It could have been anyone, but on January 4th, it was me.
One second I was crossing 35th Avenue in Jackson Heights to meet friends for dinner, my feet between two white stripes of the crosswalk, and the next, I was lying on the ground, my arm throbbing and my knees scraped. I’d done everything “right”: waiting until I had the right-of-way, carefully crossing, watching for cars – but in the end it didn’t matter. A driver still hit me, throwing my body to the pavement.
