This was the first time.
Monica McAllister and I were waiting by the fire hydrant in the old WHA school yard where the buses lined up to take us all home. We had just ridden over from Akeley. For those unaware, we had a very strange bussing situation when I was in elementary and middle school. In first, second, and third grade, our classrooms were in Walker, the town I grew up in. Walker is the 'W' in WHA, an acronym for the three towns in our school district, Walker-Hackensack-and-Akeley.
The classrooms in our building seemed massive at the time. Plenty of desk space, enormous lockers, and enough cubby room for a lunch box, crayon case, a hat, and both your gloves. It was all so glamorous. The chalk was plentiful and hot lunch was always just around the corner.
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| 4th Grade |
In fourth grade, you started a new routine that would last for three years. In the mornings, instead of staying in Walker, you would be bussed the 10 miles to Akeley. The classrooms were smaller, the library was miserable, and thin, rolling dividers were all that stood between you and the hollering teacher in the space next to you. Cubbies were non-existent, there were 8 different colored pencils--in the entire school--and your lockers were actually just hooks in the central hallway with open shelving above. In many ways, the Akeley school was a reflection of the rundown, decrepit town in which it stood. And I use 'stood' loosely. The upper floors were condemned and, shortly after leaving for high school, the remainder of the building was barred from public access. In short, middle school was somehow made worse by a space that should never have been a second home for children.
So we'd returned from Akeley and were waiting to switch to the bus that would bring us home. Well, close to home. After school, Monica and I would go to her grandma's daycare center and help her watch the additional kids she accumulated after school. We'd stay from 3:30 to 5:30 and play games, build snowmen, and tromp through the woods. Every so often, we would sneak up to my house--the next door down from Little Oak--just for the thrill of doing something against the rules. Goody two shoes that we were, though, we always made it back in time to see the kids off and make our appearances.
We rode "The Lion Bus." Each of the giant yellow school buses had a metal plaque on the left side of the front bumper with an illustrated animal. Every bus was referred to as "The _______ Bus" based on the different animals that decorated the bus's nose. The Bunny Bus and The Duck Bus were to be avoided at all costs, lest you wish to be stuck in Hackensack. How the drivers kept track of all our faces and locations is beyond me. Somehow, they managed.
We were waiting for The Lion Bus. Monica was standing, and I sat down on one of the red-painted stone posts next to the hydrant. Pogs were being slammed behind us, and a few of our classmates were jumping rope while prepping for their mad dash to a good seat. I was reading a Clue book, Midnight Phone Calls. It was one of my favorites because Mrs. Peacock was on the cover in what appeared to be the most comfortable of all nightgowns.
I guess I am not sure if she was bored or feeling mischievous, but Monica swirled her hand over my book to distract me and snag my attention.
"Hey, stop!" I said. "I'm reading!"
Her face switched to a mocking grimace, "I'm reading," she mimicked, sticking out her tongue.
"I'm almost done..."
"Well, hurry up, faggot."
It's odd. Writing it now causes me far more pause than hearing it back in fourth grade. Even typing the word crunches my skin to bones in a shudder. I didn't know what the word meant, but I knew it was bad, so I ignored her for the bus ride and trudged up to my house in lieu of going to the daycare. Some days, eleven-year-old Josh just needed to be alone.
In time, I asked my mom what 'faggot' meant, but I cannot remember her response. She asked why I wanted to know and where I'd heard it, and I recall that Monica apologized the following day. And that was that.
Still, I remember feeling lesser than. Not equal to. Unworthy. I can summon those feelings that lived in the pit of my stomach and suddenly feel nauseous.
Fourth grade was 15 years ago.
Today, in the skyway, I heard a woman say 'faggot' to her male companion.
Fifteen years isn't enough time to forget what that word feels like.
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