I had the great fortune growing up in the country of Panama. We lived in the city of Colón. “I’m sure we had decent schools there, but my parents paid for us to attend the Canal Zone Schools so I could learn English fluently.”.

If you didnt know, the US controlled a territory of 5 miles on either side of the Panama Canal. They had their own workforce, own police force, their own grocery stores and of course, their own schools.

I don’t know how much tuition was for us, but the kids in my class that rode with me on the bus from Colon were from well-to-do families, so I assume it was a boatload of $$$ for the tuition. My dad was an engineer, architect, and sometimes contractor.

The transition to 7th grade was traumatic. From classrooms of 15-20 kids with the same teacher in the same room, we moved to a sprawling school where each subject was in a different classroom. It was a rather large school and also newly “integrated.”

You see, the Canal Zone schools were segregated until sometime in the 70’s. I don’t have the exact timeline, because I was just a kid. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the first year of integration, but here were tensions; not everyone was on board with integration.

Seems funny: because most of the population in Colón was Afro-Panamanian. The ones with the issues were the gringos.

There were 2 High Schools on the Atlantic side: one was Rainbow City High School and the other one was Cristobal HS in Coco Solo.

The black kids were bused from Rainbow City, and white kids from surrounding communities, including military bases.

Most of the Panamanian kids were bused in with a private service. Some enterprising bus driver saw an opportunity to make extra cash and they drove around the city of Colón picking up kids to drop off at the “gringo” school. You could always find our bus, because it was a “chiva” usually a converted Bluebird bus that’s flamboyantly repainted.

I’m pretty sure I was mortified when other kids saw me exit the multicolored bus with salsa music blasting at full volume.

As a kid trying to fit in, this was the ultimate indignity.

The school itself was impressive: a giant pool across the street, a nice cafeteria, an excellent band room, a decent auditorium, and a fully-equipped gym.

My favorite memory is playing flag football on a muddy field during a Panama rainstorm. Getting muddy and dirty was not an issue because the gym had showers and they would also wash your t-shirts, shorts and jockstraps. (I know, right?)

Now here’s the problem: students from 7th to 12th grade shared the same locker room without adult supervision.

That was a perfect petri dish for bullying. The older kids would pick on a way smaller kid and terrorize him.

I saw kids thrown out of the locker room naked, some poor kid’s head shoved into the toilet for a ‘swirly’, and of course, the snapping of the wet towel—that terrified me the most.

I learned how to become invisible.

If I didn’t call attention to myself, then I wouldn’t be picked on.

I suppose this tactic worked, as I can’t recall another instance of being bullied, except for an ‘initiation’ at Camp Chagres (scout summer camp) where, after being chased and caught, some kid peed on my leg.

The problem, I think, is I carried that into adulthood. I’m uncomfortable with being the center of attention, always trying to deflect it.

Anyway, I made some new friends in school, and I finally got up the nerve to ask this cute girl from Denmark to “couples skate” with me at the skating rink. I was madly in love. Then, just like that her parents moved to “the other side” (the Pacific side) and I never spoke to her again.

As traumatic as that was, the Torrijos-Carter treaty was signed and many of my friends’ families were making plans to move back to the states. I was worried I was going to miss my friends when they left.

That summer, my mom announced that we would be leaving and moving to the states. She said we were moving to Miami so my brother and I could go to school over there, because it would be better for us. It was summer, so I didn’t have anyone’s mailing address or phone numbers. So I never got to say goodbye to my school friends.

What nobody had told my me the real reason we were moving was because mom and dad were splitting up. Dad came to Miami and helped get us set up, and he came to visit often. I had no idea about the situation until mom started going out and dating. (another shock)

Looking back, I’d say that was pretty traumatic psychologically, but back in those days, you just dealt with things.

I’m happy to have been able to reconnect with some of my school friends on Facebook. I have even attended a reunion in Orlando where a lot of my grade school friends attended.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if things had worked out differently-all I can say is things worked out exactly the way they were supposed to! Any change would have made my life vastly different. I’m happy to say that I like the way things are.

Now if you’re reading this and wondered about this kid you knew in Panama and he suddenly disappeared, now you know why. I’d love to get in touch.

"The Chiva Bus Chronicles"- Junior High As An…