It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride. There was not a cloud in the sky, it was warm - mid 70s, and no wind. Smells came to me that people miss enclosed in their cars, windows rolled up, air conditioning on. Smells of freshly cut grass, of trees... smells that make riding the bike a treat. I wheeled into the parking lot, past rows of mini-vans and SUVs, and parked the bike in a small triangle not normally allowed for parking, but I fit perfectly. My daughter had brought the extra helmet today, her very first full day of school ever, so I could give her a ride home on the bike.
Her school is a low, sprawling red brick building. Approaching the front doors, I looked into windows, and classrooms filled with children readying their backpacks to walk home, or board school buses. My girl was the only one preparing to depart by motorbike.
Once inside, I recognized the familiar interior of a typical elementary school. Wide hallways wore a thousand coats of white paint on cinder block walls, and a dozen neatly dressed suburban mothers waited outside the school office to pick up their own children, chatting among themselves. As I walked past them, I looked at myself. I’d come straight from work, in white tee shirt, black jeans and black work boots, all covered in dirt and grime from a ten hour workday, my beard in tiny braids, tattoos showing on both short-sleeved arms. I smelled the stink of myself, sweaty from a physically demanding job. Sweat was running down the back of my neck. A dirty, smelly contrast I was to all those mothers dressed in colorful tops, pressed khaki slacks and clean shoes. Didn’t I look exactly like the unwholesome stranger these mothers told their babies to avoid.
The school day had not quite ended, so I sat myself against a wall with a clear view towards Isabella’s classroom to wait. It couldn’t be more than five minutes until students were let out. Did I feel all those maternal eyes on me, or was it all in my imagination? Regardless, I was none too pleased when a small boy, dressed neatly in shorts and a tiny striped golf shirt approached me and sat right next to me. Was he really going to sit that close? Panic. Owen, he said his name was. Looking at my helmet, he asked if I was on a motorcycle. Yes I was, and I was taking my daughter home on it. All those mothers must certainly be looking now, listening intently to make sure I was not having an inappropriate conversation with somebody’s little angel. Be careful not to ask any personal questions - “Where do you live?”... “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He spent a couple minutes talking to me about a video game I had never heard of.
The bell finally rang, ending the school day, and Owen and I both arose from the floor as the hallway filled with little children, and the din that accompanied them. How do these mothers find their own kid in this chaotic throng? Their children find them, that’s how. Hollers of “Papa!” were my first comfortable experience since I had arrived, and I saw my six year old girl half-running toward me, toting a helmet she could barely carry. Walking outside hand in hand, I informed her of my new friend Owen, a boy she knew. A crossing guard stopped traffic to let us into the parking lot, and told Isabella what a lucky girl she was to get a motorcycle ride home on such a lovely day.
A few minutes later, helmets on, we were on our way, accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of “Boo-yah!” from the small voice directly behind me. It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.
Her school is a low, sprawling red brick building. Approaching the front doors, I looked into windows, and classrooms filled with children readying their backpacks to walk home, or board school buses. My girl was the only one preparing to depart by motorbike.
Once inside, I recognized the familiar interior of a typical elementary school. Wide hallways wore a thousand coats of white paint on cinder block walls, and a dozen neatly dressed suburban mothers waited outside the school office to pick up their own children, chatting among themselves. As I walked past them, I looked at myself. I’d come straight from work, in white tee shirt, black jeans and black work boots, all covered in dirt and grime from a ten hour workday, my beard in tiny braids, tattoos showing on both short-sleeved arms. I smelled the stink of myself, sweaty from a physically demanding job. Sweat was running down the back of my neck. A dirty, smelly contrast I was to all those mothers dressed in colorful tops, pressed khaki slacks and clean shoes. Didn’t I look exactly like the unwholesome stranger these mothers told their babies to avoid.
The school day had not quite ended, so I sat myself against a wall with a clear view towards Isabella’s classroom to wait. It couldn’t be more than five minutes until students were let out. Did I feel all those maternal eyes on me, or was it all in my imagination? Regardless, I was none too pleased when a small boy, dressed neatly in shorts and a tiny striped golf shirt approached me and sat right next to me. Was he really going to sit that close? Panic. Owen, he said his name was. Looking at my helmet, he asked if I was on a motorcycle. Yes I was, and I was taking my daughter home on it. All those mothers must certainly be looking now, listening intently to make sure I was not having an inappropriate conversation with somebody’s little angel. Be careful not to ask any personal questions - “Where do you live?”... “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” He spent a couple minutes talking to me about a video game I had never heard of.
The bell finally rang, ending the school day, and Owen and I both arose from the floor as the hallway filled with little children, and the din that accompanied them. How do these mothers find their own kid in this chaotic throng? Their children find them, that’s how. Hollers of “Papa!” were my first comfortable experience since I had arrived, and I saw my six year old girl half-running toward me, toting a helmet she could barely carry. Walking outside hand in hand, I informed her of my new friend Owen, a boy she knew. A crossing guard stopped traffic to let us into the parking lot, and told Isabella what a lucky girl she was to get a motorcycle ride home on such a lovely day.
A few minutes later, helmets on, we were on our way, accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of “Boo-yah!” from the small voice directly behind me. It really was a perfect day for a motorcycle ride.
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