I remember the excitement, hurrying forward, little steps at a time, not knowing when

my playground friend would turn around. The light was green, but at any moment he could

turn on me and throw me out of the game. This time I was pushed just a bit too far.

When he finally turned around yelling, red light, I was still moving from the momentum. I

was done, tagged and out. But that one particular game, my mom was watching, and she was furious.

Richard, she yelled. Richard, what are you doing? Playing, I responded. My mother numbered

forward and grabbed my arm, almost lifting me off the ground.

What are you doing? She repeated. I'm just, you're out, Richard. He got you.

The way she said it opened a pit in my stomach. I'm blinking. She was on the breaking point.

Please, Richard, please, you must take this seriously. Can you do that for me?

Okay, I nodded. She held me close, ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead.

As she stepped back, her smile faded. Again, she said, taking a deep breath,

tried to do better. For years on end, that was my spare time. While other kids played basketball

or soccer, I played red light green light. Sometimes it would start out of nowhere.

My mom would turn to me suddenly, making a scary face and yell, red light.

If I reacted, she'd turn me to my room or take away my toys.

It was as if the game never really ended. In the checkout line,

had the supermarket, had the movies during dinner, all the time.

It was so common that it didn't even sound like words anymore. Green light and red light

were just these barking noises that made me stand at attention.

That's why, when I write red light without the spaces, it just doesn't sound like words to me.

That participated sometimes, but it was never enthusiastic. If anything, it annoyed him.

...