crossroads
I don’t really remember what happened that day that caused me to walk home from school for the first time by myself. I must have been either seven, or eight years old. All I remember was the feeling of fear, of loneliness, of frantic search for my way back home in a familiar yet strange place. Familiar because it was a place that I had frequently passed by with my mother in the car, whether on trips to the marketplace, or on the way to playdates with my childhood friends or my cousin.
Standing at the first and only intersection that blocked my path to returning home, the set of lights that trafficked inbound and outbound cars with impatient pedestrians waiting for their turn to cross, seemed ominous. Looking at the busy intersection, a wave of anxiety washed over me, and the sudden possibility of being lost and not being able to see my mother again gripped me and pushed me over to uncontrollable tears.
I knew how I was supposed to cross the crosswalks: when the pedestrian signal flashed a white walking person, I was to walk within the confined bounds, looking both ways all the while. But I had never done it myself–my mother had always held my hand and guided me.
I wanted to step forward and to run across the street to the other side where I knew my mother was waiting for me in our home. But after each attempted first step, I only hesitated and drew back in fear. I was faintly aware of other grownups around me, starting and me and wondering with pity why this poor child was crying, where she was going, and where on earth were her parents?
I looked around frantically, sobbing all the while, wishing that someone would help me.
Someone! Anyone!
They obviously must have known I was in distress, but why wouldn’t anyone offer to help? Or even ask me where I was going? Or perhaps they did ask and offer help; I was probably too scared and hysterical with tears to say anything, much less take their help.
After who knew how many lights had passed, I finally summoned up the courage to cross the seemingly endless abyss over to the other side where my home was just beyond the horizon.
Brushing my tears away with my sleeve, I took a deep breath, and waited until the next walking lights came on. There were so many cars rushing past, honking. How do I know if I can cross safely without getting hit? What if I was really lost, and would never find my way home? Then I would never see mom again… Would she ever find me? I would be alone in this world, with no one to love me and care for me…
At the same time, I knew I had to do it. Without the help of others, without my mother holding my hand. If I wanted to get home, I had to be able to take my first step and have the courage to finish in this cruel and strange world of honking cars, blinking lights, and unfamiliar faces.
Bracing myself, waiting for the right moment, I ran as fast as I would, past the honking cars, past the blinking lights, and past the unfamiliar faces.
And… I DID IT!!!
As soon as I crossed it, I felt so relieved, and yet so overwhelmed, that the tears I had welled up behind my eyes just long enough to make the journey across the street came rushing forth, spilling onto my cheeks like a tsunami wave on the beach. But I didn’t care to hold them anymore. I sprinted the rest of the way home as fast as my little legs could carry me, sobbing the entire time, thinking of my mother and my home, and saying to myself, You must get home safely! Please get home safely! Please find your way home! Please don’t get lost!
I don’t remember the events that followed thereafter, though I knew I found my way home eventually, and was reunited with my mother. I don’t even remember when I saw my mother after that horrific confrontation with the monstrous crossroad. Surely, I must have ran in her arms and continued crying for Heavens knew how long. Neither do I remember if my mother was at home waiting, or if she had gone out in search for me.
All I remember is how I had crossed my first crossroad, how scared and alone I felt, how hard it was to find courage to take the first step and to finish by myself in doing something that I had always had guidance.
The scary thing was not the crossroad.
The scary thing, was knowing the way home, but lacking the courage to take the first step, and because of cowardness, losing the way home.
I still remember clearly which intersection it was: Jackson Street and 15th Avenue in the international district in Seattle.
One of these days, I must ask my mother her side of the story.
