At the close of my afternoon stroll yesterday, I stumbled upon a tragic image that shook me to my core: a lone, dignified stop sign sitting watch over the intersection by my house, disregarded, despised, and at worst, ignored. I couldn’t help but feel for her, this solitary temptress proclaiming, “STOP.” This, I thought to myself, embodies what it means to be a woman.
The first thing I noticed was her figure. Then, I immediately chastised myself for this oversight. Why is a woman only valuable insofar as her body catches the eye? Why must she paint her cheeks with rouge – or in this case, her entire face with rouge – just to be noticed? Because to be a woman is to be perceived. Does a stop sign’s value rest in whether we see her? Some would say yes.
I stood there admiring her hexagonal shape, the way her lines refused to curve even under the weight of prying eyes, the way her face stretched up toward the sun. Just then, a gray Toyota Highlander ran straight past her – nay, through her – not even slowing to acknowledge she was there. Ah, I thought. You are not immune to the cruel invisibility of womanhood, either.
She had done all that was asked of her, and still, it was not enough. She could never be enough. Not to everyone. Perhaps not even to herself.
I wondered if a stoplight ever felt such indignities, or if they were all reserved for her. I wondered if she ever wished she had been born to a busy intersection, not this lowly side street. If her lot in life had been different, how far could she have gone? I wonder if, when her mother found out she would be having a baby stop sign, she cried.
My musings were yet again interrupted, this time by a 2008 Honda Civic. The car approached, came to a halt at her feet, then moved on to the next street. But the stop sign…she stayed behind. She had done her duty, perhaps even saved a life, but once again she was cursed to remain, destined to be surpassed, even by those who truly saw her.
She performed her thankless task because it had to be performed. Because order is order, and duty is duty.
Overwhelmed with a fiery anger and a deep sorrow, I yanked on her metal legs. I leveraged my weight to uproot her from the ground, desperate to take her from this place, to free her from this life of prying eyes and vulgar looks.
You see, I brought her home, placed her by the fire, gave her a bed and a good book. She would spend the rest of her days beloved in my room: never overlooked, always considered. The seven consecutive traffic collisions that resulted? Now, I consider that society’s penance.
