Tanya There was a girl named Tanya who used to ride the same school bus as me. Two tight pigtail braids framed her face, each one delicately decorated in those elastic bands that have big glass beads or plastic flowers on them. Her yellow gingham dress looked darker against the Colorado snow. It seemed to blend in completely alongside the Jefferson County School District bus when it pulled up to get her, and then it brightened against the wrinkled green vinyl seat backdrop when she got on. Tanya sat near the front, with me across the isle a couple seats back. I remember two bullish white boys sitting directly behind her. A bit overweight and overconfident, they would easily pass for a pair of low-rung criminal goons some 30 years in the future. They teased Tanya and flicked her pigtails. “What’s wrong with your skin?” “Why do you look like that?” “We don’t want you here – just move!” The boys then saw that their aggression wasn’t getting through to Tanya quite the way they had hoped, so they lightened their approach. Suddenly, the one on the left sprouted an already-waxed moustache and sideburns. He finished the look with a top hat and a ringmaster’s coat, and invited Tanya to perform in his marvelous traveling show. The boy on the right quickly changed out of his child’s uniform and into a crisp tailored suit, handing Tanya a recording contract, or a bikini to pose in, or something. I don’t really remember. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m lying – that part didn’t happen. Tanya just sat and stared ahead while the boys went on. (But how could just she sit there and let them say those things? Wasn’t she even listening? Why didn’t she just move so she wouldn’t have to hear them?) So still, deliberately still she sat and stared forward, with burning tears keeping her from even needing to blink. That 7-year-old’s hot-teared stare could have burned a hole in the seat in front of her, but never happened either. Nothing happened, really. No one called the National Guard. No one told the bus driver what the boys were saying, not even Tanya or me. After a few minutes the boys would usually get told to sit down and quit playing around, and that’s it. Her family must have moved that year because I never saw her again, and all of Tanya’s torturous bus rides have congealed into a single dog-eared page from my childhood that I still turn to
There was a girl named Tanya who used to ride the same school
bus as me. Two tight pigtail braids framed her face, each one
delicately decorated in those elastic bands that have big glass
beads or plastic flowers on them. Her yellow gingham dress looked
darker against the Colorado snow. It seemed to blend in completely
alongside the Jefferson County School District bus when it pulled
up to get her, and then it brightened against the wrinkled green
vinyl seat backdrop when she got on. Tanya sat near the front, with
me across the isle a couple seats back. I remember two bullish
white boys sitting directly behind her. A bit overweight and
overconfident, they would easily pass for a pair of low-rung
criminal goons some 30 years in the future. They teased Tanya and
flicked her pigtails.Whats wrong with your skin?Why do you look
like that?We dont want you here just move!The boys then saw that
their aggression wasnt getting through to Tanya quite the way they
had hoped, so they lightened their approach. Suddenly, the one on
the left sprouted an already-waxed moustache and sideburns. He
finished the look with a top hat and a ringmasters coat, and
invited Tanya to perform in his marvelous traveling show. The boy
on the right quickly changed out of his childs uniform and into a
crisp tailored suit, handing Tanya a recording contract, or a
bikini to pose in, or something. I dont really remember. Sorry, I
dont know why Im lying that part didnt happen. Tanya just sat and
stared ahead while the boys went on. (But how could just she sit
there and let them say those things? Wasnt she even listening? Why
didnt she just move so she wouldnt have to hear them?) So still,
deliberately still she sat and stared forward, with burning tears
keeping her from even needing to blink. That 7-year-olds hot-teared
stare could have burned a hole in the seat in front of her, but
never happened either. Nothing happened, really. No one called the
National Guard. No one told the bus driver what the boys were
saying, not even Tanya or me. After a few minutes the boys would
usually get told to sit down and quit playing around, and thats it.
Her family must have moved that year because I never saw her again,
and all of Tanyas torturous bus rides have congealed into a single
dog-eared page from my childhood that I still turn to now and again
in my mind. And thats all I can really remember. I cant recall the
names of the bus driver or the boys. Tanya would probably have a
clearer memory of it and tell the story better anyway. Sorry.
