Crossing the Street

Today is bright and sunny in Lexington, Kentucky, a quaint, charming college town fond of horses, basketball, whiskey, and tractor pulls. A day like any other day, really. I woke up and got ready to go to work at a used bookstore called Black Swan Books. The deranged book lovers that called themselves customers fill my day with sunshine and cheer as they hover around the dusty piles of books, asking to be let into the rare book room to look at the first edition of Cooking With Lye, Delicious but Deadly Recipes For the Whole Family. They invite me on trips to Alaska, and bring food of questionable origins for my enjoyment. I’ve learned to just say no to all of the above, as well as keep a wary eye out for the guy who dances in the front of the store and insists he is James Brown.

I smiled at the thought of seeing the regulars and headed out the back door, relying on the usual shortcut for my walk down Maxwell Street to the store. The sun, as mentioned above, was shining, the birds were singing what sounded like “Hi-ho, hi-ho it’s off to work we go” from Snow White and The Seven Dwarves. All was swell in my little corner of the universe. That is, until I stepped off the corner of Maxwell Street to cross Rose. That’s when it happened; when I learned what it feels like to fly without the aid of commercial airliners and friendly flight attendants wishing me a “nice day.” You see, I looked both ways: first right then left. I had the walk signal, the little white-lit person was showing me the way across the street, and it was all clear. And then, she hit me. She was driving a pick-up truck, going about twenty-five miles per hour around that corner. She had hell fire and fury in her eyes, I saw them as her bumper acknowledged my right hip. She was bound and determined to do something, and from where I stood, it looked like determination to knock me down and send me sailing into the middle of Rose Street, six feet from where I started on that bright, sunny, perfect morning.

This is the part of the story where if you were watching it on TV, in one of those made for TV movies, like maybe on Lifetime or ABC, where everything would go in slow motion and you would see a young woman being knocked into the street by the momentum of a wild and speeding vehicle. But it’s not on television—I mean this really happened--and I am not an actress in a made for TV movie that you would watch on Lifetime or ABC. I landed, intact physically but something snapped mentally. Everything seemed calmer and slower, and kind of weird .The kind stranger that stopped his car in the middle of the street and escorted me to the sidewalk turned out to be a woman, I was really disoriented and things became clearer to me later.

As luck would have it, a nursing student on her way home was walking past the scene as it happened. She congratulated me on my fall, telling me it was rather graceful and then she took my pulse and examined me. The lady that hit me almost fell into shock after the accident. She was screaming that I was going to die, then no, I was going to be ok, and if I did die, how would Jesus ever forgive her for killing me? We were both sitting on the sidewalk, me in a strange state of calmness and her in downright full-blown hysteria. I offered her my water, held her hand and reassured her that I wasn’t dead yet. At one point, she took my head, my poor just-been-hit-by-a-pick-up-truck head and shook it, begging me to forgive her. “I forgive you,” I half jokingly told her. And I did forgive her if it meant she would stop shaking me and just let me lick my wounds in peace.

She stole my glory and my attention. I should have been the one in shock and praying to Jesus to save my mortal soul. I should have been shaking my head, asking her “How could you be so careless with your vehicle as to launch me into Rose Street?” When the fire truck, ambulances, and flock of police cars showed up, they asked me to step out of the way so they could check out the injured supposed car-wreck victim. I promptly—but politely—informed them that I was the injured victim and she was the person responsible for injuring me.

Inside the ambulance, I boasted that I was fine, just some scrapes. I pulled up my shirt and showed them the really cool bruise that was sure to form from the impact of her truck. I declined a trip to the hospital and gave the police my story. Her story was that she was speeding to get her truant sixteen-year-old daughter who was, by the way, smoking on the corner oblivious to her mom’s hysteria, to school on time. If she were to be late, she would end up in jail. She claimed she never saw me crossing the street until the truant sixteen year old yelled, “Momma, slow down, you’re going to hit that girl!”

I was sent off on my merry way with the advice that it must have been my lucky day and I should purchase a lottery ticket. Everything continued as normal. I waltzed into work with a big smile and a “Sorry I’m late but I was just hit by a crazed woman driving a pick-up way to fast, do you need me to mail any orders today?” I recounted the story as I checked the store’s email account and finished wrapping a package of books. Minutes passed and I decided that I was kind of sore from being hit and needed to go home. I left and re-traced my path back to my house.

I passed Woodland Avenue, I crossed Magnolia, and then it appeared and sent me buckling to the ground in a state of panic. It was the intersection of Maxwell and Rose streets, AKA, the scene of the crime. Half an hour later and I guess my brain had done some quick “what if-ing” that I hadn’t really been aware of. What if I hadn’t been ok? What if she had been driving a little faster? What if I had hit the ground head first instead of hip first? And the biggest “What If” of all the possible What Ifs: What if it happened again? Here, again at the corner of Rose and Maxwell or somewhere else at some yet to be announced later date? I was struck with the sudden realization that I could not cross the street. Instead I sat down and did what all brave souls do in the face of adversity, I cried. Loudly and until snot was dripping down my face with the tears. Until my stomach hurt and my eyes were puffy and red. I cried until I really couldn’t cry any more, I cried until I thought that it was just silly to be crying. And then I stood up and walked home.
I wish I could say that I laughed in the face of danger from that point on.

I wish could say that I became the bravest of the brave and rolled onto oncoming Hondas and Toyotas proclaiming “A Ford F-150 couldn’t stop me, I doubt your little Civic is going do any damage!” I wish I could tell you that, but I’m trying to stop lying so much. In reality, in the days that passed after the accident, I found it so difficult to cross that street that I actually considered driving the three blocks from home to work. I would have taken the bus, but there wasn’t a bus. I would have worked from home but no one was going to transport the 4,000 books to my apartment and I wasn’t about to let James Brown in my living room to dance.

If this was a happy ending type of story, this would be were you would insert said happy ending. I could tell you that fear is to be conquered and you can’t live in fear and life is so much easier when you blah, blah, blah. But, this is not a happy-ending type of story. Did I freak out and get a little jumpy the next day when I passed the infamous intersection? You betcha. Did I worry that I might be hit again? Sure, I still do, every time I cross any street. But that didn’t stop me from crossing those two streets in the months afterwards and today, I cross streets on a regular basis without incident. Truth be told, I don’t really know how you conquer fear and I don’t think there is some magical happy answer that makes you feel warm and fuzzy after you discover the WAY. You just pull up your socks and cross the street, and maybe you look left first instead of right.

(all content Copyright National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States, 2000-2003, do not use without permission)