"Pain Engraves a Deeper Memory"

My own children are grown, so the annual school calendar has been off my radar a few years now.

This morning, when I heard those familiar sounds from the local school bus coming down my street, I was reminded that today was the first day of the new school year.

When my kids were in school, the sounds from the bus were reminders of the welcome return to consistency and routine.

Since they've been finished with school, the sounds have provided a contentment from knowing we've completed that stage. I don't miss the hectic mornings of making sure everyone was awake and out of bed, of ensuring everyone had eaten breakfast, of packing lunches and book bags, of getting everyone out the door at the first hint of those sounds in the distance.

Today, though, hearing that bus didn't bring the usual feeling of contentedness. Today, those sounds brought back a feeling of angst.

The rubber tires spinning along the pavement. The droning of the engine. The hissing ppsss from the pressure in the air-brakes system. Those sounds . . . they're unmistakeable. And unforgettable.

Poet Anne Sexton once said, "Pain engraves a deeper memory." I'm not sure why some days pass without much thought of formative experiences while other days open the door wide to painful memories.

Today, that school bus took me right back to a time when I was young and listening for those sounds, watching for the yellow cavern of doom to come barreling down my street as I waited at the end of my driveway.

I remembered the driver reaching for the lever to fold open the manual jackknife door. I felt the dread and the mental armoring-up as I climbed the steps into that torture chamber on wheels, as I peered around at which green vinyl bench seat might provide me the least-worst position.

I won't write the details of what went down on those rides. That level of bullying is something I wouldn't wish on anyone. I can still picture the primary instigator and feel the hatred I had for her.

Recently I read a book by Ann Patchett called These Precious Days. In it she writes,

In my adulthood, I've realized that when someone is rude or hurtful or generally unpleasant, their poor behavior is likely a direct result of what's happening in their personal life . . . something I probably know next to nothing about.

So I'm learning to pause and consider that, from their perspective, their behavior must seem necessary or justified.

I don't have to always accept what people dish out, but I can at least take that pause to think about where their actions might be coming from.

I'd like to say that, all these years later, I've forgotten about the Bus Bully. Obviously I have not. I'd also like to say I've matured enough to hope the best for her. Unfortunately, more often than not, when I think of her I wish the opposite.

But it has occurred to me that when I was the recipient of her behavior, it definitely never once entered my mind that she was probably going through some stuff, that perhaps her home life was nearly unbearable. And maybe somewhere deep inside it made her feel better to make someone else's life nearly unbearable.

So this week as I sat in my reflections, I sent out apologies to her that I never took the time to consider that something specific made her the way she was.

Remembering experiences like those with her has taught me to take a moment before offering my own knee-jerk reactions. And to begin to notice where I'm spewing my own negativity onto others.

For those lessons, I can feel a small amount of gratitude for the experiences I endured.

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