I was sitting on a bench at the Max station - the one between Lloyd Center and the Convention Center - when a group of three boys ran toward me. They were chubby and red-faced, their thin hair stringy with sweat and stuck to their foreheads. One of them was wearing cargo shorts, and unlike most kids, he actually stuffed the pockets full - they were fat with what appeared to be a cell phone and PDA, a pencil, and maybe a watch. It made his hips look wider than they were, and gave him an awkward, stiff gait. I could tell he was worried about his pockets coming open, all that plastic shattering on the sidewalk. He was also the tallest, and the only one with acne. All three stood quiet, catching their breath, before one of them asked me the time. I told him it was two o'clock. They tightened their circle and talked quietly, as if planning their next move in a game. After awhile, they started getting rough, hitting each other with their backpacks and textbooks.
"Fuck that," one of them yelled, reaching over and grabbing his friend's forearm. "You ain't pimped half as many bitches as me."
"Wanna bet?" The acne-faced one said. "I have a ho in every house on my block. How do you think I got this?" He pulled the PDA from his cargo pocket and held it up, screen facing out.
"Your momma bought you that piece of shit."
They continued like this until the train arrived, and I pretended not to listen, stunned at their vocabulary, horrified by their imaginary pimping. They were only thirteen or fourteen, dressed in Abercrombie cargos, with PDAs and cell phones, not to mention Tri-Met passes that would take them all the way out into the suburbs. Middle class. Nice house somewhere in a safe, clean neighborhood. Probably.
I wondered about them all day. If their mothers ever heard them brag about bitches. If they listened to misogynist music. Or if they just wanted to freak me out. I used to do that as a teenager - make sure I was in earshot of some bland-looking adult and go off about drugs, witchcraft, revolution, anything. I was convincing with my purple lipstick and combat boots, my blue-black hair and skull rings. Then I realized: in this scenario, I am the boring one, the grown-up that kids target for pranks.
Later that day, I bought some dark purple liptsick, which I have yet to try on.
Comments (3)
Every time I try to joke with my students I end up sounding like my mother. And I think, how did 10 years become 30? Of course, it's not all bad. That way I keep an appropriate distance between us. But it still bothers me. I relate to my (19 year old) brother ok...how is this different? Then I think ohshit, he's just playing along with me....
Of course, my innake geekhood doesn't help. I didn't communicate well with teenagers when I was one, either.
Anyway...I like what you get at here, the push and pull of youth culture.
Posted by kelley | September 16, 2003 8:20 AM
Posted on September 16, 2003 08:20
...or you could move to prague and become one of approximately 30,000 expatriates who talk about bitches and pimpin all the time and act like they're seventeen all over again and everybody has to care about their problems....the beauty is, these are the folks that are teaching the world how to speak english....in other words disseminating the language of the thirteen and fourteen year old kids/pimps of northeast portland....no lie, i overheard a teacher discussing the merits of one of his particular lesson plans entitled, "back dat ass up"....
Posted by dj julio | September 17, 2003 4:16 AM
Posted on September 17, 2003 04:16
...let's take a step back and be thankful for the fact that nobody had digital video when i was thirteen.....but....the other side of the coin of this issue is what i like to call iggy pop syndrome...i suffer from this...and that's remaining a pimp-jiving punk kid for your whole life....
Posted by dj julio | September 17, 2003 4:20 AM
Posted on September 17, 2003 04:20