No Turn on Red (But Plenty of Projection)
Imaginary Viola Mae:
The Fictional Woman Everyone Knows But Me
The other morning, far too early for drama, I found myself doing something quietly noble: obeying a traffic sign.
Specifically, a bright red “No Turn on Red” at a freeway on-ramp — a sign that exists for good reason (blind curve, high speeds, collective chaos, etc.).
So I waited.
Alone. Obedient. Half-asleep. Lawful.
Basically a minor civic hero.
That’s when a perky little convertible pulled up behind me — top down, music up, driver... visibly distraught.
Baseball hat. Animated shoulders. Hands flailing in a universal ballet of “WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE, RANDOM SEDAN?”
I glanced in the mirror.
I've met this archetype before.
So I made a considerate plan:
When the light turns green, I’ll take the right lane. That way, Mr. Convertible can do whatever Mr. Convertible needs to do. I’m thoughtful like that.
Light turns green.
I go. I leave space.
And just as I’m accelerating, I realize —
he’s not behind me.
Nope.
He zips off into a random side street at the speed of urgent injustice.
And before disappearing, he raises one hand and delivers the ceremonial middle finger — skyward, theatrical, as if hoisting the emotional torch of all who’ve ever been delayed at a traffic light.
And I just… blinked.
Because I had been so reasonable. So non-confrontational.
I even changed lanes for this man.
But that’s when it hit me:
He wasn’t flipping off me.
He was flipping off his idea of me.
Some rogue character he cast in the role of Villainous Rule-Follower #3.
A sleep-deprived outlaw, refusing to turn right, just to spite him.
His imaginary Viola.
And honestly?
It was kind of… fascinating.
I wasn’t angry.
I wasn’t flustered.
I didn’t script a revenge monologue in my head.
I just thought: Huh. That’s interesting.
Later, I tried to share this observation — not to vent, but to reflect.
Like: Isn’t it wild how people respond to projections of us, not actually us?
But instead of curiosity, I got counter-rage.
One person suggested I install a rear-window display that reads:
“NO TURN ON RED
..........GENIUS.”
(I mean… satisfying, yes. But also: not the point.)
Because they weren’t really responding to me, either.
They were defending their version of me — the indignant, wounded version who needed justice and solidarity.
And that’s when it hit me again:
People aren’t reacting to you.
They’re reacting to their idea of you.
Their Empathy Viola.
Their Rage Viola.
Their "Why-are-you-ruining-my-morning" Viola.
The driver?
He wasn’t mad at me.
My colleagues weren’t consoling me.
Everyone was just playing their part in a projection I didn’t audition for.
And we all do this.
We assume. We assign motives.
We create characters out of strangers and then react to those characters as if they’re real.
I wasn’t sharing the moment for comfort.
I was sharing it because it was fascinating.
A real-time reminder of how quickly we get cast in someone else’s narrative —
and how quickly we do the same.
I’m not trying to teach anything.
I’m just someone trying to live with their eyes open.
To remember:
The villain in your story may have no idea they’re in it.
The person offending you may never have seen you at all.
And sometimes, a middle finger is just the exclamation point at the end of someone else’s imaginary monologue.
Also?
This feels like a card.
For the real Violas of the world —
the ones who know in their quiet, grounded hearts:
“That’s not me.
That’s just the story you wrote.”
What story have you been written into —
that doesn’t belong to you?
