Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden when a cab pulled over. It was one of those lime green cabs, the ones you cannot get unless you live above 96th Street. Frantically waving arms protrude from the cab. 'Who is that?' I think.
It's another mom.
"Get in!" she says as she throws the door open and moves aside to give me room in the back seat. Her daughter is sitting next to her.
"Why?"
"I have to talk to you!"
So I get in. I say hi to her daughter who isn't fazed by her mom's behavior.
I'm not either.
"So, how can I help you?" I ask.
"I want to know about the tutor."
I start to tell her and about 30 seconds later the cab pulls over to the corner where her daughter and I get out. We are a block from school.
"Where are you going?"
"To work. I'm staying in the cab. I'll call you!"
I get out of the cab and walk the block and into the lobby of the school. I don't know where her daughter went.
There is a mom in the lobby talking to the security guard. She has a sticker on her shirt so she has officially signed in.
"Are you here for the field trip?" She asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes."
Silence.
I start to make small talk. What class is your kid in? And a few other questions to try to connect.
"Do you have any other kids?"
Well, this just about throws her into a tailspin.
"One is already too much! With all my traveling for work!"
Silence.
"Oh. What do you do?" I wonder.
"One thing I do is consult for Homeland Security."
I'm curious but am not sure if that was code for don't ask. I ask and she freely launches into the topic of her work history. The happy faucet is on and flowing fast.
Within 60 seconds I've learned a lot. She tells me how she was in the military and actually "was a Spook"
A Spook.
I feel like an idiot.
"What's a Spook?"
"A spy."
I'm intrigued, as planned.
Then her 13-year-old walks over and they start to argue about whether or not she remembered to pack a water bottle for the trip.
I walked away and hear from behind me: "Bye, Liz!"
Her name is Ginny. Later that day when we pass each other on the trip we say, "Hi Ginny!" or "Hi Liz!" like we've known each other for years.
The trip was to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. There are many things I can tell you about going on three (3 transfers) subways with 25 7th graders. Things that would appall their parents. Things that would appall anyone: the dramatic flirting and littering. The addictive use of electronics. The nose picking and bugger eating. The smells and swearing. The self-centered preening and grandstanding for what appears to be nothing, because they all do it and so there really isn't an audience. Only annoyed chaperones who wonder about herding cats and the possibility of leaving them (to go meditate under a Bonsai) or simply wander off like a kooky irresponsible adult because they are actually old enough to find their way back to safety, if necessary. They deserved some impromptu outdoor Scout training to whip them into shape. To be fair not all of them were like that. Most were good or compliant enough, but the rotten apples spoiled the whole barrel of fun.
The truth comes out when the girls who are projectile-venom-eye-stare-beings walked into the rose garden and transform completely. It is as if they are set free from the hormonal gravitational forces which trap them. They begin to dance between the rows of crimson, pink, yellow and purple bushes and smile. Laugh. Joyfully from one beautiful flower specimen to the next like large bumble bees who have found intoxicating pollen while connecting with nature and invisible scents which celebrate something beautiful which has long since been forgotten.
They are a joy to be with.
I spy them becoming little girls again: princesses who don't want to leave the garden. The white fences and rose festooned trellises are a room to expand and just be free.
All in a day's work.
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