full circle

This past Monday I brought Damian to the bus stop for the first time. Before this, we'd been driving him to and from school every day. It's about 2 ½ miles, takes about 10 minutes. Not a big deal. We did it because he was beginning in a new school, a new town, a new life. We did it for our own peace of mind as well as his. But with the snow coming, I was more concerned with the logistics of getting my car down the very steep driveway after a storm than I was in how Damian might feel on the bus for that short ride to and from. Besides, it's been nearly three months. Time enough.

So Monday morning, a day after the first snowfall of winter, Damian and I walked down the hill hand in gloved hand, stepping carefully past icy stretches and breathing out in steamy gusts. There were of course no signs saying "Bus stops here! No, not there, here!" so we kind of scouted around the various options (note: four corners, four options) until someone showed up with kid in tow to point us to the right spot. I soon discovered that the cars parked by the curb were in fact not parked but simply waiting, as parents began unfolding children from their carseats and joining us at the corner.

Damian asked me once again to repeat the catechism I'd rehearsed with him the night before and the day before that. "What will happen when the bus comes?"

"You'll get on, I'll say hello to the aide sitting at the front, tell her about you, ask her to keep an eye out for you. There may be one or two kids from your class either already on the bus or getting on at another stop. The last stop will be school. You'll get out and you and all the other kids on the bus will walk into school together. And you know how to find your classroom from the front entrance, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And that's it."

"That's everything?"

"Yes, that's everything."

"What if I'm scared?"

"Remember how you felt the first day when you had to walk into school by yourself without me coming in? How you got lost and the woman at the door helped point you the right direction? The people at this school are very nice. You'll be perfectly safe. You won't get lost. Someone will help you."

"Okay."

By the time we ran through the drill, a small crowd had gathered, four or five adults with young ones. And they all wanted to know who we were. Me, that is. And Damian of course too.

"Are you new to the neighborhood? Where do you live, what house? When did you move in? What grade is he in? Who's his teacher?"

It was, in a word, strange. I've dropped Damian off and picked him up from several schools now, in Los Angeles and here. And people do smile, they do eventually chat with you, you do eventually get to know each other, sometimes rather well. But this was different. A tight group, a newcomer to assimilate. A shared identity. Parents Who Wait at the Bus. Neighbors. It's very suburban, I guess. Thursday I commented to one woman that it was so different from the way people act when they're waiting for kids at school. There they talk to people they already know, but the newcomers? Not so much. She said, "Well, we know we'll be seeing each other for the next several years at pickup time." And at the grocery store. And shoveling snow and raking leaves, yes. It's just being good neighbors, really.

She also said, "They're not all people I'd necessarily choose to be friends with, but they're nice." And that was funny because, you know, she looked like them to me. They all look the same. Very clean cut. Cheerful. They all go to yoga and the gym, they all have nice houses. They're very, shall I say, non-scruffy. Non-bohemian. I find myself wondering. How do I look to them? Do I look as much of an outsider as I feel? Or do they accept me as part of the clan?

They're certainly friendly enough.

Damian, by the way, did fine on the bus. Fine enough to take it every morning from now on, and many afternoons too. So I guess I'll get to know these folk rather well over the course of the time we live in this house. Maybe I'll become friends with one or two. Find out what's behind the façade, what's inside their houses, maybe even learn their dirty laundry. Maybe, after a while, I'll stop feeling like such an outsider, bourgeois bohemian that I am. Maybe there's a role for me in this bus stop friendship dance.