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.
