Walk, Don't Run

Walk, Don't Run

I remember when I was a little girl, going to a large school in a nearby town. Every morning, I would get up before the sun did, and get on the bus that would take me to it. One year, the bus would wait for me at the end of my driveway. Another, I had to walk across a rocky empty lot to go to where it would weight at my neighbor%u2019s house, where their own little girl would wait for it with me.

Those mornings were always cold for me. The girls at the school wore a uniform that consisted of a light button up shirt, a checkered pleated skirt, and knee socks. During school hours, the knee socks were kept folded or pushed down around the ankles, as was the rebellious fashion among the girls there.

Every morning, however, I would wear my knee socks up as high as they would go, looking enviously at my neighbor%u2019s older brother, and at the dark gray pants the boy%u2019s uniform had him wearing.

The busses were rarely any warmer than standing outside was. The only real differences between the two was that while on the bus I had a seat to shield my back, and I was allowed to close any windows that happened to be nearby.

When I got to school in my first year there, I would then have to walk the block or so it was to get from the front doors to the farthest class from it. The class that the fourth graders were taught in was right beside the school laboratory store-room, which was occasionally convenient to us.

The girls in my class were all doctor%u2019s and lawyer%u2019s daughters, all with their hair stylishly up, and cheap bracelets cocooning the lengths of their arms. About a month or so in, I had my hair up, and a collection of little bracelets of my own.

Even so, despite my greatest efforts, I was still a little white girl, a little gringa shivering in the depths of the same soft sweater that all the other little girls wore. My American accent was strong, and my attempts to communicate in my broken Spanish were frequently met with blank and puzzled stares.

I remember the little girl I tried hardest to be friends with, all through the three years that I stayed at that school. She was the daughter of the richest doctor of them all, and the queen of the social monarchy that prevailed upon the class. She had all the right friends in all the right places, and when for some reason she decided not to play with me, neither would anyone else.

When at the end of every day, the seas of children would explode out of their classroom doors, charging down the halls or across the yards with their little wheelie book-bags in tow, that classmate of mine would pack up her little pink wheelie, and jog out with two other girls. I would pack up my own brightly colored bag, and drag it along as I ran just a few feet behind them.

On my last year there, I was tired. My hair was tied plainly back, and the only thing on my arms was a single green wristwatch, given to me by my parents for Ridvan. My backpack wasn%u2019t a wheelie anymore. No, those wheelies were for children, and now everyone bent their backs for schoolbooks they usually just be bringing back the next day.

On the last day of school of that same year, I packed my bag and strode out of the classroom. On the way across the yard, I noticed the three girls walking slowly, leaning on each other, and sniffling. I asked a passing classmate what was going on. He replied awkwardly that now that we had all graduated from grade-school, those girls were being sent to different high-schools, and would have to split up.

I thanked the classmate, and went on following these three to the bus stop we all waited at.

I thought of the fact that these girls would be changing schools for the first time in their lives. I thought of the lives they had that they would have to start again from scratch. I thought of the loneliness they might have to face through it all.

And, looking demurely at the ground, with my chin rubbing my soft, warm sweater, I grinned.