You, Me and Everyone We Know

The one eyed machete wielding men of Nicaragua seem very far away now.

I walked through the blistering heat into the mini mart at the gas station, the first week of school under my belt. It's odd. There is a really shiny, fancy gas station across the street that has really shitty beer. I go to the completely sketchy looking place on the other side that actually has good beer. It was hot. Really hot. There was a vibe in the parking lot. I saw this Asian guy, wearing tight, dark jeans and multicolored Adidas, dark wristbands and spiky hair. He didn't have a shirt on. His upper body was completely covered in tattoos. I don't really have any issue with that, but something about him sort of screamed mafia, and don't fuck with me. He spoke in rapid fire, some kind of Chinese to another, I assume, Chinese guy. Stereotypes preclude that Asians aren't supposed to be intimidating, yet these guys clearly smashed that to bits. I steered clear of them. There was a line clear across the store. I grabbed my beer and got in it. "Hey! Where your partner?!" a completely homeless dude yelled across the store, "This is ridiculous!" he added, and stormed out. I stared forward. I heard a shouting, barking noise in the parking lot. "What is that.....?" the young, African American guy behind me in low slung jeans and an A hat whispered. "It sounds like shouting..." I responded quietly. The homeless guy re-entered. "Where your partner?!" he yelled. I bought my beer and left, exiting quickly and eyeballing the Appalachian homeless that sit by the dumpster, making sure they weren't coming up at me. A van blocked my car in. That is, a prison transport van, complete with prisoners shackled inside. I got in my car, locked the doors and turned the air on.

I could wait.

So, just mentioning Nicaragua made it come back to me...like a dream. Nicaragua is a big bike country. Not for fitness or fun, but primarily because of poverty. People routinely give each other rides on their bikes. Yet most bikes lack pegs on the back wheel that will allow a second rider to stand behind the principal one. The most common pairs of riders seemed to be young men. Not kids, but guys that were like, twenty-three. I was a little stunned to see the principal rider on the seat, peddling, while the second rider straddled the bar, yup, sitting right on it, while steering. Dads that were riding little boys often peddled and steered, yet the little boys still straddled the bar in front of the principal rider. I have to wonder if there is any sort of legacy of infertility among men in Nicaragua. The only people I saw riding side saddle on the bar, permitting the principal rider to both peddle and steer, were women. To put it bluntly, we aren't fools. We have a lot less junk down below, but we still aren't riding a bar.

I stared back at the new sea of kindergartners. They lacked identity and personality. I guess I don't have to wonder this time if they will worm their way into my heart. Everyone I teach does. This is my sixth year in the public schools. Blobs will become people and people, personalities. They will come and they will go.

Now, they just have to make themselves known to me.