The Power of Dignity

The intersection at Wilshire and Little Santa Monica has a crossing guard. He wears a bright orange vest and carries a red stop sign. His shoulders are big and crooked and his head tilts lopsided on one ear. The effect is no visible neck and an upper body which turns entirely when he looks both ways.

Little Santa Monica is the main street of Beverly Hills. Along this drag other famous streets intersect: Rodeo, Beverly, and Canon. Along these streets sit many high end shops: Armani, Gucci, Christian Dior.

When I drive down Little Santa Monica I notice the people. I watch them at stoplights and scan their clothes, their bags, the way they walk. Mostly I see tourists looking for movie stars, but there is a smattering of the Beverly Hills crowd too. A couple business men cross the sidewalks in suits on their way to lunch. A woman carries her toy dog beneath her arm and ducks into Coco Chanel. A famous man hides behind sunglasses, baseball cap, and goatee.

On this particular day, I watch the crossing gaurd. He waits until the little white man appears on the meter and then charges into the street. His red sign is held high, his head tilts sideways, and his arm stretches out in a stiff "Halt!"

The woman on the curb moves impatiently. In her black heels and sunglasses she hurries off the curb and into the street. When she reaches the crossing guard she turns her body and veers away from him, careful not to touch him.

He, on the other hand, stands resolutely holding back the current of cars for her. The earnest look on his face warms my heart, and I press the breaks a little harder.