Control. There’s not much of it for many of these kids. I see a high school boy rolling around on the floor. He carelessly walks the hallway displaying a long thin line of blue sharpie against the white wall as if he’s a plane leaving his jet stream behind.
Doing school work is a joke and can never be taken seriously. There’s a constant battle of possession and arguing over what belongs to who. Having a serious conversation with an adult is like attempting to walk on water and personal space is simply unheard of.
I run around in the parking garage with screaming children and attempt to get my own energy out as well as wear down these destructive machines. We kick basketballs at each other and ramp-idly dodge flying objects. I try to use this time to prove that I’m full of energy too, like an espresso machine pouring out a constant double stream shot. By proving my agility I sometimes sense an ounce of respect and connection, maybe a small realization that we really aren’t all that different.
Control. I stand among the chaos in the same parking garage and watch an adorable sixth grader walk onto his bus with a harness strapped to his chest. He walks slowly through the ghost like short bus and slowly sits down on the wrinkled seat with cracks all over it like the palm of an old mans hand. The bus driver towers over him and they both work at clicking the buckles of his harness to the seat of the bus. He straps in tightly so that his outbursts of anger will not be harming to the other children riding home from school.
Back to the parking garage of chaos where I hold a small amount of respect. I shoot hoops and sometimes swat a middle schoolers shot as if I’m Shaquele O’neil and feel absolutely no remorse.
The kids are herded back into the school and despite all the tactics, patience and opportunities I get the impression that most feel as if they are shuffling into a jail cell with destructive heavy objects flying at them from every direction.
Control. I walk into a small classroom where a middle school boy screams annoyingly any time his classmates try to answer a question. He makes noises and swears in different accents with a calm and collected facial expression the entire time. I see a sweet clean faced girl across the room tear up out of frustration from the loud noises and purposeful annoyances. I see a boy across the room with his head on the table and hands over his ears, about to blow up like a bright fire cracker in the middle of a war.
I ask the provoking loud mouthed boy to please leave the room for the sake of the other children. He simply looks me in the eye and says, “screw you” (in many different words that mean the same thing). I think back to the parking garage less than twenty minutes before, where I had an ounce of respect and a blink of progress.
Control. I sit outside in the garage typing this to keep it.
