by Gwenny Svendsen
My younger brother Waylon used to dream of having an electric bike. My mom pictured cracked helmets and broken limbs, but nearly every thirteen-year-old boy like him in our neighborhood had one. I would see them, helmets tucked under their arms, proudly like trophies. You could see that they felt empowered by their transportation, a new, shiny, and dangerous tool to explore their city, Charleston, South Carolina.
The happiest people in the world live in “Blue Zones,” places where everyone is connected by walkable spaces.
It wasn’t just about the bike. My younger brothers have always had this intrinsic desire to explore. The older one, William, led Waylon to the wooded parts of my neighborhood, they built forts and trails, and when they got older, they foraged for new terrain. Soon enough, William started driving, and it became difficult for Waylon to catch up.
Waylon mowed enough lawns to get the bike. On my runs, when I’m happy feeling the repetitive thump from my feet on the sidewalk in my chest, I’ll occasionally see him and a couple of anonymous helmeted kids. I smile when I see his pink, sweaty face and excited eyes, but this is often accompanied by cars honking at them for sharing the roads.
South Carolina is filled with tiny sidewalks, limited trails. I don’t see it as their fault for trying to explore where they live. South Carolina is filled with magical locations. The greenway, colorful cafés, darling parks, but, there is always a barrier between them and our homes. An intimidating highway, a dangerous intersection, and limited crosswalks.
When I first started driving, I remember a man shyly waiting in a suicide lane and crossing the street in front of me at the last minute, no crosswalk, stop sign, or warning. I slammed on my brakes, my mom gasping loudly in the passenger seat.
When we finally caught our breaths, I turned to her with shaky hands. “What on earth? Why would he do that?!”
“I know,” She said, shaking her head. “But you’ve got to realize, it’s not his fault. There’s no way for him to cross.”
I considered this. I never thought of Charleston this way. I always loved our wonderful greenway, and before I could drive, my friends and I would use it to get to Whole Foods and buy sushi. Those were my favorite summer days, wind in my hair, racing my friends, repeating the words, “On your right!” Those days were only a taste of what South Carolina could be, what every day could look like.
I often look out my windows in heavy traffic, and I imagine us all getting out of our cars, leaving them there, and walking home. I want to cover the streets and bridges with the repetitive thump of our footsteps like a collective heartbeat, a surreal sight, but I await the day that this isn’t bizarre. I want to leave our cars, my younger brother’s electric bike, our plentiful mechanisms in our garages like a discarded helmet. All it takes are sidewalks that are just a little bit wider, parks that are just a little more connected, a blue South Carolina.
About Gwenny Svendsen
Gwenny Svendsen is a senior at Charleston County School of the Arts, where creative writing teachers Francis Hammes, Danielle Detiberus, and Elizabeth Hart have made her the writer she is. The daughter of Joey and Pricilla Svendsen, Gwenny enjoys running, cooking, and reading. She hopes to attend the South Carolina Honors College at the University of South Carolina and major in biology.