I almost died on the first day of this semester.

As a naive transfer student, I sauntered out onto Hillsdale Street in front of an oncoming Ford F-150, wheel wells rusted high up into the bed and aftermarket exhaust growling, on the assumption he would stop for me. Not so.

Far be it from me to live out the stereotype of the transplanted coastal Californian endeavoring to alter the social and legal fabric of his new community into a crude imitation of his home state.

Still, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the pedestrian-driver relationship here in Michigan. In my few weeks here, I’ve realized that it represents one of the most pressing safety concerns facing freshmen, as well as one of the most profound cultural divisions between students.

On Sept. 10, Dean of Men Aaron Petersen, Associate Dean Jeffery Roberts and Head of Security Joe Kellam addressed the bright-eyed men of the freshman class with the usual orientation information: Email courtesy, the importance of physical fitness and respect for the fairer sex, and how to get the most out of academic services.

Then they brought something up that spoke to my direct lived experience.

Community members, it turned out, were calling in dozens of complaints about students walking into the street in front of them.

I realized that I was one of those people. Back home, north of San Francisco, a pedestrian must only stand on the sidewalk and cast his eyes across the ribbon of asphalt to have any car stop for him to cross at his leisure. No need for a crosswalk — the weight of authority rests with the jaywalkers.

It’s a simple system, conducive to strengthening the social order through the submission of the greater force — two tons of rolling steel — yielding to the weaker, namely, 145-pound me. I prefer this system, if not the legal structure of it.

In Michigan, drivers are bound only to yield at designated crosswalks.

“Michigan drivers seem to have no regard for human life,” said freshman Isaiah Sasser, from Oregon. “You know, they don’t share the liberal values of my home state, which I disagree with, but I guess those values did keep me from getting plowed over and turned into a fine red mist on the street.”

Automotive crashes are responsible for more than 40,000 deaths annually in the U.S., and pedestrian death rates increased 50% between 2013 and 2022, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and in Michigan specifically, pedestrian deaths rose 61% from 2012 to 2022, according to Bridge Michigan.

Not all students on campus share my ironclad conviction that the drivers are to blame for their approach to vehicular safety.

“You know what the real problem is? It’s the condition of the roads here in Michigan that are to blame,” said Michigan local and freshman Jordan Nelson. He said that he thinks the roads have conditioned drivers to be passive, fatalistically oblivious to potholes and pedestrians alike. “Besides, what do you think makes sense? Of course you should get out of the way of the F-350.”

Other students echoed his sentiment.

“I’m from New Jersey, man,” said freshman Cayden Gibello. “We don’t even try to cross the street.”

The Hillsdale ethos aspires toward self-governance. I’m disinclined to recommend that the scope of the law here should change, or that the faceless machine of regulation be given more authority. Instead, I’m merely suggesting that those blessed with means of vehicular conveyance tap the breaks every now and then, when a skittish freshman runs, rabbit-like, in front of them.

As Hillsdale begins to feel more like home, I can appreciate the shared experience of life here with my classmates, as well as the beautiful diversity of thought I find among them; such as those who wish to live and those who, it seems, wish to be hit by a truck.

Among Western Heritage papers and the ever-present debates on the wisdom of Protestants dating Catholics, I’ve learned another simple but powerful lesson: Here, the admonition to look both ways means you have to wait if you see a car coming.

Strength rejoicing in the challenge, it turns out, doesn’t mean taking that F-150 head on.

Henry Fliflet is a junior studying the liberal arts.