Welcome back to Good Life, a newsletter about navigating our modern culture and staying sane in the process. This weekend, we discuss what it’s like to get hit by an immigrant in America’s new low-trust society.
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I write a lot about how it feels, as an American who can trace her lineage in this country back to the 1600s, to watch what’s happening to my home. Maybe not so specifically. But a good part of my focus recently has been on the side effects of immigration, both legal and illegal, that affect kitchen-table issues for everyday Americans.
This topic became all too real to me Wednesday when an immigrant hit my car on the way to pick up the girls from school.
I’ve been in accidents before. The typical schedule of events is something along the lines of both cars pulling over, exchanging information, sometimes the cops are called to file a report for the insurance, and then, God willing, everyone can drive away with no drama. Of course, sometimes there are heated exchanges, but most of the time it comes down to annoying frustration that adds one more thing to your plate before the accident eventually fades from memory.
I don’t think officials know or truly care what happens to an American when someone from a completely different culture than ours enters the equation.
That day, I came off the highway like I usually do and turned onto the road to the next highway I need to get on to get to school. It was in the afternoon, so traffic was much lighter because everyone was still at work. I always turn into the far left lane to go under the overpass because I know that I’ll be passing a popular shopping center and don’t want to get trapped behind someone turning in or out. As I was passing the first entrance to the shopping center, I noticed a young girl was not paying attention and had decided to pull out.
At first, I assumed she would enter the right lane since there were no cars in it and I was obviously occupying the left lane. But in a split second, I realized that she was merging across both lanes and was likely going to hit me. I’ve been driving for decades, and I leaned on my experience, deciding that the best thing to do was to speed up in hopes of a near miss. However, I drive a mom car that is quite long, and despite my best efforts, she still rammed her car into mine.
I immediately signaled, changed lanes, and pulled into the shopping center she had just exited. She followed suit. We had both gotten out of the car when I asked her if she was okay and why she hit me.
“Did you not see me? Were you not paying attention? What happened?”
That’s when she claimed in a foreign accent that I had come out of nowhere. I explained that coming out of nowhere was physically impossible. I am not the Angel Gabriel. People just don’t appear on the road. Then she tried to accuse me of driving the wrong way down this one-way street. Again, I had to explain to her that this would have been physically impossible, given where the damage was on both our cars. Her front driver’s side was all smashed up, and my back right passenger side was battered and bruised. If I had been driving in the opposite direction, as she claimed, she would have hit me on the left front, not the back right.
I stopped arguing with her and asked for her information. She immediately called who I assumed was her dad. I could hear a man’s voice but couldn’t understand what they were saying to each other because they were speaking in a foreign language. As he was on the phone, she became increasingly confrontational with me about who was at fault. I decided that the best thing I could do for both of us was to call the police and ask for an officer to come.
We sat and waited for the officer to arrive for what seemed like an eternity. About 15 minutes after I called the police, but before they arrived, her father showed up. I was standing pretty close to my car, assessing the damage again when he walked over to me. There were plenty of places to stand, but he chose to stand right next to me, shoulder to shoulder. I couldn’t have moved an inch and had to fold my right arm into my body to avoid him touching me. He was so close that it was impossible not to notice that he was much taller and bigger than me. It was clear that he was trying to intimidate me physically. He never even looked at me or spoke to me. He just stood, peering over me and speaking to his daughter in their home language.
