Flag Lady

I haven't seen her in years. But I still remember the old lady, with her short, unkempt hair under her blue newsboy cap, her bulging middle outlined by her ill-fitting vest and her bell-bottom jeans. I remember the shopping cart she pushed down the streets, always circling around the same ten blocks. The rainbow flags in her cart stood out most of all, and thus we dubbed her the Flag Lady. No one actually knew who she was, where she came from, or where she lived. No one talked to her, fearing instability, scared that she'd lash out at them. She was crazy, and not worth anyone's time.

There was a time Flag Lady wasn't such a suburban legend to me. I first saw her when I was three, and she seemed so fun with her rainbow flags. I had no idea what the flags meant, but I would beg my parents to buy one, always pointing whenever she passed. After all, rainbow was my favorite color. Flag Lady ignored me, used to the stares and the pointing, and my parents ignored me, not wanting to approach someone mad.

As I grew up, like the other school children, I endlessly taunted her. My friends and I would come home from school, racing to the end of the street, our mothers half a block behind us, taking their time gossiping. And as we stood at the corner, we'd see Flag Lady, pushing her rattling cart across the street. Always at the same time, always down the same path. Our laughs would fall into a hush.

At least, for the first few months. The hush would become quiet sneers, and after another few months, loud jeers. We were eight years old, obnoxious, and influenced by everyone's ideas of her being crazy. Our mothers, who were far behind, assumed we were talking to an imaginary being. By the time they reached us, Flag Lady would be gone. They would never see her, acknowledge her.

Once in fifth grade, one of the boys I used to walk home with whispered to me that he knew the secret identity of Flag Lady. We both made excuses to go to the bathroom, and our dismissive teacher let us both go, not questioning why we'd want out at the same time. We met in the hall, and he told me a tall tale he heard from a friend of a friend of a friend. He told me Flag Lady was secretly very rich, but she had married a man and then hurt him since she was so crazy. The man took all of Flag Lady's money, sold their house, and ran away. Clearly, he was in the right. The rainbow flags should have warned me of the inconsistency, but I still had no idea what they meant, living sheltered in my shallow, self-centered existence. Not for a moment did I question the story, not even when my teacher came out to the hall and caught us, telling us that ten-year-olds shouldn't be talking about such things. 

 For seven years, I saw Flag Lady roam the streets. I heard crazy rumors about her pushing someone down the stairs, or running someone over with her shopping cart. They got crazier and crazier, and eventually, her name became Crazy Flag Lady. And then, she disappeared. It was as if she fell off the face of the earth, and out of everyone's memories. She wasn't worth it, nor were her rainbow flags.