And everyone always wants to be part of the police. . .

July 6, 2011


At 5.30 this morning my eyes opened as if pulled by invisible strings.

Wide awake.

I wasn't overly distressed, as my plan was to be at the library this morning when it opens.

At 8.00 am.

But I definitely don't need two and a half hours to get ready.

My name isn't Emily.

And another hour or so of sleep wouldn't have been the worst thing in world.



That Emily is now legally sanctioned by the state to operate a motor vehicle isn't something I've accepted easily.

Most people drive like idiots.

Operate on the assumption that where ever they're going is of more importance than where everyone else is going.

Traffic lights become not an indication of when it is okay to move forward and when it isn't.

But rather an determinant of whether one should drive fast, or faster.

Racing the red light.

Yellow doesn't mean caution, red light on the way.

Yellow means, hurry the f*** up because red it coming and OH NO! you may have to wait just a few minutes for your turn so you'd better move it!

At 5.30 last evening, after dropping Em off to work and picking Keith up from work (one of the advantages of having them work at the same place. . .overlap. . .) Keith asked if we could make a quick stop at the liquor store.

He wanted Kokanee.

A beer.

Apparently made with water from a glacier.

I didn't mind taking him, so we found ourselves at the intersection of Regent Street and Prospect Street.

Perhaps the worst intersection in Fredericton.

And certainly one of the busiest.

We were the first car, in Em's car, in line for the advanced green arrow that would allow us to avoid the traffic coming up Regent Street.

Which is always nose to nose at this time of day.

And extends so far down Regent Street it's practically to the Westmoreland Street Bridge.

That's a long stretch.

Pookie and I were chatting amiably about our day, his at work, mine at the library, and plans for the upcoming evening, mine at work, his out with his friends, when we realized we were going to have front row seats to a disastrous drama neither of could prevent, but both of knew was inevitable.

The repercussions of racing the red.

The navy blue Toyota Corolla with Quebec plates was heading, at quite a speed, to the highway that heads to Oromocto.

The silver Hyundai Santa Fe, also moving at an accelerated speed, was attempting to get through the intersection and make the left handed turn from Prospect to Regent.

Both had the red light just as they entered the intersection.

Because my advanced green popped up just as these two vehicles moving at a too fast pace collided.

Squealing brakes, deployed air bags, and Keith and I sitting there thinking, oh my God did we see what we think we just saw?

Keith handed me his phone, because I have misplaced mine, and I called 911.

Reported the accident.

From what we could see, no one was seriously hurt, and both drivers and the passenger in the Santa Fe were able to get out of the vehicles.

Police, ambulance and fire truck sirens could be heard almost immediately after I made the call.

Each arriving at the scene like something you'd see in a film.

Now, we witnessed this accident.

And if I remember correctly, you are not supposed to leave, or move from, the scene of an accident until the police arrive.

But the moron behind me, waiting for the advanced green didn't seem to understand this simple, yet critical concept.

And he stated honking at me.

Well.

I decided to move.

Park at the Irving.

But not until I reminded him, in language I would rather not share here, that it was illegal to leave the scene of an accident.

So there.



After parking the car, I went over to the police to give my statement.

Returning to the car, I remembered that Keith had walked to the liquor store, and had the car keys, but, rather than locking his door, he left it open.

With my purse, my Kobo, my camera all sitting in the car.

And then I realized, my camera.

You know I did.

I took pictures.

Yes.

I.

Am.

Bad.

They aren't the best, because the damn Irving sign was in my way, but I did manage to get a few shots.

And of course, I happened to notice that the Irving had a lovely bunch of violas, colors I'd never seen before, so I took pictures of those, too.

You have to grab those opportunities.

Unless he is absolutely forced to, Stephen refuses to get gas at Irving, so who knows when I'd have the chance to take pictures.  



I am in no need of distractions.

Yet, they find me no matter how hard I try to avoid them.

While diligently working in the library yesterday, reading Blumers' Movies, Crime and Delinquency, I took a short break to stretch my legs and warm up.

The commons area of the library is lovely and cool, but after a period of not moving about very much, I find walking to the un-airconditioned parts of the library necessary.

And most often I find myself in the popular fiction section.

A new area in the library.

Most intriguing.

I came across a book with the most vibrant cover and fascinating title:

Non-fiction, this book details the life Henrietta Lacks, as well as her death.

Which ultimately proved, from a scientific point of view, to be far more valuable.

Henrietta Lacks is more famously known as HeLa.

And if you know anything about biology, cells, etc. you've heard of HeLa.

A HeLa cell (also Hela or hela cell) is a cell type in an immortal cell line The line was derived from cervical cancer cells taken from Henrietta Lacks, a patient who eventually died of her cancer on October 4, 1951. The cell line was found to be remarkably durable and prolific as illustrated by its contamination of many other cell lines used in research.

 

Henrietta Lacks is yet another in a very long line of poor African American people who were used for the advancement of medical science.

Her cells allowed for the development of the polio vaccine among other critical medical discoveries.

They have been replicated beyond the trillions.

And her own family can't afford a doctor's care.

In fact, the Tuskegee Institute, of the Tuskegee Syphilis Study, was conducting research with Henrietta's cells at the same time they were allowing poor, African American sharecroppers to die of syphilis in order to assess the long term affects of the disease.

There is also something called the Mississippi Appendectomy.

Mississippi Appendectomy – A phrase made popular by Civil Rights leader Fannie Lou Hamer referring to involuntary sterilization procedures. Beginning during the heyday of the American eugenics movement (1920s and 1930s), poor black women were made subject to hysterectomies or tubal ligations against their will and without their knowledge. The practice was considered particularly frequent in the Deep South, although coercive sterilization practices took place in many areas of the country and also affected other women of color, women with physical disabilities whom physicians judged to be “unfit to reproduce,” and poor white women as well. http://mississippiappendectomy.wordpress.com/about/

This practice also allowed doctors to practice medical procedures without the knowledge of the patients.

I read this book until quite late.

I can't put it down.

Perhaps this book is the reason I couldn't sleep last night.

Title Lyric: Car Accident by Dane Cook