Jaywalking

As a New Yorker, I often assert my God-given right to jaywalk. Pedestrian traffic lights aren't the boss of me, nor do they seem to affect most of my fellow city dwellers. We walk when we want to, oncoming automobiles be damned.

Of course, as a less talented perceiver of objects than some, I tend to be a little more cautious than most. Back in high school, I took a step past the sidewalk just in time to have an eighteen-wheel truck brush past my nose at 40 mph. Ever since then, I've taken a few extra looks before crossing the street. True, my ability to pick up moving objects is pretty good, but not when they're coming right at me. Better safe than two-dimensional.

The fully-sighted community, on the other hand, throws caution to the wind: a wind created by the cars that barely miss them. I can't tell you how many times I've almost followed someone into the street, only to see them stop just short of an oncoming vehicle's path. And then there are the people who try to push past me so they can walk into a sea of moving traffic. Ah, the sound of honking horns and angry curses.

Still, I do love the rebellious nature of the New York walker, and I try to emulate it, asserting my status as a native New Yorker, within the bounds of sanity. And if they really meant for those signs to be the law, they would have kept them as "walk/don't walk" instead of the picture of a hand (stop) versus a men's room sign (go).