Jump the Bush

Jump the Bush From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk High School

The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There was this bush in the old courtyard of my high school. Its green branches stretched only about chest-high on a senior student. It sat at the edge of the gravel walkway between the main building and the library, just a short distance from the school chapel, and it always looked unkempt and disheveled. While the other bushes were neatly pruned and evened out, this bush had holes on every side. The ground beneath it was littered with twigs that had broken off. Many times, people who came to the school wondered why the administration had taken such good care of the other plants and shrubs but had ignored this one.

That's because this is the bush we used to jump.

To this day, I don't know why the students of Boston College High School, myself included, found it thrilling to jump over a little shrubbery. With our collared shirts tucked into our belted khakis, we'd run full speed from the slope of the incline of the parking lot and, upon reaching the bush, leap with all our might up and over, crashing down onto the grass and dirt of the other side. If we were lucky, we'd only catch our legs on the branches. If we were unlucky, we'd fall face first into the heart of the bush, scraping our face and hands on the pointy bristles and emerging to the sounds of laughter and taunts. It was painful. It was stupid. It was humiliating and it was unnecessary. Maybe it just kept our minds off the fact that this was an all-male high school and would stay that way for all of our high school careers.

Jumping the bush was an instant JUG, a fancy word meaning "Justice Under God" invented by Catholic schools that essentially meant you picked up trash after school for forty-five minutes. The beauty of receiving a JUG for jumping the bush meant that the Dean saw you do it. It was an honor, a sort of weird knighting into the kingdom of troublemakers. A lot of times, if the Dean was outside by the bush, we would jump it anyway just to say that we got jugged for it.

Depending on the season, the bush would take on new roles. In the fall it was a launch pad into a pile of freshly raked leaves. The vivid reds and yellows splashed colorfully into the cold, autumn air as groundskeepers yelled at us to clean up the mess we made. Sometimes, repeat offenders would have to come in on Saturday and rake up the bits of fun that had spread throughout the school week. This just meant more time to bush jump.

The winter probably saw the most bushjumpers. A loose pile of freshly shoveled white goodness made for a cushiony landing but a more difficult flight. We would slip and fall on the icy walkways as we sprinted towards the snow-capped shrub, resulting in several trips to the nurse. The bush was also the best cover for a snowball fight. Unfortunately, it couldn't protect us from an angry teacher who'd just been hit in the back of the head.

The spring was the rebirth of the healthy, green bush that we all came to love. It made a great base for a game of Wiffle ball or pickle. We liked using the bush for these types of non-incriminating games. It let us spend time with our beloved bush without the penalty of picking up empty cigarette boxes until 4 P.M.

The summer was a strange time. Even if we managed to find a bush away from large obstacles, the ground was often too hard or too damp. Landing in a swamp or running head-on into oncoming traffic just didn't do it for us. Sometimes we'd drive into Dorchester at night and jump the bush under the dull glow of the courtyard floodlights. It was almost as if the school didn't care if we jumped in the summertime, even though trespassing seemed a far worse crime than leaping over a bush during school hours.

By the time my senior year began, the school began a renovation process that would make our grounds more "modern." One little gymnasium would be turned into a full-time theater, the laboratories would receive a much-needed facelift, and a whole new building would be constructed. While we loved the idea of a renovation for our future classmates, we were shocked to hear the location of the new building: the courtyard.

Our bush's days were sadly numbered.

The school had to inevitably shut down the courtyard area to pedestrians to ensure safety. About a week before this was done, the school made an announcement that the following week all students would have to use the parking lot instead of going through the courtyard. For many, this was the last time to say goodbye to the bush.

To our surprise, a week after the announcement was made and just before the school was to shut down the courtyard, we came to find that where the bush had once sat was nothing more than a tiny stump. The school newspaper reported that the bush had been stolen the night before, taken right off the courtyard grounds. The school closed down the courtyard for construction and our bush was lost and gone forever, or so we thought.

On the last day of class, I noticed a commotion in the parking lot. There were students gathered around a single red pickup truck that had just pulled in. Two seniors whom I recognized stepped out and walked to the back to unload their cargo. We could only stand in stunned silence as they hauled out a giant red gym mat and placed it in front of the car. Then, without a single word, they went back to the truck and removed the bush -- browning, droopy, and dilapidated -- and placed it in front of the mat. They each took a seat on the hood of the truck and said, simply, "Who's first?"

It was a hot, sunny day in May that the bush came back for one final run. All day, students took one final leap over the bush onto the soft mat in the school parking lot. I don't remember where it was kept or how they managed to haul it away. It didn't matter. For one more day, our school had our bush back and we knew better than to ask questions.

That bush was more than just a bush to us. It was something that we as students of BC High had that no other school did. It was our tradition, our pride and our unity all rolled into one. Anyone, from the youngest freshman to a graduating senior, could find a sense of togetherness in jumping the bush, even if they had been divided throughout high school. That bush brought more people together than any football game, school dance or Christmas Mass ever did. When I asked the seniors who took it and what they planned to do with it, they said it best:

"We've got to let it go, man. We're graduating this year, and so is the bush."

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