Illustration by Alex Chen
First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
As I drive through the busy intersection where our crossing guard stands, I try not to make eye contact with him. It is -20 C, but feels closer to -30 with the wind chill. I am sitting in my car, seat warmer and heat blasting, hoping the high collar of my winter coat shields me from his view. I am driving my child to school because neither of us can face another minute of the brutal cold.
But he is there, as he always is, standing in his neon yellow vest. His scarf is stiff with frost, his white hair tucked under a tuque, his eyes bright and unmistakably alert. I feel immense guilt that our crossing guard – two or three decades older than me – is standing out in the cold, while my child and I sit comfortably in our car. He is there for the sole purpose of keeping my child and his fellow classmates safe, and I haven’t even given him the satisfaction of fulfilling that purpose by walking to school.
He has been the crossing guard at this intersection for three years. When I first met him, I was surprised by his friendliness – by his eagerness to engage. Before him, my interactions with crossing guards rarely extended beyond a quick thank you over my shoulder. I was firmly in my big-city bubble, unused to strangers talking to me, let alone asking questions. He cut straight through that.
The first morning we met, he asked my kids their names and what grades they were in. Each day, he engaged with them, wondering if it was pizza day, what they were looking forward to, how they planned to spend the upcoming break. I remember being caught off guard by his ease, by how naturally he treated us as people rather than passersby.
Twelve years after a fall, I still remember the kindness of strangers
Over time, I began to realize that our crossing guard knows everyone who passes his corner – children, parents, caregivers, regular dog walkers alike. When my parents visit from Vancouver and walk my kids to school, he recognizes them and asks how the weather has been out west. Each morning, he calls out greetings in every direction.
It doesn’t stop at names. He remembers details. Knowing which teams my son cheers for, he checks in after big games. “What are we gonna do about those Leafs?” he says, shaking his head. Or, brightening, he asks, “Isn’t Josh Allen the best?” He remembers when a class trip is coming up, when a concert is scheduled, when a child has been away sick.
When I cross alone, without the kids, we trade news and family stories. In one-minute conversations at the curb, I hear about his children and grandchildren – their funny turns of phrase and joyous birthday parties – his voice lifting with pride as he talks about them.
It’s astonishing how much warmth can be generated in such small doses. He turns a functional crossing into a gathering place, a moment of recognition in the middle of rushed mornings and distracted minds. In a city that often feels hurried and anonymous, he reminds me that connection doesn’t require much time – only openness and attention to the person in front of you.
As the years have passed, he has reached out in quieter, more personal ways. When my daughter graduated from elementary school, he wrote her a card, congratulating her on getting into a new school and wishing her luck. At the end of the school year, having earlier exchanged e-mail addresses, he sent us a note wishing us a happy summer. Recently, he sent an e-mail with Billy Joel’s This Is the Time attached. “These are the good old days right now,” he wrote, gently insisting I pause and appreciate this too-brief season with my young kids. The gesture made me choke back tears.
Training to be an art guide taught me a new way to see the world
Mornings and afternoons at the intersection are rarely calm. Drivers are impatient, horns quick to sound at any delay. Our crossing guard stands firm, his sign raised, occasionally whistling sharply at someone trying to inch past his blockade. He absorbs the frustration so the children don’t have to. If there is one thing we should be able to agree on, it’s that arriving a minute late is a fair price to pay for children crossing safely. He makes sure they do.
My children have grown up under his watch. He has helped them learn how to talk to adults – how to answer questions, how to ask their own. They learned to say thank you and to notice the people who help them move through the world – people with families and lives beyond the moments where our paths cross.
When I’m in the car rather than on foot, I may feel that flicker of guilt as I approach his corner, but I know he doesn’t judge. Whether we walk or drive, when he sees us he lifts his arm in a big wave, gripping his stop sign with the other hand, calling out, “Have a good day!”
At the coldest corner of our commute, our crossing guard stands every day, turning a busy intersection into something warmer and more human. By knowing us, by talking to us, by noticing us, he does the quiet, essential work that holds a neighbourhood together.
Margot Finley lives in Toronto.
