We were coming home from a band clinic, and I was riding in the car with the band director’s wife and son. The son was a couple of years older than me, and he was driving. We were all sitting in the front seat of one of those big, 1950s cars. We stopped for church, and afterwards his mother asked to trade places with me. I moved to the middle of the front seat, and she moved to the right. That’s the last thing I remember.
Karma is the idea that the universe is ruled by cause-and-effect associations: that actions have consequences, good or bad. My mom instilled in me the idea that sometimes you need to be the voice, the conduit, for karma.
Years ago, I was indirectly hit by an impaired driver. This person hit the car behind me, and that driver in turn hit me. We could smell the alcohol on the impaired person’s breath. The police were called, but the police officer was reluctant to take the driver in question to the station for further testing, because there were no beer bottles in the car and they could walk a straight line.
The other injured driver and I tried to reason with the officer, pointing out that maybe the impaired driver had been drinking at a friend’s house or a bar, and that was why there were no bottles in the car.
When your life truly flashes before your eyes and you think, “This may be it—my last moment on planet Earth,” it is not a cinematic moment. There is only spinning. The sharp scent of gunpowder. A tree directly ahead. An airbag that hits you square in the face as you think, “Death by tree.”
Then everything stops. There are gurgling sounds and dusty smoke.
For a second, I wondered if I was waking up in heaven. Then came screeching sirens and flashing lights.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
Safety Is Not Optional Read More »
It was December 1975, one month after I gave birth to my daughter. I had spent that month in a sleep-deprived state as I cared for her and my two-year-old son. I was also suffering from postpartum depression, a diagnosis not yet a part of the medical lexicon.
Most of all, I felt imprisoned. It was too cold to push the babies in the double stroller, and we did not live near enough to any indoor space where I might find an outlet for my locked-in feelings. That was why I convinced my reluctant husband to watch the children so I could go for an early-evening drive.
Dear readers,
I grew up in New York and have lived and worked in and around the city my entire life. Some news outlets and politicians like to paint big cities with a broad, scary brush, so that many people think that New York subways are a dangerous way to travel, akin to taking your life in your hands.
Statistics prove that there are far more dangerous ways to travel, and that’s been my lived experience, which is this:
I can name five relatives, all under twenty-five, who were killed in motor-vehicle accidents.
March More Voices: Motor-Vehicle Accidents Read More »
