I know I could never be a bus driver. I don’t even know where to start on the reasons why, but my hat is off to all those intrepid souls who navigate barges on wheels each and every day.
The whole thought of driving a vehicle that is the size of a portable classroom gives me anxiety, too. I hate driving my husband’s truck because it feels unwieldy, and it’s just a regular size vehicle. (I know I’m not the only one that tucks in my elbows when I drive in a narrow passage, like when there are barriers on a roadside construction zone. Right? And I sort of duck when I go into parking garages, too… That’s not weird, right?)
When I see one of those big, long buses casually turn a corner, I hold my breath for them, and I marvel at the nonchalance of the driver.
If I have to go anywhere near a school zone during drop off or pick up times, I break out in hives. I think an entire series of not-nice thoughts about other drivers and entitled people and seriously, do people not understand how crosswalks work? To go there on purpose, twice a day, during the busiest times? Nope, nope, nope.
I also cringe when I see a bus on its route, in all its giant yellow glory, lights flashing, red stop sign at a right angle, and cars are just flying by because apparently, they are more important than anyone else. I would be stressed and seething at each stop. I would probably have a notepad with license plates scrawled in big, block Sharpie letters of every car I wanted to yell at, but couldn’t, because you know, kids behind me.
Which brings me to kids, behind me. Loose, essentially. I drove my own kids with them behind me, but I personally strapped them in – snugly – and I had a DVD player to keep them occupied. To have 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 kids with nothing but their imaginations and each other to keep them busy? No thank you!
My best friend is a teacher, and she has to ride a bus on field trips, to keep the kids in line. She rides in the back, to better observe the students, and because turning around every fifteen seconds is how motion sickness gets you. She recently — grimly — texted me, on the way back from visiting a museum in San Francisco: “I know what we are doing tomorrow: Bus Etiquette and Expectations. Again.”
I reminded her that when I was in 6th grade — back in the last century — and on the way to Outdoor Education Week at Camp Cazadero, our bus driver felt the need to pull to the side of the road on the freeway to yell at us. There may have been frothing at the mouth.
I will admit that the shock value of that kept the bus quiet, as most of us were convinced that this driver had Finally Lost It and that we were In Danger. Our teachers were not on the bus, because they had gone ahead in their own vehicles, but they were informed of our behavior, and we had the Bus Etiquette and Expectations talk. (It was probably more colorful than the one my friend gave; this was the early ‘80s, and words like “grab(blank)-ery” could be bandied about. Needless to say, that impression has stuck with me.
For all the years my son has ridden the bus, I have thanked each driver sincerely and often. I am grateful to hear the bus arrive in the morning, and when I hear it arrive in the afternoon. In between those times, I have been happy to see my own students arrive on their buses, and relieved to see the bus arrive at the end of their day. I know each and every driver has a sense of responsibility for each and every student on their bus, and I also know that they feel the trust each and every parent has put in them.
So, thank you, Windsor Unified bus drivers; you are everyday heroes, and you are appreciated.
