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In the 90s, it was possible to encounter Tupac Shakur in a variety of ways. You could have been a fan of his music and videos. You might have spotted him in a couple of movies. You probably heard his name come up in the East Coast/West Coast hip hop feud. There was his tragic, early death. And I don’t think anyone could forget the hologram.[1]
I had my own unique experience with Tupac, and it began on my commute home from school one day.
In High School, I was a bus kid. I lived far from school, and my parents left the house early for work, so each morning I trekked to the bus stop up the block and had awkward 7-word conversations with the kid who lived a few houses down from me.
Riding the bus wasn’t bad. We had cool drivers who played great music, and we loved putting the windows down and decompressing after a day in the H.S. trenches. I remember zoning out to Sheryl Crow (“All I Wanna Do”), Counting Crows (“Mr. Jones”), and John Mellencamp (“Wild Night”) as we bounced along the bumpy roads to and from school. The bus offered a much-needed space between the intimidating walls of high school and the “no one understands me” angst each of us felt at home.
The problem was that it was completely uncool to ride the bus after Sophomore year. Some people even stopped mid-Sophomore year. If you didn’t have your license and a car of your own, you found another way: you walked, you hitched a ride with your friend or neighbor, you biked – you did anything except take the bus.[2]
Unless, of course, you were ok with being “uncool.” And I, for one, was down with it. I was already on the outskirts for other reasons (included but not limited to my sense of style), so the bus thing wasn’t going to make or break me. And it’s not like I had options: my parents weren’t down with me riding with friends, and I didn’t qualify for a learner’s permit until halfway through Junior year. Even if I’d gotten my license when everyone else did, it wouldn’t have mattered because my family didn’t have a spare car to leave in a High School parking lot all day.
So I bussed it. The good news? I was in there with a crew of people I actually didn’t mind too much. I knew them from homeroom, my days playing in the orchestra, and lunch spots that were not the cafeteria. Most of them were boys.
I felt comfortable with these guys. They were nice to me, they understood me, they cheered me up when other kids let me down, and we all respected each other.
But Tupac wouldn’t let the situation stand.
Picture this: On the way home from school one day, me and my bus crew are laughing, complaining, and gossiping. Suddenly, “California Love” by Tupac Shakur comes on the bus radio – that catchy “DUHHHHHHHH-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh DUHHHHHHHH-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh” at the beginning of the song – and the guys just . . . lose their minds. They all leap up, shout “Ohhhhhhhhh!” and start patting each other on the back. They dance in their seats, sing along, and eventually enter into a euphoric, bro-y state. I just sit, silent and confused.
Even after the song ends, they’re still in their own guy land, validating each other’s masculinity. They start talking to each other about Tupac, about how cool the “California Love” music video is, and then about . . . I don’t know, guy stuff. They slip into a language I cannot understand. I catch brief snippets of cars, sports, and . . . oh no, girls. I panic. I’m not supposed to be here! I’m not supposed to hear this! I really don’t want to know what you think about Amber or Jenna or Katie. Don’t wanna know!
That afternoon, I realized that my “one of the guys” stint was coming to a quick close, at least for the time being. Something was suddenly happening that I couldn’t really be a part of. These guys were having a teenage male bonding experience, courtesy of Tupac, and the only role available for a girl seemed to be as the subject matter of a conversation about sex appeal. No thanks.
The “California Love” moment taught me that I had to accept some changes. I was becoming aware of a thin, semi-permeable wall that was growing between me and my boy -space- friends. I had to accept that we were advancing through High School along parallel, but distinct, paths.
To be clear, it wasn’t like I never spoke to these guys again. We casually caught up while waiting for class to start. I continued to study with some of them in the library. We chatted on the way to class. But we gave each other space. And then, gradually, as we rounded the bend into Senior year, we learned how to socialize with one another again in a comfortable way. It took awhile, but by the time we were approaching graduation, we gathered again as the bus kids, long past caring what others thought of our mode of transportation.
And yeah, I’m gonna say it: we kept it rockin’.
[1] Ok, the hologram wasn’t until 2012, but I had to include it.
[2] I just want to point out that the bus was way more sustainable than what everyone else was doing. Kind of. Today it’d be cool.