It was me, camping at the red light

I was sitting in my car at a stoplight the other day, probably engulfed in deep thoughts about how great donuts are or why miniature horses exist, when the gentleman behind me began honking repeatedly.

Looking into my rearview mirror only presented a view of the good fellow’s knobby tires as he appeared to be piloting a truck designed for emptying the contents of a strip mine or towing a cruise ship. As any good American would, I immediately assumed that the fault lie with the behemoth driver behind me, that he was erroneously targeting me for a perceived mistake in what is certainly flawless driving, or that he was signaling someone, possibly an individual in Tok, given the intensity of his blasts.

Horror then struck me. It was me; I was sitting there like a student driver not turning right on a red light. I was at fault.

One of the wonderful things about driving is that you can pretty much always blame the other people on the road. You can cut people off, honk randomly, drive slowly in the left lane, all the while placing the blame squarely on the boobs surrounding you. We do not have to justify our actions and certainly are not asked to look anyone in the eye and explain our behavior. Or maybe that’s one of the horrible things about driving. Regardless, we rarely have to admit mistakes, and when we catch someone in an error, a justified honk or stink eye goes a long way toward encouraging their atonement. They, of course, respond with obscene gesticulations and accusatory honks, blaming you for all that is wrong in the world and telling their coworkers and family of the incredible stupidity of another faceless, nameless driver. Clearly, this is not human interaction at its finest.

But there was no dodging this one. I was robbing the individual behind me of seconds of his life, wasting precious moments by forgetting where I was. That, by the way, is my artful dodge, my abstention from blame. You see, in Europe it is illegal to turn right on a red light. So it wasn’t the Neil Diamond pumping from my speakers that was distracting me, it was the fact that for the last four years I was denied this basic human right, this precious ability to move my car when the light is saying no but my brain says yes.

I think this freedom is really one of the defining characteristics of Americanism. Not the freedom to be a poor, oblivious, driver mind you, but the freedom to edge your car around another, check for pedestrians and make a break for it when the opportunity presents itself. When this cherished freedom was absent, I often would become livid as I sat waiting to turn right when no cars were approaching. To be denied this hegemony over one’s own vehicle just struck me as wrong and inefficient. Sure, my European friends were critical of the U.S.’s reputation for litigiousness, girth and pedestrian hostility, but do these really come close to the negativity brought about by limiting one’s ability to judge a situation for yourself and decide on action?

There is a somewhat legendary line from the British television show “Top Gear” in which the host is traveling through an American city like he is on some kind of safari, when he notices a car turning right on a red light. In response he proclaims: “See that there? He’s turning right on a red light, that is America’s only contribution to Western civilization.”

This is undoubtedly funny to the population of Brits who still believe in the greatness of the British Empire and who refer to the United States as “The Colonies,” but offensiveness aside, if an Englishman will recognize anything of worth coming out of America then we must be on to something.

So I will try to do better in the future. To all of the people who have been stuck behind me while I lollygagged on a right turn, wasting seconds of your precious lives, please accept this article as my contrite apology. The process of coming home and fully reintegrating into society is a slow one; once I have reclaimed the portion of my brain in charge of turning right on a red light, I then promise to focus on the glaring deficiency of Carhartts in my wardrobe.

Pete LaFrance grew up in Palmer and has moved back to the area after a number of years living abroad.