Ms. Esther: The Quiet Dignity of Winston-Salem's 'Bicycle Lady'

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Our city is reeling this week. Ms. Esther—known to many as "Whoopie" or simply "the bicycle lady"—was assaulted in a parking deck and now lies in critical condition at 85 years old. For those unfamiliar with Winston-Salem, this might seem like just another tragic headline. For us, it's personal.

Ms. Esther has been a constant presence in our community for at least three decades. I first became aware of her when I was a teenager, and I'm now in my fifties. During my late teens, I had the privilege of brief interactions with her when she would occasionally visit the gas station where I worked. Those moments, though fleeting, left an impression that has stayed with me all these years.  She was quiet.  She didn't want to be bothered.  She had a serious mistrust of men and specifically wouldn't take help from them (she tore up a $20 bill in front of me, that had been given to her by a man, because she didn't trust it).  But above all, she was kind.

What makes her story remarkable isn't just her longevity on our streets, but the relationship our city has maintained with her. Over the years, residents have offered assistance—a new bicycle to replace her weathered one, permanent housing solutions. Ms. Esther consistently, politely declined. She has family—sisters, from what I understand—who are aware of her situation. But Ms. Esther has always insisted she was "fine, just fine" on her own.

Winston-Salem respected that choice. Despite knowing her struggles with mental illness, we collectively honored her autonomy. She never asked for attention or charity, in fact, she actively shunned it, preferring to live quietly on the periphery of our busy lives. Kind and unobtrusive, she simply wanted to mind her own business, away from the public eye.

In return, we gave her something increasingly rare in how we treat our homeless population: dignity and space. We acknowledged her presence without forcing our help upon her. We saw her humanity without demanding she conform to our notions of what her life should be. Most importantly, we respected her profound desire for privacy.

This recent attack has shattered that quiet understanding. Our community is shocked not just by the violence itself, but by the violation of this unspoken pact we had with one of our most vulnerable yet fiercely independent residents.

As Ms. Esther fights for her life, Winston-Salem is confronting difficult questions about how we protect those who wish to remain independent while ensuring their safety. But we're also remembering what she taught us—that sometimes respect means accepting someone's choices even when they differ from what we believe is best.

In a world that often demands compliance and conformity from those on the margins, Ms. Esther reminded us that dignity sometimes looks like an 85-year-old woman on a bicycle, wanting nothing more than to be left in peace, away from the spotlight that she would undoubtedly find uncomfortable even now.

Winston-Salem is holding its breath, hoping for her recovery, and reflecting on the quiet wisdom she brought to our community simply by being herself. And in honoring who she is, perhaps the greatest tribute we can offer is to remember her desire to remain out of the public eye, even as we process our collective concern for her well-being.
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