We were the only gringos on the
bus. Ever since we'd pulled out of Rincon de Guayabitos early in
the morning, Larry and I had been in deep conversation, barely
heeding our fellow passengers. Traditional Mexican music from the
driver's boom box became background noise that mingled with the
drone of the engine as the miles sped on. There were stops along
the way, when vendors came on board, interrupting our discussion
with their calls of "Coka", "fruta fresca",
"pina", hawking their wares of refreshments and
newspapers for the weary traveler.
A mother with identical twins sat directly in front of us. She
held one boy on her lap, while the other sat in the window seat,
mostly looking at the passing scenes. It soon became apparent that
her relatives were situated in single, nearby seats, judging from
the contact that flowed between grandmother, grandfather, and the
boy on the mother's lap. Occasionally someone stopped briefly in
the aisle by her side, leaned down and to speak in quiet tones,
before moving back to sit down again.
All this activity was on the periphery of our concentration
until I noticed how sharply the mother reprimanded the twin who
sat directly in front of me by the window. She spoke harshly and
rapidly to him several times, seemingly without provocation.
Although I knew some Spanish, I was too preoccupied to stop my
conversation with Larry to determine what she was saying. The boy,
on the other hand, seemed to be behaving like any four or
five-year-old might. A little fidgety, perhaps, but we were in for
a long ride to Guadalajara and it seemed normal for a child to
squirm in his seat. I did notice the difference in her voice as
she conversed with the boy seated on her lap. Soothing tones and a
soft song were accompanied by patting him in a loving manner, as I
could see between the seats.
We remarked on her distinctly different tonality as she
addressed the two boys: one gently, the other, sharply. I was
curious about her divergent treatment with identical twins, while
Larry, a university speech professor, was attuned to voice
variations. As the miles droned on, the vendor stops became fewer
and we rested.
Both of us were startled out of personal reverie when we heard
the child by the window cry out. The mother had grasped him by the
nape of his neck, and was ramming his head against the seat in
front of him. Her action was accompanied by strident directives.
It took a moment for what was happening to register with us. But
only a moment.
"NO MAS"1, cried
Larry as he leapt from his seat and grabbed her chastising arm.
"No mas!" he blurted again, standing over her, looking
down. In response, she pulled her arm from his grip and said in
perfect English: "I can treat my son however I want. This is
none of your business".
"Oh, yes it is!", Larry shot back, moving around in
front of her to make eye contact. "Any time a child is being
abused, it's my business. I won't allow you to do that!"
Perhaps because he was standing over her, she shrank from him
then. She began busying herself with helping the boy she'd just
battered settle into his seat.
It was all over in an instant. I could feel my heart beating
rapidly in my chest. Larry quickly took his seat next to me,
giving off waves of anger. In the bus the atmosphere felt charged
but silent. No one turned to look at us. The whine of the tires on
the highway was suddenly deafening; the music had stopped.
I knew a moment of fear as I wondered what might happen to us
(for I knew I was a distinct part of this scenario). We were
vastly outnumbered in a foreign country where methods of
discipline were unknown to us. In a flash I marveled at the
effrontery we exhibited, Larry daring to confront a mother whom we
both understood to be a matriarch, certainly in charge of her
family.
But nothing happened. Soon the sound of the droning wheels
became hypnotic. The music began again. Here and there we heard
pieces of conversations. Used to processing whatever occurred to
us, Larry and I were soon analyzing the whole incident. We both
were fierce advocates for children's rights. We supported each
other in the intervention of abuse when we encountered it in
public. We had both recognized for some time that after an
intervention there was often shock, disbelief, and humiliation.
But we also agreed on the principle that the drama of the
intervention had the capacity to change people's beliefs, indeed,
perhaps their lives.
After a few minutes the boy on the mother's lap slid down and
went to a seat near the back of the bus. The mother took the other
twin onto her lap and began to talk softly to him. I peeked
through the slit in the seats and watched him rest his head on her
breast. She seemed to be loving him.
It was dusk as the bus pulled into the Guadalajara bus
terminal. Along with the other passengers, we stood to begin
gathering our personal effects. Then Larry motioned me to sit
down. "We're in no hurry," Larry said. "Let's wait
this out." As we did the woman who had appeared to be the
grandmother came up the aisle leading the boy who had gone back to
sit with her. She stopped beside us, put her hand on Larry's
shoulder, and smiled, then moved on. We looked at each other,
acknowledging an unforgettable moment, a remarkable bus ride.
