The bane of suburbia… the teenage wannabe gangsta. Beware their 8 Mile lingo, tee-shirts with moderately offensive sayings, and fro-yo addiction. They’re hoodlums alright. Well, they wear hoodies and they live in the hood, well, the middle class suburban neighbor’hood.
So the last two days I’ve taken my son to the skate park at the Kirshberg YMCA in middle/upper class USA. Be careful with the bigger kids, I warned my son, I don’t know if they’re so good.
“What, those kids are bad? How do you know?”
“Well, for one, none of them are wearing helmets or pads.”
“Mommmm.”
“Plus, none of them is lucky enough to have his mom cheer him on from the sidelines.”
“Come on.”
“Oh, aaaaand I saw one of them smoking!”
“No way. No one was smoking” my little innocent said, aghast. (Kids are really anti-smoking these days. If only they knew what chimneys their grandparents were.)
“Yo G, I got 4S” one of the older kids yelled to the others.
“No way, Seri is my bitch, yo.” Another yelled back… through his braces.
Wow, you know who thinks these kids are baaad? They do. I mean, really? Is this what happens when you’re so bored of suburbia? Can their parents stop laughing long enough to tell them how ridiculous they sound?
“WHAT’S UP WITH ALL THE LITTLE KIDS?” inquired one of the white suburbanites, who got dropped off in his momma’s Beamer.
“I know, yo. Is that one on a rip stick?” The one wearing the unfortunate fashion statement of a tee-shirt, which said, “Smell my Bag,” asked… referring to MY little kid.
My ears perked up, ready to jump in with something like, “You got a problem with my son biatch???” Oh, I can do “thug wannabe” just as good as these pishers. Plus, I’ve actually lived in a city, that’s street cred, G… Props.
“Shit, that kid is bad ass, that’s hard to do.” One marveled.
Phew, he’s lucky he called my kid “bad ass,” ‘cause homie was about to get a beat down. Plus, he IS bad ass. I wonder if he knows it?
“Mom, mom watch me do this… mooooooooommmm watch! Are you watching???” Jake yelled, unaware.
Well, that answered that question.
Frankly, Jake had no problem with these boys. He climbed up to the highest ramp and chilled at the top, as all the suburban gangsta’s tried to decide where to go next. (Hollister, Starbucks, Jamba Juice?) I know, you wouldn’t want to run into them in a dark alley. It would look like this (insert squiggly dream sequence lines here.)~~~~
“Yo bro, where do you think you’re going, BIATCH?”
“Umm, I was going to Abercrombie, but take what you want…”
“F@ck that, we were going there too! I got a sick coupon, G.”
As I contemplated the irony of this scene a new playa‘ walked up to me and asked, “Are my eyes ridiculously dilated?”
Oh, this one’s the real deal, huh? Doing drugs at the park and flippant enough to ask an adult about his “tells”?
“Um. yep, kinda.” I answered, “Why do you wanna know?” I followed. Look, if he’s insolent enough to ask, I get to ask back.
“Oh, because, I just went to Dr. Rothberg, you know the ophthalmologist? He did those drops and I don’t know if I should skate in the sun before they wear off.” He replied like a kid debating whether to wait the full half hour after eating, to go into the pool.
“Well, sure sure not a great idea.” I said, trying to squelch my laughter.
“Ok then,” he said as if I had given him sound parental advice. Then he walked into the ramped- up hockey rink and yelled to his boyz, “F@ck this shit, I’m gonna get a f@cking smoothie, yo.”
“Yeah f@ck this, let’s get smoothies,” Smell my bag, concurred.
“No way, bro, I want fro yo, yo.” piped another…
And they were gone, those crazy hooligans arguing off into the sunset about toppings and calorie counts, and spoiling their appetites.
f@ckin’ thugs.
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This is what happens when you ask a bright child a simple question – you get sucked into some vortex where “kid reasoning” makes good sense and you end up regretting the question and inevitably rethinking the outcome. This is why we should all just talk to our children less.
My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I’m eagerly awaiting its passing. However, I’m not holding my breath, as it appears my husband never actually outgrew that phase himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I was throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie when J, my 7yo said, “Let’s name him Gary or Phil.”