So I’m an Irish student just transferred here for the semester and I don’t know if it’s an American thing or a Wesleyan thing, but the whole traffic situation has me freaked out. With a spot of business to attend to in the Science Center, I geared up and headed down High St. toward Church St. Having just flown into the good ‘ole USA, I thought I’d play it safe and actually use the pedestrian crossings, with vague warnings from home about this mythical law called “jaywalking” wafting through my mind.
I look for the button to press and can’t find it. But I see there is one on the other side. Well that’s helpful, all I have to do is run across the road, press the button, run back and wait for a signal so that I can safely cross. Hmmm. Maybe the Americans have mastered telepathy. So I stand there waiting, slightly perplexed, and pleading with the red hand to turn into a white stick man. I often wonder about our use of symbols. Why does a red hand mean stop? Maybe we are supposed to paint our hands red and hold it up to traffic if we want to cross. But I am glad they haven’t become completely explicit. I mean, who wants to see a stick woman squatting over a pot on a little plaque on the front of the bathroom door? A triangle with a head will do fine, thanks.
About three minutes, later I’m still standing there, looking like the tourist that I am, as others sprint across the road without even looking. They’re silently mocking me, and I know it. “Any minute now,” I tell myself. O! I was so innocent back then. The traffic slows in one lane and I contemplate crossing until a car violently swings left. This last minute signalling, or as we call it on the wee island, “indicating,” is giving me heart palpitations. It’s like the drivers here decide which direction they are going at the last possible second before nipping around the corner. I always figured the point of signals was to signal your intention. There’s not much point putting it on when you’re already halfway through the manoeuvre. Obviously, you’re going that way.
Five minutes later, I’m dripping wet and disillusioned. The red hand changes and there’s not a car in sight. I grunt to myself about how far ahead I would be if I had just crossed in the first place, and slowly trudge up the hill toward the Science Center.
Later, as I am leaving for the Science Center, I spot Weshop across the street. I decide to use up some of my “WESpoints”, a term I still find amusing, and head over, yet again, to the pedestrian crossing. This time I see a sign telling traffic to yield to pedestrians. So I’m confident this won’t be a problem so long as literacy skills are up to par, and I stride over to the white stripes on the street.
Now, either the windshields are all darkened over here or Weshop seriously needs to supply some power washers. How are you supposed to know if someone is calling you through or not? In Ireland, winking and hat tipping, friendly smiles and finger lifting and a gentle honk on the horn all indicate you’re good to go. A big wave and a smile to complete the transaction and, just like that, you’re across the road and a friend the richer. So I tentatively put my foot onto the road and crane my neck trying to see the driver. Are they slowing down or just changing up gears to finish me off? Can they even see me? I guess they are slowing so I put my faith in humankind and start to cross, still furrowing my brows, trying desperately to see some expression on the driver’s face. Now they really must want to mow me over, this weirdo staring into their car and tiptoeing across. I decide to just wave and make a break for it. Isn’t the whole point of pedestrian crossings that we can cross with ease, with the assurance that it’s safe? Instead, if a car slows down to let me cross, I find myself overwhelmed by guilt and break my neck trying to get out of their way so they can move off again. Maybe it’s just me.
Sigh. All I wanted was a Quakers apple and cinnamon rice cake and here I am questioning the very essence of who I am. With the thought of its rice goodness, I forge home, unflinching and resolute as I approach the edge of the pavement.
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