Bubble Burst

I think my most joyful moments are those with little significance. Ephemeral. Soon forgotten. Making faces at little kids on the bus. Singing the Friday song. (This song has only one word and means “Friday” in Turkish. It is sung, obviously, on Fridays.) Eating a Magnum ice cream bar while walking home without dropping a bit of chocolate coating on the ground.

My recent favorite moments have to do with soap bubbles, the ones that make my hands between sticky and slimy. I blow them on the sometimes empty playground and watch them, shiny and reflective, between the ugly concrete buildings. When there is a little wind, they are picked up and swirled in circles towards open windows and above the top floor. Surprisingly, the high school boys, who spend an inordinate amount of energy being cool, fight, almost giggling, to take the bubble bottle from my hands. The football (“soccer” no longer sounds right) playing 7th graders chase them. One very observant boy asked me why they’re different colors. They all think I’m a bit crazy, and that’s fine. I have a reputation as the nutty teacher with funny glasses who sings to herself and dances down the halls to uphold.

Last week, I blew bubbles all the way home. Random taxi drivers smiled and said something incomprehensible, macho boys, their shirts unbuttoned one too many, laughed. Some women looked at me disapprovingly. That too is fine, as I have provided them with a moment in which they can feel superior to another human being.

I like to watch as the bubbles get caught in the turbulence of passing cars. Some brave ones manage to cross the street and float in front of those who are indifferent. Some are much longer lasting than others, slowly fading in shininess, no longer oil-slickly reflecting, barely an outline between themselves and nothingness, until they disappear. I try to pinpoint that split-second between something and nothing, yet never succeed.

The other day, I saw that the lower primary kids were having a picnic on a small patch of grass, all gathered around their plates. I blew a stream of bubbles over their heads to their great amusement. Several jumped to their feet to chase and squeal. One of the teachers snapped pictures. I was pleased with myself. Shortly thereafter, a woman came up to me and verified my name. She told me she didn’t think what I was doing was a good idea. Just look at the teachers’ faces. And the kids had been sitting so nice and quietly. I had to respect her for approaching me. I don’t remember if I said anything, but quickly made my exit. I thought about it for probably too long, about how I would feel if I was a teacher in charge of the kids and a random school employee imposed herself on my picnic in such a way. I guess I understood. It took the wind out of my sails, and I didn’t blow any more bubbles that day.