To the man I enraged today…
To the man I enraged today, I’m sorry. You see, the school nurse had called. My son is struggling with a difficult situation. He needed me. When you pulled in front of me, I thought you were going to be one of those slow cars that’s out to take in the scenery, as is often the case on that section of road. When I pulled around to legally pass you, I was only thinking of my boy, his tear-streaked face, his pain. I didn’t consider that the act of me passing would cause you to furiously floor your gas pedal. I didn’t realize that you would force me to cut you off to pull back over. I made a mistake. I’ve made many in my life. I’m sorry I underestimated the rage of a man being passed on the road. I suppose I should have tried to slow down enough to get back behind you. I suppose I should have just waited in the first place. I suppose I should try to stay invisible in this angry world full of angry men. I’m sorry. I was thinking of my boy.
Then, when you angrily sped past me, I slowed down, wondering where your rage had come from, wondering if I’d done something else, something so egregious to warrant you to cut me off, slam on your brakes, come to a complete stop forcing me to do the same, causing everything in my vehicle to fly forward, my seatbelt locking, causing me to gasp, causing my heart to momentarily stop as I narrowly avoided running into your shiny dark blue Ford Explorer with the Susan Collins sticker on it. I’m sorry you felt the need to do that.
I didn’t honk. I didn’t flip you the bird, the way I would have in my twenties and likely in my thirties. Self-righteous indignation was absent. Instead, I back off. I give you space, because I’m still thinking of my son, and how he needs me right now, and I just need to get there, and if you kill me along the way he’ll still be waiting for me with his tear-streaked face. I’m sorry that I didn’t rear-end you, as you tried to have me do repeatedly by coming to unexpected stops in the middle of the road. I’m sure that would have made you feel better. You would have taught me the lesson I so deserved. You would have hurt me, perhaps as you are hurting. I see your Veteran plates. Are you struggling? Maybe you have PTSD. Maybe it’s the pandemic. Maybe you’re just, plain, unhappy. How shall I pay for this mistake of passing you on the road? By leaving my children motherless as you seem hellbent on doing? Will that be enough for the crime of passing you?
When we get to the stop sign, I leave enough space between our vehicles so that I can escape if you get out of your car to try to hurt me again. In case you have a gun. If you had approached me, I simply would have said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were going more slowly.” Would that have been enough for you? Would you still want me to pay a price?
You stay in your car but hold up your phone and take a picture of me. You turn north. I turn south, and I am left to wonder at what has transpired. I am shaking. My heart is pounding. I am breathing as though I’ve just sprinted. What will you do with that picture? Does my questionable driving choice relegate me to a punishment to be determined by you at a later date? Are you going to track me down? Should I be afraid?
To the man I enraged today, I will not give you that power. I will not be afraid, and I will not be sorry for that; but I am sorry that you have to be you. I am sorry for whatever events in your life have led you to be a person who traumatizes a mother who just wanted to get to her boy and his tear-streaked face. That today, you could have taken me from my boy forever, for the simple offense of passing you on the road. That is something to be sorry for.