We’re all just kids waiting at a bus stop
There are two groups of kids waiting at the bus stop with me. The differences between the two groups are staggering and noticeable within the first twenty seconds of seeing them.
One group: two kids with bikes. One is pudgy and one is hilariously undersized, leading me to wish that I could somehow combine the two kids into an average sized kid and ensure that adolescence would be a little less awkward for someone, albeit an imaginary hybrid kid I’ve just made up. Both have, “I’m thirteen and as difficult as it is to look at me, it’s even worse to be me” written all over them. Their t-shirts advertise a summer camp and a Nike design from two summers ago. There is a desperation to be liked surrounding them that somehow cannot be pegged to the fact that they’re young, which is even sadder.
The other group: three kids the same exact age and yet things could not seem different. Their sunglasses are cooler, their hair Efronesque. There is confidence oozing out of these kids. Confidence?! What have these kids ever accomplished? Where does this come from? Does it even matter? That’s the thing about confidence. People you just meet or who see you on the street have no idea if your confidence is earned. You can’t ask them to prove their accomplishments like an Arizonan cop asking foreigners for their ID. It’s just not done. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to try.
“What have you done in your life, young man?” I’ll ask.
“I was on the All Star team for my little leag…” he’ll say.
“Shut up! Shut up! Your accomplishments are invalid! Start to feel horrible about yourself like everyone else, you little shit!” I’ll say.
I’ll most likely be sent to jail for this outburst, but if that kid gets a seed of doubting his abilities even temporarily, I think I’ll have accomplished something.
