to monitor other activity on the bus (there was a lot to choose from) while simultaneously negotiating traffic in Inverness, and “’ey, whatever you’re doing, stop it!” escaped my lips.

There was silence from behind my seat for the rest of the trip. But when the little ones trooped off there were no hard feelings, everyone was happy. “What was that about?” I asked myself. Then I got it.

Kids need boundaries. Boundaries are the limits that define who they are, what they can do, and what the world can do to (or for) them. They need to know that boundaries are there, else the world is an intolerably dangerous place, with no clues as to what is safe and where is dangerous. It’s nice to know where the boundaries are, but that’s pretty much what childhood is about, learning that. It’s a long process.  But first, it’s crucial to establish that they exist, they’re there somewhere.
How does one go about determining that without any social skills to speak of? Kick your foot against something—BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!—until someone yells “Stop it!” Okay, we have a boundary. That’s how little kids operate.

The other bit of enlightenment concerned the older, elementary students. My longest-running campaign has been to get my charges to stay (more or less) in their seats. I have enough driving experience to know some of the ways that circumstances can compel the sudden application of brakes. On a school bus, hitting the brakes will lead to a properly-seated child’s bouncing off the padded seat back in front of him, but a second-grader who is half out of his seat will come flying down the aisle and bounce off the heater grill…or worse, the windshield. Hence my concern for proper seating.

Now, I explained all this to the kids, and they seemed to be genuinely interested, to understand, and even to appreciate my concern for their well-being. And then, the next thing I knew, they were out of their seats paying no attention at all to what I’d said. What gives? I asked.

Then it hit me: their safety is not their job, it’s mine. You’ve seen those nature documentaries where the lion cubs make their first foray from the den? They go nuts, getting into everything they can with no regard for danger whatsoever. That’s because mom—and assorted aunt lionesses—are there to keep an eye on them. The cubs’ job is to explore as far and fast as possible; the adults’ job is to monitor the boundaries and keep the cubs’ curiosity from killing them.

And that, in child-logic, is exactly how it works on a school bus: kids have a sacred duty to push the envelope, leaving the safety business to grownups (me). Once I saw this, I could accept that my job entails regular, constant reminders to my passengers to stay in their seats. The kids obey without rancor…for a respectable period of time, anyway. They constantly make eye-contact with me in the mirror, seeing if I’m watching them. Again, if I am, they don’t resent it; they understand that it’s my job.

What marvelous little minds, to have the world figured out so clearly, so young. I feel that I’m the one getting an education here.