Today two of my officemates and I were grading silently in our office. The students were scattered around the campus participating in their optional classes of robotics, drama, and model airplane building among others, which left the hallways in a rare stillness.
Suddenly, a car revved up and shattered our serenity. Technically, cars are not allowed on the narrow, brick sidewalks of our campus; however, that rule is broken more than followed. Parents and drivers race through the campus at the end of the day, making the students’ journey to the buses an elaborate game of chicken.
The revving happened again, but this time the sound was accompanied with the giggles and squealing shouts of middle school students. My fellow foreign teacher and I caught each other’s gaze and shared the same thought: Did the students steal one of the caretaker’s vans?
We lunged for the window. Sure enough, a group of our students surrounded a clown car sized van covered in the dents and rusty spots from previous hijackings. Thirteen-year-olds are dangerous enough with hairspray and textbooks yet alone a motor vehicle.
While my foreign teacher compatriot and I gaped in horrified disbelief, my Chinese officemate casually glanced out the window and informed us, “Oh, that’s just the optional driving class.”
Driving class…in seventh grade!
I scanned the students and rated the chances of each one taking out a primary school student as they zoom across the basketball court or the likelihood that the end of his fantastic journey will involve crashing into the library’s front window.
That one shreds or stains every homework assignment he ever turns in….
Chances: 5
That one is constantly ramming his friends into walls…
Chances: 7
That one can’t stay in his chair and has twice taken his desk and his neighbor down with him…
Chances: 10
I’m suddenly struck with the realization that the “Driving Class” might be an alternative to detention since many of these students are the ones most likely to spend their lunch period writing sentences.
As one student struggled to move the car from park to first gear, my Chinese officemate elaborated, “They are working on their unofficial license.”
Shanghai, where the official driving age is eighteen, has an unofficial license obtainable at thirteen! Well, that explains many of my horror-inducing taxi experiences.
I needed to walk over to the primary building so my officemate and I decided to brave the narrow paths of the grounds together. We eased out of the middle school, checking both directions. The van had vanished. Deciding to make a break for it, we scurried down the sidewalk towards the primary school. Out of nowhere the van whipped around a corner and stopped like a predator spotting its prey. My officemate and I froze. She leaned over slightly and whispered in my ear, “Do you think we should hide?”
“No, act casual.”
When we started moving again the van did as well. It flew towards us with no intention of slowing down. As I had no intention of stepping into that intersection, I jolted to a stop.
As the van zoomed past us, an arm burst from the back window, “HI TEACHER!”
Good! The kids in the death-mobile are the ones that actually like me; Death-By-Thirteen-Year-Old-And-Van will not part of my obituary. We hurried on our way, but I risked one more look back at the vehicle. The van tailed a kitchen worker on a three-wheel bicycle as he furiously pedaled for his life.
I’m not a fan of the cafeteria food either.
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