Of the many ways that my older brother ruined my life when I was growing up (and I say that with love because life-ruining is within the older brother remit) one that remains most memorable is his unofficial tenure as Safety Boy. When he was about twelve and I was nine, our school district installed seatbelts on the giant yellow school busses that ferried us about town. The drivers then informed us that we were not actually obligated to wear the seatbelts. And thus, no one did. Except one person: my brother, Safety Boy.
‘Safety Boy!’ the other kids taunted, as he sat, belted firmly into his place. ‘Safety Boy! Take off your seatbelt and be a rebel.’
‘I am a rebel,’ he replied. ‘I am rebelling against all of you who are not wearing your seatbelts.’
What a kid. I mean, WHAT A KID. But, of course, I was not able to recognise what a kid he was at the time; I was too distracted by the fact that despite my adherence to the non-seatbelt-wearing norm, I was quickly identified as ‘Sister Safety Boy’, to the ruination of my nine-year-old life. I refused to wear my school bus seatbelt and when I was feeling really mean, I’d sneer at my brother over the dinner table for continuing to calmly sport his belt despite the ongoing adversity doled out by his peers.
And I thought about this yesterday when I went to the bike shop after work to get some lights for my ride home, and thought to myself, ‘Jean, you know that fetching little glowy sash that you have is not really going to do the trick now that you are a lunatic cycling commuter. This is not a time to look cute. Be sensible: what would Safety Boy do?’
And then I bought a high-visibility vest.
