Did I Save a Young Boy's Life the Other Day? I'll Never Know
I cautiously ran across the hilly two-lane road toward home. The houses around here sit along short streets that jut out from this road, and its lanes are narrow — no shoulder, lined with dense trees. It undulates up and down soft hills, nothing too steep, but always lending to the technical difficulty of driving on it. No shortage of blind spots. If you’re from around here, you know you must pay extra attention when driving this road. If you’re not from here, you’ll learn quickly — or one would hope.
But if you’re a precious, innocent boy — maybe eight years old, I’m guessing — pushing ahead on your kick scooter, going against traffic, approaching a blind hill, obviously you have much to learn. And I, the local lady who wants the best for people, especially if you’re a precious, innocent young boy, will be the one to teach.
After I zipped across the road, looking both ways a million times, and saw him there, a complete anomaly for these parts, doing the unthinkable on this dangerous road, I only had three words.
What in the — ???
I freaked out. He was so young, so unaware, and someone’s child, and my heart couldn’t stop fluttering with sad shock. This kid knew not what he was doing. If I’d been in my car, passing by, I’d have kept going, wishing for the best for this small one. Luckily, I was on my feet and could do something about it.
Welcome to Steph’s Roadway Education 101 for Clueless Kids on Scooters!
(This boy was my first student, but trust me when I say I’d love to expand this academic offering to include all the motorized scooter child riders out there who are the beta group of tragedy before we get laws on the books to govern this really bad idea of an invention. My impassioned two cents.)
So, class commenced.
“Hey! Hello!” I waved at him. He turned around, pausing his trajectory into potential doom. “Can you come here for a second? Move over, off the road, onto the trail. I want to show you something.”
Kids are generally half cautious and half trusting, or I figure, so he gingerly met me halfway on the paved path that parallels this two-lane road.
“Hi,” I said, friendly and soft. “Are you from around here?”
He nodded and pointed at the street jutting off the road behind us. “I live over there.”
“Okay, great. And I live over there.” I pointed to the street ahead of us. “You see that grassy area?” He nodded. “That’s my yard.” This seemed to legitimize me. His face looked at me with curiosity now — my opening.
“I wanted to tell you that you can’t be riding on that road. It’s really dangerous, but it’s even more dangerous when you do what you were doing.”
He looked at me, surprised, not comprehending. This was when the meat of the lesson began.
“Can I show you something?” He nodded, a silent learner was he.
I proceeded to show him the interconnected logic of sight, speed, blind spots, and inattention. “Look at this,” I pointed to the blind hill in front of us. “Do you notice how you can’t see what’s on the other side of that hill?” He looked keenly. “That means the driver who’s coming up to that hill on the other side, towards us, can’t see us either, right?” He nodded. His face exhibited a subtle, new awareness — a small ah-ha. It was such serendipity that I could show him the actual real-world situation.
“Now, if you’re on your scooter, riding toward a car that might be coming right at you, and they can’t see you until right as they come up to the top of that hill, and they’re going fast, they won’t have enough time to drive around you. They could easily hit you.”
His eyes widened. “If you add to this that they might be looking at their phone, which they should never do but some do, then they could easily hit you.” His face showed the surprise of a new logic hiding in plain sight.
“On this road, you can’t be on the side that goes against traffic,” I explained what that meant, and he nodded, starting to see. “And I’ll be honest; you shouldn’t be on this road at all. Very few people walk or run on this road, and they only do because they don’t realize yet how dangerous it is.”
The entire lesson was delivered in the kindest, softest, most curious voice I had in me. I didn’t want to lecture in an I-told-you-so tone, but in an I-don’t-know-you-but-I-love-you-because-I’m-a-mom-too tone. And I did love this kid because his face was nothing if not innocent, sweet, and so dear.
This is how it is with us humans — we’re in this together. I only enrolled this kid in my Roadway Education 101 class because I knew if I didn’t say something, he’d be vulnerable to tragedy. Obviously, his parents wouldn’t want him doing what he was doing, but they clearly didn’t know about it. I felt that if all I did was advise him to stay off the road, that might not be enough. If I showed him the blind hill concept and that there was no wiggle room on the road, then he’d understand why and how a road can be quite serious. This was what I hoped to give him, wrapped gently in a human-to-human box with a bow on top — with love.
I know as a species, we can loathe, shun, abandon, and kill. But we can also do the opposite — love, accept, care for, and risk our lives for.
I’ve said this over the years: We commit genocide just as we give our lives for each other. I know this is harsh, but if we think about ourselves as a collective species, it’s true. I think it inspires us to be better and do what we can to work together. I know this might sound pie-in-the-sky, but it’s what the majority of us want every day.
We’re a social mammal, and the spectacular thing about us is that if we try, we can redirect our thinking to best-practices mode. It starts small, with young boys on kick scooters moving against traffic on a blind hill, and branches out to larger opportunities.
I encourage you to open your own roadway education class. I can advise you. Be kind and soft, and hope it makes a difference. If roadway education isn't your thing, go with your gut and help where help is needed. We're all in this together. Will we save a life? Change a life? Make a difference? We often never know, but it's better than the alternative.
I hope all is well, my friends.
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