“GREEN LIGHT!”

A stampede of eight-year-olds started bear crawling to the other end of the gym. As fast as we could, we slapped our hands to the floor and had our knees follow.

“RED LIGHT!”

Stop. Breathe, loudly. Giggle.

“GREEN LIGHT!”

Arms slap and knees crawl.

“RED LIGHT!”

Almost there.

“GREEN LIGHT!”

I crossed the other side of the gym, eighth.

***

We give traffic lights a lot of grief. We yell, when they are red. We freak out, when they are green, because they might turn red. Yellow? Is that even a color we pay attention to? As an occupant of any vehicle, there is this visceral reaction to any car in front of you that is coasting a yellow light; because you may not make it past before it turns red. When I’m going from Midtown to Downtown, in the extremely infrequent taxi ride I take from my office, I cross my fingers, hoping street after street, traffic light after traffic light that I am blessed with green. There is this rush that I get when my bootleg relationship counselor of a taxi driver hits all greens until Penn Station, where I know we will have to stop. And then, we stop and I tap my foot, waiting, screaming internally, for the flock of human beings to make their way from one side to the other.

To make it even better, as a pedestrian, we get a hand, which to any Northeasterner, means nothing. We also get a walking white figurine, which to any Northeasterner, means nothing. And I say “to any Northeasterner”, because there are these transplants here who actually follow the signs and stand. Yes, I know, god forbid anyone stands and waits. The most invigorating moment, however, happens when the hand is up but the light is red. Engines are revving, Californians are stopping, and you have to make the decision, “Do I cross and keep going or wait and waste time?” I half-waddle, half-run, breath held, to the other side, with my behemoth laptop bouncing up and down in my backpack, and I breathe and never look back.

We learn to hate traffic lights. There are even cameras on a bunch of them so that the traffic people of the world can get a piece of our hate and then package it up all nice and send it right back, for $105.

***

Traffic light was my favorite Gym game in elementary school. The hand-eye uncoordinated, peach fuzz rocking little eight year old, who should have had a Crest endorsement for the amount of airtime it got on my 13mm overbite, felt at home stopping and going and running and crawling.

I never looked right. I never looked left. I only looked forward.

In all the noise, I listened for the “red light”, and in all the silence, I prepared for the “green light”.

Some days Ms. McCall (my gym teacher) had us grapevine. Some days we would gallop or bear crawl. My favorite days were the ones where we would do high knees or butt kicks. I was a great butt-kicker, still am.

I wonder if kids play traffic light in elementary school anymore, or if they are just told to run as fast as they can to the finish line. I wonder if the “adults” who played traffic light still relish coming in eighth, having to stop even in our fastest stride. I wonder if I am okay with stopping when I want to go and waiting when I want to start.

I was never first, but I was never last. I was always around eighth. I only know this as I recollect playing. As an eight year old, I never knew where I fell in the class. I would just get to the end, brush my baby hairs out of my face, and direct my extremely enthusiastic incisors to the kid on my left, let’s say Michael, and the kid on my right, let’s say Julie.

Whoever won, usually always won. It was usually a boy. Whoever lost, usually always lost. It was, also, usually a boy. Once again, though, it really did not matter.

When we would line up on one end of the gym, I would always stand amongst familiar people, never with the popular kids. I never benchmarked myself on the people next to me, but it just felt nice to have people I knew around me. And, if I would get to the end faster, I would cheer them on, and if they got to the end before me, I could hear the “You got it Shweta!” in my “red light” pause.

Nowadays, I have no time to play traffic light. But, I do have all the time to curse them.

I curse the hand that delays my daily walk from Times Square to Union Square, by even a minute.

I curse the drivers who get the green light, because they may get where they want before I get myself home.

I curse the walking white figurine, because when I see other people crossing the road, I cross the road, even though I have no business crossing in the first place.

I curse stopping.

I curse the anxiety of not going.

I curse all the honks and screams and arguments when I do go.

I curse overlooking that I will get where I want to go, eventually.

I curse blaming myself for making my destination so far.

I curse getting angry if I have to stop.

… I curse forgetting the yellow light.

And, we’re back. The yellow light — the yellow light that we forget about, the yellow light that we speed through in our cars, the yellow light that we use to bolt across the street. We are so caught up in the red and green, that we forget the yellow, we forget for what we need yellow. Traffic lights are not hung for aesthetic purposes, so I doubt that the yellow light was included to look pretty.

“Green means go. Red means stop. Yellow means slow down.”

Slow down? Why? I will be late. I won’t get there on time.

Late for what? On what time?

***

Have you ever travelled somewhere by plane? I just came back from India. I had a 12-hour flight to Dubai, and from Dubai, I had a 2.5-hour flight to Ahmedabad.

JFK -> Dubai

Dubai -> AHM

That was what my boarding pass said. What you do not see, though, is that I had a 2-hour layover in Dubai. Two hours to deplane, pee, wash my face, brush my teeth, get some hot water and lemon, eat a protein bar, pee, drink coffee, buy some dates, pee+, and make it to my gate. I sat on my plane to Ahmedabad, relaxed. I did not have to pee. I was not hungry or thirsty. I was not anxious that my plane ride was going to be too long.

I had come all the way from the States to Dubai and that was pretty cool. I had never been there before. I would be en route to India soon. Somewhere I had an idea of, somewhere familiar but far.

***

The yellow light is our layover. It is our moment to pee, to wash our face, to prepare. It is our pause- our pause to assess where we have come and prepare for where we may go. It is our solace to catch our breath after running. It is our silence to stare at our scraped knees before the world screams “GREEN LIGHT”. It lets us take our foot off the gas pedal and slow down, so that we never have to slam the breaks. It calmly advises us to “be,” instead of commanding us to “stop” or “go”.

The orange hand might not just be some wall that is meant to stop us on our way. Maybe it’s a high five. Maybe it’s a hand hug. Maybe it’s a V8 smack to the head reminding us to be, to relax, to recover.

Why did we never curse when Ms. McCall yelled “RED LIGHT”? Because we got a second to tie our shoes, to wipe our noses, and to take a deep inhale. Why did we appreciate the yellow light as children, but have no time for it as adults? Why do we see succumbing to the yellow light as failure? Why did I even use the word succumb there?

I tend to confuse “in my own time” with “the time when everyone else does it.” It’s funny because everyone else is a very large group of people. 7 billion minus 1, to be exact. As an eight year old, I understood I had no business in keeping track of when the other 20 kids in my class crossed to the other end of the gym, so why do I think I am capable of keeping track of when the rest of the world makes it? As a child, I saw it as the other side of the gym, just another location. Today, I see it as the finish line. When I get to the “finish line” I’m not brushing hair out of my face or smiling at Michael or Julie. I am no longer celebrating all the stop’s and go’s. I am no longer thankful for the breathers. I am upset because I could have walked faster, gone farther; I keep coming in eighth.

“YELLOW LIGHT”

42nd street to 14th street is 28 streets. 28 traffic lights. 28 red lights. 28 green lights. 28 hands. 28 white figures.

28 yellow lights.

I understand Atticus Finch’s sentiment, but we must realize we are walking in our own shoes. We are not expected to walk in anyone else’s. We are not expected to be anyone else. We are not expected to hit every green and cruise. We will not be chastised for hitting every red and taking a couple minutes longer. None of these expectations are imposed on us, unless we impose them on ourselves.

We will always be that bunch of sweaty kids. We know each step is just another location. There is no finish line, because we will always keep moving forward. We know that today Ms. McCall told us to grapevine, but in tomorrow’s gym class, we will have to buttkick. We know that with greens will always come reds. We know we will get nothing from looking at how fast the people on your right and the people on your left are going. We know that even if we doubt ourselves, we just have to listen out for the support in our pause.

28 possibilities. 28 lessons. 28 pauses.

On days we drive, on days we walk, on days we play, remember that gym floor. Remember sliding in the dust. Remember squeaking your shoes. Remember slapping and crawling. Life is a game. There is no finish line, just a temporary pause-a timeout.

Slow down, be. Stop.

I promise you will not miss the green. The car behind you will make sure to honk. Let the pedestrians cross. Watch them and know they have their own paths ahead. Stand at your corner and do not worry if the white figurine is in the opposite direction. Let them walk. There is no need to worry, as you will walk soon. You will make it to the other end of the gym, some days faster than others. You will come in eighth, but that does not matter. You are here, now. Be here. Remember what direction “there” is. Inhale.

“GREEN LIGHT”