The Light that Never Turned Green

It wouldn't have been the first time.  

The first--I suppose, could have been classified as a mistake.  That is, if you classify a mistake as your mother's death grip on the minivan hand clutch and her high pitch scream of the Lord's name in vain.  

But mistakes unfortunately carry the burden of a bad reputation.  In fact, I was going too fast to safely come to a complete stop and the Lord's name was not indeed called in vain as we--me, my mother, and two sisters were returning from the 12 o'clock mass.  

Regardless, the first time was hazy even to my memory.  

Red lights are tricky that way.

Thankfully, I was able to discover at a young age that, in some parts of the world, red lights are simply a suggestion.  

While living in Vietnam, I broke traffic laws that did not even exist.  At the same time that red lights stopped portraying the gruff facade of a lawful mandate and adopted the gentle gaze of a prompt that is open to interpretation, I learned how to partake in the one-man circus that is riding a motorcycle.  

Now, as I am licensed to cruise around on two wheels in Atlanta, Georgia, the pleasures of the open road abound--but not without dangers.  

Criminals are lurking especially for unsuspecting scooters and their riders.  

If you're wondering...

then, yes.  I was a victim.  

At Briafcliff and The By Way, 11:30 p.m.  It was a Tuesday.

I am not ashamed to admit:

I was held hostage by a red light.

How, you may ask, does a girl outwit the ferocities of the Atlanta traffic system?

To be honest, I couldn’t say exactly.  But it did take raw courage, no doubt about that.   Moral conviction.  Unwavering moral conviction.  

Truly, I feel lucky to say,

I ran a red light.

Like I said, it wouldn't have been the first time.