Members of the class of 2011 ventured on the annual grad trip this past Thursday and Friday, set to tear madly through Disneyland and California Adventure alongside thousands of other graduating seniors and a few hundred overtaxed, underpaid chaperones. Rumors came via text on Friday that bus number two broke down just below the Grapevine, stranding a group of anxious teens and one reportedly cantankerous bus driver.
I don't know what any of this means, but there must be some symbolism somewhere.
For four exciting hours they sat on a bus. They reminisced, they laughed, they slept. Some perhaps joked about this final ride on a yellow Blue Bird with black trim. Internally, many of them reflected that they've crossed some milestone; they acknowledged a sense of wisdom they've acquired, and how it already exceeds that of their classmates around them. They know better, but they can't help but believe that they are better. And in these thoughts, they remain reliant on their parents' (who helped finance the trip), their teachers (some of whom sit among them), and the company of their classmates and friends.
Then, the world stands up and beats it into them: You are still a child, it scolds, reminding them of their coddled rearing. You can't fix a casserole! What will you do with the engine of the bus? The rest of the planet is whizzing by--even the slow lane is a blur--and there they are, in shock and on the sidelines.
I don't know what any of this means, but it's got nothing to do with The Rapture.
