This essay was written by a sixteen year old New York City high school student.

October 2, 2003

Sighting Street Signs

The street signs always look like weapons when I am lost. To me, this direction tool is nothing but a serrated slab of green and white metal. Nothing about it is helpful, and everything I want to know is right there before my very eyes. It is no good to me, because I cannot see it.

Loved by many and feared by one, the street sign is perched motionless on a high post, like an eagle ready to pounce on its prey. I am its helpless, vulnerable prey. There is nothing I can do to stop it from torturing me, while it can do no more or less than aid everyone else.

As I cross the street and stand directly beneath the burden, I am completely lost. Above me are the answers to my problems, but I can no more see it than bear the thought of it. Hundreds of people walk by, glancing at the demon while I stand there misplaced, strategically guiding my eyes just so that I can make out the rightmost number in the sequence. All my efforts are useless. I have strained and stared until my eyes are sore, but the glaring sun is just an accomplice to the thief who robs me of my confidence.

My head is spinning, and I am doing everything in my power to not turn aside and ask the person next to me for help. At any moment, the dagger could slip from the hands in which it lies, and I will be left in a million irretrievable pieces. It hangs over my head like a freshly sharpened butcher’s knife. I manage to make out the vertical line that is part of the rightmost digit; it must be a 1, 4, or 7. I have either walked too far or not far enough. This neighborhood is dangerously unfamiliar to me, but I am more scared of the sign than the location in which it resides. I do not want much, just to know where I am. Such a simple luxury is so hard for me to obtain. I am self conscious and worried while the busy New Yorkers scurry around, knowing exactly where they are and why they are there.

I am at a loss in every way possible. I have lost my mind, sight, and confidence, and my heart races against the speeding taxi cab that I wish I was in. I am left with no choice but to hesitantly ask the lady on the corner what street this is. I have over walked my destination, and sprint breathlessly back three blocks. I glance back at the knife that was once severing my hope, and it is now nothing to me. I rush into the building and my vision is blurred; all I can see is that the eye doctor has already called in another patient.