PORCH LIFE
a few steps removed
Normally,
when a newspaper reports a shooting, I read the article and can only
imagine what the victim’s family is experiencing. The closest I had been
to a violent death was in the mid-60s, the murder/suicide by an uncle
by marriage and his two young children.
My
experience on Wednesday, September 26 and on the following days
determined that my observations would never again be far removed.
Gunshots fired at 6:30 initiated the progression of a very long week at
the corner of Fourth and Bates. From the continuous activity at the
De’Koda Mar’ta Galtney memorial, to attending De’Koda’s wake and funeral
service, I was more emotionally involved than I could ever have
imagined. Through those several days I was blessed to briefly talk with,
and exchange hugs with De’Koda’s mom, sisters, and others who lost, in
De’Koda’s passing, a brother, nephew, friend, son, father. In this point
of reference, the only thing that matters is that a loved one passed
from this life; only that hearts are breaking and people are hurting.
Over
the week and a half, I observed and heard a gamut of emotions. Some
neighbors contributed food and kind words to the mourners. What
disturbed me was the extreme other end of the gamut - the anger. Not
anger focused on losing someone, or toward the murderer, but the anger
that lashed out wildly and the more pent up anger that whined as if
trying to escape from a tiny hole. - anger that came from a few people
keeping vigil at the memorial and from a few people who live in the many
blocks in this lower Dayton’s Bluff area. Anger, a normal emotion and
feeling we sometimes encounter as we work through grief and other
difficult situations. How long and how tightly we carry it , though, can
destroy us and others. Words spoken in anger can cause damage long
after being spoken. Words meant to intimidate or carry threats can
create distrust in friends and acquaintances. What is the source of this
anger? Where might it take root?
Inner
anger and grief nagged me for days before I could finally identify the
reasons behind my own emotions. Yes, I grieved for De’Koda’s family and
friends. My heart cried every night for the young men and women across
the street from my porch. I grieved for the god-uncle who came early
Sunday to find the memorial in ashes. Alone on the porch, late into the
night and into early mornings, I prayed silently and I sang praise songs
aloud. At other times, friends came silently onto the porch just to be
with me. It helped to talk through what I was seeing and feeling. But it
didn’t take away the ache or the anger. I felt so useless in what I
could do. Even now, tears flow.
Much
of this culminated on Sunday evening as Chanelle and her and De’Koda’s
precious baby. Charitie, visited on my porch with two friends and me.
Seeing Chanelle and then my friend hold little Charitee solidified the
concept of ‘community’ and its sometimes delicate balance.
I know a few other people may find offense with my approach or framing
of these past days. Some may revert to social judgments, condemnations
and stereotypes of fatherless children, lives of crime, and related
spiels. This isn’t the place. This is the time and place when we ask,
‘What does a community response to such a tragedy look like?’ and ‘Who is the community?’ I hope that this could be the start of a dialogue that builds stronger relationships within a community - within a city.
(note to self: expand on this)
sage holben/originally written for Dayton's Bluff Forum, 11/2011
Showing posts with label East Side Saint Paul. Show all posts
Showing posts with label East Side Saint Paul. Show all posts
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Rhythm From My Porch
The Rhythm from my porch
Tire low of air, flap, flap, flap…does the driver realize he’s almost
on the rim?
A ball game played in my neighbor’s yard…I’m half asleep on the porch,
listening to a metal clang…the bat? A metal plate used as a base? The rhythm
plays like music in its own way. I recognize Mario’s echoing laughter, and I
smile…laughter with a real, a full joy in it. I hear Jose’s voice…a rather
humorous lilt in how he makes his pronouncements…
A group of wrens, massed around
a ‘puddle’ of seeds fallen from a tree; they move almost as one, from the
driveway apron to the drive, and then to the lilac bushes, flowers shed so long
ago. As if prompted by the influx of wrens, a cardinal bursts from the bushes
to a neighboring tree...one rhythmic note affecting the other.
“F….him, I said, mother f’er….”, I heard the words, followed by laughter, words I
can’t understand – is it a dialect, is it lazy speech, is it just that I don’t
want to hear it…my cold eyes hold no power if the speakers don’t make eye contact
with me. The raw, unwelcomed cursing is oddly rhythmic…its own music…is it?
Slap, slap, slap; rap, rap, rap; basketballs and rap music, both
hitting the sidewalk. Rhythmic, too, are the glances….”Don’t look, Sage’ my 12
year old neighbor whispers to me. He’s Blood; don’t look.’ This, too, is a
warning oft repeated to me. He’s Crypt, he’s Blood, He’s an 18…don’t do it,
Sage.
You’re gay; am not; sure you are; laughter; some tension; the message
not spoken now reveals who has been ripping on who today. You are, so I’m not.
A day’s rhythm is coming to its end on the porch. Kids are gathering, feeling safe to say what
they wouldn’t on the street. We talk about ‘gay’. “You’ve met my son; he’s gay.
You like him. You respect him. What’s different?
Karen boys bike by; chattering in a language we don’t understand. Marco
mocks the unknown under his breath. Hey, I tell him, how was it when you came
here and didn’t speak English? Did people mock your Spanish? How did you feel?
The form of our conversation takes up a familiar rhythm, we’ve had it before
about Hmong language and culture. It’s a rhythm that becomes, sadly, almost
comfortable.
Weed wackers, lawn mowers, people calling to each other. Motors
revving, missing mufflers, roaring motorcycles; planes in a no-fly zone,
dismiss any shred of conversation. Wait.
A scooter’s whirrrrrr; a Rainbow shopping cart, rumbles down the hill,
child propelling child; in the background a car horn out of control, but in
perfect rhythm.
And then, one Saturday morning, the world regains briefly, the rhythm
of only birds, the sipping of early morning coffee, and the quiet turning of a
book’s pages. I’m alone with my own rhythm.
9/2011
Sunday, September 26, 2010
change of seasons, change of moods
I accept each new day of September as a gift of one more day of neighborhood activity; a promise of neighborhood connectivity. Truthfully, I am not looking forward to winter. It's not the snow, the horrendous heating bills, or the icy sidewalks making the Fourth to Seventh Street walk to work a treacherous one. Because darkness descends so early in the evening/late afternoon, and with no warm gathering place to just hang out, our casual drop-in relationships will become suspended until spring.
Weekend movies on the porch have bec ome a large focus over the last two summers. They've become much more than simply a movie night. Kids often start asking on Monday, 'are we having a movie this week?' I've found that they are the better selectors of movies than I am, so I largely leave it with them to select and negotiate. Bantering mingles with calling dibs on a favorite seat; serious conversation sometimes occurs during 'glitch fixes' of the DVD player or projector, checked out from my workplace. Conversation might drift from violence in school, local theft, social behavior, sex education in school, to medical or homeless issues. These topics come from the kids, eight to 14 years old.
Interestingly, what has evolved is that besides a group of kids actually watching a movie, a growing group of pre-teen to young teens gathers on the edge of the porch or in the yard itself. The movie seems of no apparent interest. They just gather on the steps or on their bikes and talk among themselves. Occasionally, a two or three will leave to race down Bates, then return. I suppose it's no different than my enjoying time at a coffee shop – just being in a comfortable place to chat, with no planned activity, just be.
If I could move all this indoors for the winter, I readily would do so. I look at empty houses such as 342 Bates, listed at $159,000 (I just called the realtor, who said someone is seriously considering its purchase, as a four-plex). A house like this would be a perfect drop-in center for kids (and possibly a parents' meeting place). I know the Dayton's Bluff branch library has a well-used homework room with tutors; also that we have a great rec center on Conway Street (though a challenge in crossing Third). I dream of a drop-in center where kids can come for help with homework, or even just a place to study or read; a place where they can stop in and talk with any adult who is there (and those adults being neighborhood people)...a place to play board games or work on a 3-D puzzle. I'm not talking about a second recreation center or introducing more vehicle traffic; not even a child care or playground. Just a year-round place where kids can benefit from caring adults who are willing to provide a place of safety and conducive to informal socializing, learning, and confidence in reading or writing...in their own neighborhood. And could it be possible to have a place where struggling neighborhood parents could meet and work through parenting issues?
I am aware of organizations and agencies with facilities for meetings and activities. I am also aware that of fifteen kids of all ages, standing at the morning bus stop, each one can be attending a different school, scattered throughout the city. I'm not saying this is good or bad in itself. My observation is that many neighborhoods such as ours, have no common thread as there once was. A common thread might be a school, a place of worship, or a common value, or a local company where most parents worked and shared the same meal time, payday, employer expectations. One neighbor might discipline another's child, being of the same mind and same value. Even the threat of becoming the subject of a rumor could sanction a person's behavior.
If we do have a current common value – one by which we openly live – it's more difficult to identify. Though we have a number of families who own homes and whose children have lived here most of their lives, we also have children who come and go. They appear in a yard, on the porch, perhaps throw stones to establish their presence...they may relate to two or three adults, establish a beginning relationship and then disappear...perhaps fifteen blocks away, perhaps to an aunt in Illinois or Mississippi, sometimes the family splitting itself between two or three relatives.
So what is my point? My point is that I see two groups of kids: those who find activities such as skateboarding, biking, baseball, etc. and play together. They are called home for meals, at curfews; they check in from time to time, and look after each other's welfare; they are fairly static. The other group is more fluid, often changing with the change of months. They usually aren't here long enough to grasp the values or 'rules' of the neighborhood. It would be too easy to yell at each one who traipses through a garden, picking or pulling out flowers, rather than explain what a garden is; of addressing each F- word spewed, or litter tossed into the street; the difference between climbing a tree versus climbing over a private fence. In our immediate two blocks in any direction, are Karen, Somali, Black, Latino, Hmong, and Euro-white children. Though there are few actual clashes and those are by 'adults', most of these cultures keep to their own ethnic groups, just playing around the fringes of others. Even among kids, friendships seem tentative. Would it be easier if kids all went to the same neighborhood school? I'm not proposing it, I'm just considering that with only a few hours after school or on weekends, it can be difficult to establish healthy roles even among children in a neighborhood.
oo many children running around unsupervised. Most live one to three blocks from our Fourth & Bates neighborhood.
I grew up in a family of seven people (four girls and one boy), moving from place to place, never with more than two bedrooms for the entire family. I learned to study best with a hum of noise in the background, but usually had to stay up until 11 at night before there was any space to open math books and spread out homework papers.
Most people know how the porch movies started, so I won't go into it except to say that in doing it, I meant to build a neighborhood connection between adult residents and children and others who walk and play in our neighborhood. That has happened, and continues. What has caught me in total awe is the strength, sensitivity, insight and creativity of the young people in our area. A local man, who rebuilds bikes, dropped off four or five 'rejects'. Led by one young man, these many bikes became two or three, combined with parts from others and given to those who were without a bike. One extended 'tricycle' lost its large, wide, hard plastic wheels and gained spoked wheels, a cushy video chair seat and eventually a speaker system; quieter bike and easy turning. As bikes are rebuilt and sold or traded, I'm even learning what parts and sizes are most sought...pegs anyone?
A neighbor had found and dropped off a picnic table of sorts. As we considered what color to paint the seats, one of the boys suggested a design of a second color. It's looking great. We've already used it many times, one being a pizza supper (their idea and treat). We all learned by trial and error, the finer points in using painters' tape for design work and again, we learned patience. During one talk time with four or five boys present, one noticed that I had yawned and looked droopy. He is one who sort of looks out for me...my age, I dread to say. He sweetly suggested to the others that we move the conversation to the porch where I could lie on the lounge chair. I have received gifts of cinnamon swirl bread from a local bakery where the parents of one of the girls work; homemade tamales from another. Best of all are the smiles and what their eyes reveal – sometimes silent laughter, sometimes a quizzical look in response to an odd behavior, especially of an adult, sometimes a furrowed brow.
Last weekend, a skateboarder, probably late teens or early twenties, came down his usual Maple to Bates Fourth Street hill. I love watching him, though I am amazed that he and others risk their lives at the four-way stop at which most drivers don't actually look to see what's coming – only look at what is already at the intersection. I've seen him wipe out a few times, even without traffic. This particular day I was stunned to see that he was clutching to his chest, a baby! Not even a toddler. A baby!
No one could tell me where he lives. I said to one of the boys, who was visiting on my porch, that I will smash a watermelon in front of the skateboarder to demonstrate what his baby's head will look like if he falls while holding the baby. My visitor looked shocked. He later related this to a friend, and I couldn't help but embrace the slight smile on his face. And here's the gift: a few days later, something happened and his smile came to mind...these moments give over and over again. I'll break out in a smile or laughter myself and have a difficult time explaining why. I carry the neighborhood in my heart. I've never known such a neighborhood; nor have I ever lived among people where each is so valued.
Weekend movies on the porch have bec ome a large focus over the last two summers. They've become much more than simply a movie night. Kids often start asking on Monday, 'are we having a movie this week?' I've found that they are the better selectors of movies than I am, so I largely leave it with them to select and negotiate. Bantering mingles with calling dibs on a favorite seat; serious conversation sometimes occurs during 'glitch fixes' of the DVD player or projector, checked out from my workplace. Conversation might drift from violence in school, local theft, social behavior, sex education in school, to medical or homeless issues. These topics come from the kids, eight to 14 years old.
Interestingly, what has evolved is that besides a group of kids actually watching a movie, a growing group of pre-teen to young teens gathers on the edge of the porch or in the yard itself. The movie seems of no apparent interest. They just gather on the steps or on their bikes and talk among themselves. Occasionally, a two or three will leave to race down Bates, then return. I suppose it's no different than my enjoying time at a coffee shop – just being in a comfortable place to chat, with no planned activity, just be.
If I could move all this indoors for the winter, I readily would do so. I look at empty houses such as 342 Bates, listed at $159,000 (I just called the realtor, who said someone is seriously considering its purchase, as a four-plex). A house like this would be a perfect drop-in center for kids (and possibly a parents' meeting place). I know the Dayton's Bluff branch library has a well-used homework room with tutors; also that we have a great rec center on Conway Street (though a challenge in crossing Third). I dream of a drop-in center where kids can come for help with homework, or even just a place to study or read; a place where they can stop in and talk with any adult who is there (and those adults being neighborhood people)...a place to play board games or work on a 3-D puzzle. I'm not talking about a second recreation center or introducing more vehicle traffic; not even a child care or playground. Just a year-round place where kids can benefit from caring adults who are willing to provide a place of safety and conducive to informal socializing, learning, and confidence in reading or writing...in their own neighborhood. And could it be possible to have a place where struggling neighborhood parents could meet and work through parenting issues?
I am aware of organizations and agencies with facilities for meetings and activities. I am also aware that of fifteen kids of all ages, standing at the morning bus stop, each one can be attending a different school, scattered throughout the city. I'm not saying this is good or bad in itself. My observation is that many neighborhoods such as ours, have no common thread as there once was. A common thread might be a school, a place of worship, or a common value, or a local company where most parents worked and shared the same meal time, payday, employer expectations. One neighbor might discipline another's child, being of the same mind and same value. Even the threat of becoming the subject of a rumor could sanction a person's behavior.
If we do have a current common value – one by which we openly live – it's more difficult to identify. Though we have a number of families who own homes and whose children have lived here most of their lives, we also have children who come and go. They appear in a yard, on the porch, perhaps throw stones to establish their presence...they may relate to two or three adults, establish a beginning relationship and then disappear...perhaps fifteen blocks away, perhaps to an aunt in Illinois or Mississippi, sometimes the family splitting itself between two or three relatives.
So what is my point? My point is that I see two groups of kids: those who find activities such as skateboarding, biking, baseball, etc. and play together. They are called home for meals, at curfews; they check in from time to time, and look after each other's welfare; they are fairly static. The other group is more fluid, often changing with the change of months. They usually aren't here long enough to grasp the values or 'rules' of the neighborhood. It would be too easy to yell at each one who traipses through a garden, picking or pulling out flowers, rather than explain what a garden is; of addressing each F- word spewed, or litter tossed into the street; the difference between climbing a tree versus climbing over a private fence. In our immediate two blocks in any direction, are Karen, Somali, Black, Latino, Hmong, and Euro-white children. Though there are few actual clashes and those are by 'adults', most of these cultures keep to their own ethnic groups, just playing around the fringes of others. Even among kids, friendships seem tentative. Would it be easier if kids all went to the same neighborhood school? I'm not proposing it, I'm just considering that with only a few hours after school or on weekends, it can be difficult to establish healthy roles even among children in a neighborhood.
oo many children running around unsupervised. Most live one to three blocks from our Fourth & Bates neighborhood.
I grew up in a family of seven people (four girls and one boy), moving from place to place, never with more than two bedrooms for the entire family. I learned to study best with a hum of noise in the background, but usually had to stay up until 11 at night before there was any space to open math books and spread out homework papers.
Most people know how the porch movies started, so I won't go into it except to say that in doing it, I meant to build a neighborhood connection between adult residents and children and others who walk and play in our neighborhood. That has happened, and continues. What has caught me in total awe is the strength, sensitivity, insight and creativity of the young people in our area. A local man, who rebuilds bikes, dropped off four or five 'rejects'. Led by one young man, these many bikes became two or three, combined with parts from others and given to those who were without a bike. One extended 'tricycle' lost its large, wide, hard plastic wheels and gained spoked wheels, a cushy video chair seat and eventually a speaker system; quieter bike and easy turning. As bikes are rebuilt and sold or traded, I'm even learning what parts and sizes are most sought...pegs anyone?
A neighbor had found and dropped off a picnic table of sorts. As we considered what color to paint the seats, one of the boys suggested a design of a second color. It's looking great. We've already used it many times, one being a pizza supper (their idea and treat). We all learned by trial and error, the finer points in using painters' tape for design work and again, we learned patience. During one talk time with four or five boys present, one noticed that I had yawned and looked droopy. He is one who sort of looks out for me...my age, I dread to say. He sweetly suggested to the others that we move the conversation to the porch where I could lie on the lounge chair. I have received gifts of cinnamon swirl bread from a local bakery where the parents of one of the girls work; homemade tamales from another. Best of all are the smiles and what their eyes reveal – sometimes silent laughter, sometimes a quizzical look in response to an odd behavior, especially of an adult, sometimes a furrowed brow.
Last weekend, a skateboarder, probably late teens or early twenties, came down his usual Maple to Bates Fourth Street hill. I love watching him, though I am amazed that he and others risk their lives at the four-way stop at which most drivers don't actually look to see what's coming – only look at what is already at the intersection. I've seen him wipe out a few times, even without traffic. This particular day I was stunned to see that he was clutching to his chest, a baby! Not even a toddler. A baby!
No one could tell me where he lives. I said to one of the boys, who was visiting on my porch, that I will smash a watermelon in front of the skateboarder to demonstrate what his baby's head will look like if he falls while holding the baby. My visitor looked shocked. He later related this to a friend, and I couldn't help but embrace the slight smile on his face. And here's the gift: a few days later, something happened and his smile came to mind...these moments give over and over again. I'll break out in a smile or laughter myself and have a difficult time explaining why. I carry the neighborhood in my heart. I've never known such a neighborhood; nor have I ever lived among people where each is so valued.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
682/684 Fourth St. East - a Brad Nilles property in Dayton's Bluff
This is one of three properties on Fourth Street
East in Dayton's Bluff. These are owned by Brad
Nilles, Calabash Properties. He also owns Seven
Hawks Vineyard, just outside of Fountain, Wisconsin.
Bill Walker is the property manager, but had not been overly responsive to neighbors' complaints about tenant behavior or the overflowing garbage that has become a fairly regularly event. This example, to be fair, came out over Labor Day weekend...gave our visitors and friends a new look at Dayton's Bluff!
A few years ago, I invited Brad to meet with a few
Fourth Street neighbors, but he declinedl. We would
still like to meet, to talk about how we could all
improve the Fourth and Bates area. He might get
better tenants (with a better screening process)
and we all could be on the receiving end of a better
quality of life experience - probably not quite like a
lodge room at Seven Hawks, but nice, nonetheless.
Nilles, Calabash Properties. He also owns Seven
Hawks Vineyard, just outside of Fountain, Wisconsin.
Bill Walker is the property manager, but had not been overly responsive to neighbors' complaints about tenant behavior or the overflowing garbage that has become a fairly regularly event. This example, to be fair, came out over Labor Day weekend...gave our visitors and friends a new look at Dayton's Bluff!
A few years ago, I invited Brad to meet with a few
Fourth Street neighbors, but he declinedl. We would
still like to meet, to talk about how we could all
improve the Fourth and Bates area. He might get
better tenants (with a better screening process)
and we all could be on the receiving end of a better
quality of life experience - probably not quite like a
lodge room at Seven Hawks, but nice, nonetheless.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Re-visiting June 30, 2008 ("neighborhood" added: 4/28/09)
Tonight we had our East Side Restorative Justice informational meeting. I am sure we'll get enough people who will commit to the facilitator training. Several of us participated in a circle role play, Commander Casper spoke from an officer's perspective, and I spoke from a victim's perspective.
I feel the need to write a bit about the experience simply because as I spoke tonight, I realize that the incident, or at least some of the emotional impact, is fading. That's a good thing, but what really helps it to fade is that I had arranged to meet with one of the three people who had beaten me. Also, I don't want all the memory to fade. Remembering emotions, feelings, and circumstances is essential to making change - to be able to put ourselves in another's place; to recall the sensation of humiliation or pain so we don't offend or demean others; and to remember the outrage.
PART ONE - The incident itself:
see KSTP video below (older post), "Woman with the garden hose"
The two cars had been at the bottom of Fourth Street at Maria. I heard yelling between the cars...road rage? drug deal gone bad? I didn't know. Then, one after the other, the cars came erratically and fast, backward up the hill. One veered to the curb and I thought it was going to park in front of my neighbor's house, but it veered back out into the road. My thought at the moment was of the five or six kids who were running between the street and the sidewalks. This is something they had not been safely able to enjoy for several years because of now closed drug houses and the heavy vehicle and foot traffic they brought to Fourth Street. The closed, inactive drug houses filled our neighborhood with an uneasy peace, many of us not quite believing the quiet could be lasting. The evenings were quiet - no more excessive drinking or noise until 3am - neighbors would comment that it was almost too good to be real, but we confessed that we could get use to it.
I yelled at the first car to slow down - it didn't and drove north onto Bates. I yelled at the second to slow down and turned the hose on it, the the car hood. It sees odd to me now - in fact, the whole situation seems a bit surreal in retrospect. After being hosed, the car left. I stood on the grass between the sidewalk and the street, next to the large tree. One of the younger children, who had seen the hosing, came over and looked down Bates where the car had driven. I asked him if the car was returning. He said no. Another neighbor later said the car appeared to have gone around several blocks before it returned, stopping in the middle of Fourth at the Bates intersection. I remember how eerie the air felt right then...such a strange quiet. I thought it so strange that no cars came through that whole time period between the hosing and Shedavia's return. Normally we would see a stream of traffic.
When the three arrived, with Shedavia jumping out first, from the passenger's side, and yelled "I just washed my car!!" The man and other woman, Marcella, jumped out also. They ran toward me, with Shedavia standing just inches in front of my face. She kept screaming into my face. From previous experience on the street, I was expecting her to scream herself out and then leave. I have absolutely no idea what she was saying. What actually went through my head was that if I start screaming back, we'll be two women screaming; if I tried to talk, she'd scream more and wouldn't hear my anyway. So I stood there and said nothing. I did think that her screaming behavior was so incongruous with her beautiful teeth and neat clothing.
When I thought of it later, listening to her voice was like listening to an adult talk on a Charlie Brown cartoon: no distinguishable words, but WHA, WHA, WHA, WHA'. I stood by the mighty tree, holding the garden hose a few inches down from the nozzle as if it were Liberty's torch and a mighty protection. Meanwhile, the other two were standing behind and beside me, pounding on the side of my head, my shoulders and my left arm. At one time I tried to raise my right hand, thinking I could swing the hose, but Marcella had a tight grip on my arm from behind. Nor could I move my right arm...it felt as if it were in a vise. My glasses had already flown off to the ground. I zoned out the beating, hardly feeling the intensity that left bruises and a few abrasions and an extremely sore arm that still affects movement today.
It wasn't until Marcella began pushing me toward the street and Shedavia began pulling on the neck of my shirt that the tight holds were broken. Then I was finally able to free my right arm and grabbed at Shedavia's white top...I wasn't about to fall easily into the street. They got me to the street, between the curb and their car, which was parked in the middle of Fourth at the intersection. I was flat on my face, which, fortunately, never hit the pavement. Just my knee and hand hit and got bruised and skinned.
It was then that X, my neighbor came over waving his cell phone around yelling he was taking their pictures and that they should leave. With X running here and there and yelling, the three eventually scattered. I think he was scared to death. He couldn't have seen me being beaten as I was standing on the east side of the tree. After they left, X walked toward his house, then came back toward me and turned again toward his house. I staggered over to the curb and as I did, another neighbor came out carrying a mobile phone, asked if I was ok. I said yes, and the neighbor walked back to her house, never coming closer than 20 feet to me. (Is it not crazy? It's like going into the doctor with pneumonia, the nurse asks how we are and we say 'fine'.) I don't hold anything against how people acted or didn't react...I certainly didn't respond how I would have thought. I just felt so alone out on the street with people walking away from me.
Finally X came back and told me to go to his porch. His wife brought out an ice pack for my head injury and knee. After some minutes I commented that the police were slow. It turned out that neither neighbor had ever called the police. They were probably in more shock than I was. I think both neighbors, each with a phone in hand, were totally stunned and frozen, even though one of them called the police so often for so many other incidents on our street. This, I think, was just too real and too close to home...literally. When people say 'I would do ____ or _____ " in a situation, I just shake my head. Long ago I learned we don't know how we would react until it actually happens to us. I certainly didn't react any way near what I would have expected or planned. I still don't know what he was thinking - he's barely spoken to me since it happened, though he used to call almost every night with a neighborhood update.
It was one of our beat officers that responded when X did call. Most other officers, he said were in training for the upcoming RNC. He came quickly and was, as usual, very helpful. Though X hadn't actually take any photos, he did accompany the officer and identified the car around the corner. As it turned out, Shedavia lived two blocks from me and had attacked and beaten a woman (who lives at the end of my block) a month before. That was a third degree assault that resulted in a cornea transplant for D.
I refused an ambulance, didn't even want to go to emergency, but glad X and his wife and the officer insisted. X drove me, didn't stay, but walked me in. Every time United Hospital calls for fund raising for their emergency room rebuilding, I tell them "I'm familiar with it and it certainly does need rebuilding." But, some of the poor 'reception' has to do with staffing. A couple officers were called, came in to take photos of my injuries, and that was well done - polite, efficient. Then I was put into a wheel chair and placed in the center of the traffic pattern, under a draft, and by the entrance/exit to the walk-in emergency doors. I couldn't get the desk staffer's attention to move me. I was freezing, whether from the shock of the attack or from the overhead blower, I don't know.
I had the most difficult time 'finding' and using my voice in all this. I felt as if I were a piece of garbage on display. People would stare at my bruised face and wet, dirty clothing (from the hose and being dragged down) and seem to cringe. No staff ever asked me if I was ok, warm, etc....something I would think a common enough question after such an incident. It was obvious that I was unaccompanied. I felt so alone and so helpless to take care of myself. though almost every seat was filled with someone waiting for emergency care, despite the fact that people were coming and going from the waiting area, and despite the fact that staff were at several desks facing our direction, I felt so very emotionally isolated and so very invisible to the emergency staff.
Earlier, when I was first wheeled out and still on a bit of adrenaline, a young woman and someone who seemed to be her father or uncle, had made a bit of welcomed conversation before she was called. Amusingly to me, she seemed to know the differences in all the assault degrees and what might happen to the offender in court. I asked how she knew so much, and she said she used to be the one doing the beating. For whatever her past, she was an angel to me in the emergency waiting room that evening, and I thank her, whoever and where ever she is.
I realized that once we reach a certain age, even with insurance, if we are 'out of shape' (I believe that would be a criteria), we become a disposable commodity and much less regarded as a human being. My knee causes much trouble for me - buckling in what feels almost backward from the way it is supposed to bend. Many days it feels as if someone had kicked me just under my knee caps. I live on the second floor of a house and wonder for how long. Certainly, I have slipped on ice and hit my knees, twisted them, etc. but to not even be asked if you want to bear the cost of having your knees checked after injury is a slap in the face. I later had an MRI on my arm and there was damage, but, again, nothing at emergency, though the attending muttered the word 'cost'. Be it known that a person probably has to have sufficient medical knowledge to know what to request when you are in emergency and to believe that as a human being, you deserve it.
The Saint Paul Police were great in the detectives who checked in with mug shots, keeping in touch by phone, and my beat officers who would stop by when I was on my porch - to see how I was. Though Shedavia and friends had disrupted my neighborhood, their violence had not deadened it.
PART TWO - At work:
A few days after I returned to work at the university, I started hearing rumors of what had happened to me - most infuriating were comments from a safety related person and the bookstore manager, neither of whom had talked with me about the incident. The safety person knew of it directly, as I had come into work shortly afterward with my arm in a sling and my face badly bruised. He didn't ask any questions and I just very briefly, with no detail, related what happened. Our FH offiicer was at the desk with the other. Oddly, it was the FH person who later expressed appreciation and a 'good for you' for sending out an all-Metro e-mail, while for months, the other avoided me when our paths crossed and never said a word, let alone ask about the incident and whether (because, as he knows, I live just five blocks from Metro) there might be any connection that might affect the safety of anyone at the university.
Here is the e-mail I sent to all Metro/colleagues:
July 23, 2008
I want to thank all those who expressed concern about an assault on me on June 30. I've found there are many layers (and rumors) to both the action and to the aftermath of an occurrence of this sort. For several reasons, I need to address these to my 'work community', so please bear with me.
First, to allay any safety/security fears, the assault on me did NOT happen on the grounds of Metro State, nor did it happen during work time. I was watering my 'street garden' in front of my home, after work and in broad daylight. I live on the corner of _____ and _____, just a few blocks from here. One block in this neighborhood can differ tremendously from the next, in income, appearance, [community] involvement, or behavior of residents.
Because there seems to be a brief outline of a story going around with people filling in the 'meat' of it, here is what happened:
Backstory, and this is important:
I've lived on my block for almost eight years and rent the second floor of a Victorian. I started the [current] block group for Maria/Bates and beyond and am very active in my community from my block to city issues. Last year 'our' last big drug house closed on our block. I met with one of the biggest 'problem' absentee property owner/landlords and he cleaned up his act with his three properties on my block. This is the first summer in years that residents on this block have been able to enjoy quiet. It's the first time in a very long time that children are able to play tag and run foot races down the street, and just be kids. I 'planted' shepherd hooks and hanging pots up and down the block in an effort to give the block some visible unity of life and color amid the vacant/boarded up houses.
I was told the hooks would be taken out [of the ground] and used as weapons; that no one would appreciate the flowers and they'd be stolen. What has happened is they are still there. Know what else? A woman who is a self-disclosed drug addict gave me a big hug when I gave her flowers. Now we talk and listen to each other. She [may] still be an addict; we live different lives; be we have become 'real people' to each other.
She asked for a second hanging planter and she takes care of them. Other neighbors and visitors have said that seeing the flowers in front of their homes give them hope. Our neighbors sit and visit on each others' porches. Yes, flowers are a small thing; they are 'only' flowers...but they bridge a gap, set attitudes, and begin conversations. The hanging plants started with two flats of flowers from the District Council [4] to be planted in public places.
'The event':
After work on June 30 I was watering my street garden. Five or six children, ages about 10-14, were playing outside, running from street to sidewalk (we don't have yards to accommodate all the energy of that age). I heard some voices of people yelling at each other at the bottom of my block, then a car driving erratically and fast, backward, up the street. As it reached my intersection I yelled 'Slow down!' It took off. A second car sped up and I yelled 'Slow down!" With the kids outside, and the disregard these drivers had, yes, I turned my garden hose and gave them a quick spray to their car. This is a garden hose, from 20 feet away!
That car took off. After apparently going around two or three blocks, the second car returned, two women and a man jumped out (in their twenties). A neighbor told me later that one person yelled, "I just washed my car!" This neighbor, who heard the car was comment has debilitating arthritis and cannot move easily and was without a phone, so he could not help. One woman stood face to face with me, screaming. This had been the norm for the neighborhood and I really thought she would scream and they would leave. No, I never expected that two adult women and a man would start beating me on the head and arm. It wasn't until I was face down in the street that a neighbor came running out and chased away my attackers.
Common questions from those who have asked [or made comments I've heard second hand]:
- Yes, I reported it to the police; the assault on me was a 5th degree.
-No, I did not know the people who did this to me. The primary woman already has a 3rd degree assault charge against her from about a month earlier. The woman who did this lives down the street from Metro. [update: she moved within a month, thanks to city ordinance about rentals and violence]
- Was it racial? No, her first victim is Black
- Would I react the same way [again]? We never know how we would really respond to something until it happens. There is no 'standard response' to the unexpected. I have been told that even self defense doesn't prepare one for everything. What I know is that I hope I would always do anything to ensure the safety of kids around me...they don't have to be related to me for me to be responsible for their safety and well-being.
- Did I stand in the street waiting to be beaten? No. To even have that question posed tells me that the program and policies on domestic abuse and violence awareness at Metro State need to be strengthened or brought back to life...that something isn't getting across to people. NO ONE DESERVES TO BE ASSAULTED OR ATTACKED, either emotionally, physically or verbally. The people who attacked me made a conscious decision.
The aftermath:
Yes, my black eyes and bruised forehead are faded. The huge lump on my forehead is almost gone. My head is still tender in spots; I don't have full use of my left arm yet. It causes great pain at times and I've not been sleeping well because of the discomfort. 'Looking normal' is what many people want. The visible scars jar people and I understand that. It is much better than to have had people cover their mouths or scream or point at me as if seeing a monster (though that's probably what I looked like). I have had trouble concentrating and of course, I think constantly of some part of this life event...either directly or how various people have reacted or not and the effects on people.
The police, Kathy Lantry, all those connected with the city have been helpful, supportive, and on top of everything. The kids who were out when this happened have been coming over (only one actually lives on my block) and helping me garden. They come, sit on my porch and talk. Neighbors still visit with each other on porches. Our neighborhood, which extends for several blocks any direction, has been slightly emotionally damaged because violence came so close to home - not as a drug dealer or an intruder, but as a 'good neighbor'. Most important, the community of our neighborhood has survived and grows stronger...and we know how to show we care and how to laugh.
If you have any questions, please ask; it's ok.
In response to this e-mail I received so many heart-felt and caring notes. Some sharing similar, very personal experiences. I treasure those who so responded.
PART THREE - The neighborhood:
My feelings and thoughts about Shedavia and her two friends, who attacked me, are so different from those concerning my neighbors and their reactions. I believe I understand why my neighbors reacted as they did..whether from fear of the external, or fear that reality of what could happen when we so directly confront violators; or was it shame or embarrassment because they didn't come out earlier (maybe they didn't notice the screaming? didn't see the three beating me?) or didn't call the police until I asked X to do so. (he seemed in shock). What causes me difficulty in sorting out feelings or fully coming to terms with HOW I feel, is the fact that none of them will talk about it. The only neighbors who really talk about it are L and Doris. L used to live on our block, but remains fully engaged in it, though she wasn't anywhere in the neighborhood when the beating happened. I've talked with Stephanie, from the Reconciliation Center, of the possibility of holding a Peace Circle for the neighborhood. Meeting with Shedavia gave me answers I needed. It gave me an understanding and answers I needed so that I could get past the unknown. I believe I need the same step from these neighbors.
April 28, 2009
I had written the first draft of this neighborhood section a few months ago. I am surprised to see in the draft that I had written: "...but I don't think I've really reached a forgiveness. In part because they [neighbors] seem so reluctant to talk about it." Perhaps that's still true. The individual neighbor and I carry on the same relationship as always. But for me, it's as if I am carrying a little pod in my pocket and want to talk about it, yet never feeling as if I can bring it up...maybe if I carry that pod around long enough, the time will present itself and I can open it. The forgiveness part: I don't feel any ill will that I can identify, but the relationships need a healing that I can't begin without conversation.
I can't say for sure that X and his wife have closed themselves off from me because of that - maybe I did something else to annoy them. Two or three days after the attack, after not hearing from them (X used to call virtually every night about something in the neighborhood...then it stopped when I was beaten), I went over and asked if they were angry with me for being beaten. The Wife said, "No, no one deserves ever to be beaten". That didn't really answer the question.
Several times later I went to their house to 'get back the groove' and each time, X came to the door and hurried me away from the house. Contact ceased except a few very terse, almost biting e-mails.
More later...this is more difficult to write than I had thought, even after almost a year. sh 4/28/2009
I feel the need to write a bit about the experience simply because as I spoke tonight, I realize that the incident, or at least some of the emotional impact, is fading. That's a good thing, but what really helps it to fade is that I had arranged to meet with one of the three people who had beaten me. Also, I don't want all the memory to fade. Remembering emotions, feelings, and circumstances is essential to making change - to be able to put ourselves in another's place; to recall the sensation of humiliation or pain so we don't offend or demean others; and to remember the outrage.
PART ONE - The incident itself:
see KSTP video below (older post), "Woman with the garden hose"
The two cars had been at the bottom of Fourth Street at Maria. I heard yelling between the cars...road rage? drug deal gone bad? I didn't know. Then, one after the other, the cars came erratically and fast, backward up the hill. One veered to the curb and I thought it was going to park in front of my neighbor's house, but it veered back out into the road. My thought at the moment was of the five or six kids who were running between the street and the sidewalks. This is something they had not been safely able to enjoy for several years because of now closed drug houses and the heavy vehicle and foot traffic they brought to Fourth Street. The closed, inactive drug houses filled our neighborhood with an uneasy peace, many of us not quite believing the quiet could be lasting. The evenings were quiet - no more excessive drinking or noise until 3am - neighbors would comment that it was almost too good to be real, but we confessed that we could get use to it.
I yelled at the first car to slow down - it didn't and drove north onto Bates. I yelled at the second to slow down and turned the hose on it, the the car hood. It sees odd to me now - in fact, the whole situation seems a bit surreal in retrospect. After being hosed, the car left. I stood on the grass between the sidewalk and the street, next to the large tree. One of the younger children, who had seen the hosing, came over and looked down Bates where the car had driven. I asked him if the car was returning. He said no. Another neighbor later said the car appeared to have gone around several blocks before it returned, stopping in the middle of Fourth at the Bates intersection. I remember how eerie the air felt right then...such a strange quiet. I thought it so strange that no cars came through that whole time period between the hosing and Shedavia's return. Normally we would see a stream of traffic.
When the three arrived, with Shedavia jumping out first, from the passenger's side, and yelled "I just washed my car!!" The man and other woman, Marcella, jumped out also. They ran toward me, with Shedavia standing just inches in front of my face. She kept screaming into my face. From previous experience on the street, I was expecting her to scream herself out and then leave. I have absolutely no idea what she was saying. What actually went through my head was that if I start screaming back, we'll be two women screaming; if I tried to talk, she'd scream more and wouldn't hear my anyway. So I stood there and said nothing. I did think that her screaming behavior was so incongruous with her beautiful teeth and neat clothing.
When I thought of it later, listening to her voice was like listening to an adult talk on a Charlie Brown cartoon: no distinguishable words, but WHA, WHA, WHA, WHA'. I stood by the mighty tree, holding the garden hose a few inches down from the nozzle as if it were Liberty's torch and a mighty protection. Meanwhile, the other two were standing behind and beside me, pounding on the side of my head, my shoulders and my left arm. At one time I tried to raise my right hand, thinking I could swing the hose, but Marcella had a tight grip on my arm from behind. Nor could I move my right arm...it felt as if it were in a vise. My glasses had already flown off to the ground. I zoned out the beating, hardly feeling the intensity that left bruises and a few abrasions and an extremely sore arm that still affects movement today.
It wasn't until Marcella began pushing me toward the street and Shedavia began pulling on the neck of my shirt that the tight holds were broken. Then I was finally able to free my right arm and grabbed at Shedavia's white top...I wasn't about to fall easily into the street. They got me to the street, between the curb and their car, which was parked in the middle of Fourth at the intersection. I was flat on my face, which, fortunately, never hit the pavement. Just my knee and hand hit and got bruised and skinned.
It was then that X, my neighbor came over waving his cell phone around yelling he was taking their pictures and that they should leave. With X running here and there and yelling, the three eventually scattered. I think he was scared to death. He couldn't have seen me being beaten as I was standing on the east side of the tree. After they left, X walked toward his house, then came back toward me and turned again toward his house. I staggered over to the curb and as I did, another neighbor came out carrying a mobile phone, asked if I was ok. I said yes, and the neighbor walked back to her house, never coming closer than 20 feet to me. (Is it not crazy? It's like going into the doctor with pneumonia, the nurse asks how we are and we say 'fine'.) I don't hold anything against how people acted or didn't react...I certainly didn't respond how I would have thought. I just felt so alone out on the street with people walking away from me.
Finally X came back and told me to go to his porch. His wife brought out an ice pack for my head injury and knee. After some minutes I commented that the police were slow. It turned out that neither neighbor had ever called the police. They were probably in more shock than I was. I think both neighbors, each with a phone in hand, were totally stunned and frozen, even though one of them called the police so often for so many other incidents on our street. This, I think, was just too real and too close to home...literally. When people say 'I would do ____ or _____ " in a situation, I just shake my head. Long ago I learned we don't know how we would react until it actually happens to us. I certainly didn't react any way near what I would have expected or planned. I still don't know what he was thinking - he's barely spoken to me since it happened, though he used to call almost every night with a neighborhood update.
It was one of our beat officers that responded when X did call. Most other officers, he said were in training for the upcoming RNC. He came quickly and was, as usual, very helpful. Though X hadn't actually take any photos, he did accompany the officer and identified the car around the corner. As it turned out, Shedavia lived two blocks from me and had attacked and beaten a woman (who lives at the end of my block) a month before. That was a third degree assault that resulted in a cornea transplant for D.
I refused an ambulance, didn't even want to go to emergency, but glad X and his wife and the officer insisted. X drove me, didn't stay, but walked me in. Every time United Hospital calls for fund raising for their emergency room rebuilding, I tell them "I'm familiar with it and it certainly does need rebuilding." But, some of the poor 'reception' has to do with staffing. A couple officers were called, came in to take photos of my injuries, and that was well done - polite, efficient. Then I was put into a wheel chair and placed in the center of the traffic pattern, under a draft, and by the entrance/exit to the walk-in emergency doors. I couldn't get the desk staffer's attention to move me. I was freezing, whether from the shock of the attack or from the overhead blower, I don't know.
I had the most difficult time 'finding' and using my voice in all this. I felt as if I were a piece of garbage on display. People would stare at my bruised face and wet, dirty clothing (from the hose and being dragged down) and seem to cringe. No staff ever asked me if I was ok, warm, etc....something I would think a common enough question after such an incident. It was obvious that I was unaccompanied. I felt so alone and so helpless to take care of myself. though almost every seat was filled with someone waiting for emergency care, despite the fact that people were coming and going from the waiting area, and despite the fact that staff were at several desks facing our direction, I felt so very emotionally isolated and so very invisible to the emergency staff.
Earlier, when I was first wheeled out and still on a bit of adrenaline, a young woman and someone who seemed to be her father or uncle, had made a bit of welcomed conversation before she was called. Amusingly to me, she seemed to know the differences in all the assault degrees and what might happen to the offender in court. I asked how she knew so much, and she said she used to be the one doing the beating. For whatever her past, she was an angel to me in the emergency waiting room that evening, and I thank her, whoever and where ever she is.
I realized that once we reach a certain age, even with insurance, if we are 'out of shape' (I believe that would be a criteria), we become a disposable commodity and much less regarded as a human being. My knee causes much trouble for me - buckling in what feels almost backward from the way it is supposed to bend. Many days it feels as if someone had kicked me just under my knee caps. I live on the second floor of a house and wonder for how long. Certainly, I have slipped on ice and hit my knees, twisted them, etc. but to not even be asked if you want to bear the cost of having your knees checked after injury is a slap in the face. I later had an MRI on my arm and there was damage, but, again, nothing at emergency, though the attending muttered the word 'cost'. Be it known that a person probably has to have sufficient medical knowledge to know what to request when you are in emergency and to believe that as a human being, you deserve it.
The Saint Paul Police were great in the detectives who checked in with mug shots, keeping in touch by phone, and my beat officers who would stop by when I was on my porch - to see how I was. Though Shedavia and friends had disrupted my neighborhood, their violence had not deadened it.
PART TWO - At work:
A few days after I returned to work at the university, I started hearing rumors of what had happened to me - most infuriating were comments from a safety related person and the bookstore manager, neither of whom had talked with me about the incident. The safety person knew of it directly, as I had come into work shortly afterward with my arm in a sling and my face badly bruised. He didn't ask any questions and I just very briefly, with no detail, related what happened. Our FH offiicer was at the desk with the other. Oddly, it was the FH person who later expressed appreciation and a 'good for you' for sending out an all-Metro e-mail, while for months, the other avoided me when our paths crossed and never said a word, let alone ask about the incident and whether (because, as he knows, I live just five blocks from Metro) there might be any connection that might affect the safety of anyone at the university.
Here is the e-mail I sent to all Metro/colleagues:
July 23, 2008
I want to thank all those who expressed concern about an assault on me on June 30. I've found there are many layers (and rumors) to both the action and to the aftermath of an occurrence of this sort. For several reasons, I need to address these to my 'work community', so please bear with me.
First, to allay any safety/security fears, the assault on me did NOT happen on the grounds of Metro State, nor did it happen during work time. I was watering my 'street garden' in front of my home, after work and in broad daylight. I live on the corner of _____ and _____, just a few blocks from here. One block in this neighborhood can differ tremendously from the next, in income, appearance, [community] involvement, or behavior of residents.
Because there seems to be a brief outline of a story going around with people filling in the 'meat' of it, here is what happened:
Backstory, and this is important:
I've lived on my block for almost eight years and rent the second floor of a Victorian. I started the [current] block group for Maria/Bates and beyond and am very active in my community from my block to city issues. Last year 'our' last big drug house closed on our block. I met with one of the biggest 'problem' absentee property owner/landlords and he cleaned up his act with his three properties on my block. This is the first summer in years that residents on this block have been able to enjoy quiet. It's the first time in a very long time that children are able to play tag and run foot races down the street, and just be kids. I 'planted' shepherd hooks and hanging pots up and down the block in an effort to give the block some visible unity of life and color amid the vacant/boarded up houses.
I was told the hooks would be taken out [of the ground] and used as weapons; that no one would appreciate the flowers and they'd be stolen. What has happened is they are still there. Know what else? A woman who is a self-disclosed drug addict gave me a big hug when I gave her flowers. Now we talk and listen to each other. She [may] still be an addict; we live different lives; be we have become 'real people' to each other.
She asked for a second hanging planter and she takes care of them. Other neighbors and visitors have said that seeing the flowers in front of their homes give them hope. Our neighbors sit and visit on each others' porches. Yes, flowers are a small thing; they are 'only' flowers...but they bridge a gap, set attitudes, and begin conversations. The hanging plants started with two flats of flowers from the District Council [4] to be planted in public places.
'The event':
After work on June 30 I was watering my street garden. Five or six children, ages about 10-14, were playing outside, running from street to sidewalk (we don't have yards to accommodate all the energy of that age). I heard some voices of people yelling at each other at the bottom of my block, then a car driving erratically and fast, backward, up the street. As it reached my intersection I yelled 'Slow down!' It took off. A second car sped up and I yelled 'Slow down!" With the kids outside, and the disregard these drivers had, yes, I turned my garden hose and gave them a quick spray to their car. This is a garden hose, from 20 feet away!
That car took off. After apparently going around two or three blocks, the second car returned, two women and a man jumped out (in their twenties). A neighbor told me later that one person yelled, "I just washed my car!" This neighbor, who heard the car was comment has debilitating arthritis and cannot move easily and was without a phone, so he could not help. One woman stood face to face with me, screaming. This had been the norm for the neighborhood and I really thought she would scream and they would leave. No, I never expected that two adult women and a man would start beating me on the head and arm. It wasn't until I was face down in the street that a neighbor came running out and chased away my attackers.
Common questions from those who have asked [or made comments I've heard second hand]:
- Yes, I reported it to the police; the assault on me was a 5th degree.
-No, I did not know the people who did this to me. The primary woman already has a 3rd degree assault charge against her from about a month earlier. The woman who did this lives down the street from Metro. [update: she moved within a month, thanks to city ordinance about rentals and violence]
- Was it racial? No, her first victim is Black
- Would I react the same way [again]? We never know how we would really respond to something until it happens. There is no 'standard response' to the unexpected. I have been told that even self defense doesn't prepare one for everything. What I know is that I hope I would always do anything to ensure the safety of kids around me...they don't have to be related to me for me to be responsible for their safety and well-being.
- Did I stand in the street waiting to be beaten? No. To even have that question posed tells me that the program and policies on domestic abuse and violence awareness at Metro State need to be strengthened or brought back to life...that something isn't getting across to people. NO ONE DESERVES TO BE ASSAULTED OR ATTACKED, either emotionally, physically or verbally. The people who attacked me made a conscious decision.
The aftermath:
Yes, my black eyes and bruised forehead are faded. The huge lump on my forehead is almost gone. My head is still tender in spots; I don't have full use of my left arm yet. It causes great pain at times and I've not been sleeping well because of the discomfort. 'Looking normal' is what many people want. The visible scars jar people and I understand that. It is much better than to have had people cover their mouths or scream or point at me as if seeing a monster (though that's probably what I looked like). I have had trouble concentrating and of course, I think constantly of some part of this life event...either directly or how various people have reacted or not and the effects on people.
The police, Kathy Lantry, all those connected with the city have been helpful, supportive, and on top of everything. The kids who were out when this happened have been coming over (only one actually lives on my block) and helping me garden. They come, sit on my porch and talk. Neighbors still visit with each other on porches. Our neighborhood, which extends for several blocks any direction, has been slightly emotionally damaged because violence came so close to home - not as a drug dealer or an intruder, but as a 'good neighbor'. Most important, the community of our neighborhood has survived and grows stronger...and we know how to show we care and how to laugh.
If you have any questions, please ask; it's ok.
In response to this e-mail I received so many heart-felt and caring notes. Some sharing similar, very personal experiences. I treasure those who so responded.
PART THREE - The neighborhood:
My feelings and thoughts about Shedavia and her two friends, who attacked me, are so different from those concerning my neighbors and their reactions. I believe I understand why my neighbors reacted as they did..whether from fear of the external, or fear that reality of what could happen when we so directly confront violators; or was it shame or embarrassment because they didn't come out earlier (maybe they didn't notice the screaming? didn't see the three beating me?) or didn't call the police until I asked X to do so. (he seemed in shock). What causes me difficulty in sorting out feelings or fully coming to terms with HOW I feel, is the fact that none of them will talk about it. The only neighbors who really talk about it are L and Doris. L used to live on our block, but remains fully engaged in it, though she wasn't anywhere in the neighborhood when the beating happened. I've talked with Stephanie, from the Reconciliation Center, of the possibility of holding a Peace Circle for the neighborhood. Meeting with Shedavia gave me answers I needed. It gave me an understanding and answers I needed so that I could get past the unknown. I believe I need the same step from these neighbors.
April 28, 2009
I had written the first draft of this neighborhood section a few months ago. I am surprised to see in the draft that I had written: "...but I don't think I've really reached a forgiveness. In part because they [neighbors] seem so reluctant to talk about it." Perhaps that's still true. The individual neighbor and I carry on the same relationship as always. But for me, it's as if I am carrying a little pod in my pocket and want to talk about it, yet never feeling as if I can bring it up...maybe if I carry that pod around long enough, the time will present itself and I can open it. The forgiveness part: I don't feel any ill will that I can identify, but the relationships need a healing that I can't begin without conversation.
I can't say for sure that X and his wife have closed themselves off from me because of that - maybe I did something else to annoy them. Two or three days after the attack, after not hearing from them (X used to call virtually every night about something in the neighborhood...then it stopped when I was beaten), I went over and asked if they were angry with me for being beaten. The Wife said, "No, no one deserves ever to be beaten". That didn't really answer the question.
Several times later I went to their house to 'get back the groove' and each time, X came to the door and hurried me away from the house. Contact ceased except a few very terse, almost biting e-mails.
More later...this is more difficult to write than I had thought, even after almost a year. sh 4/28/2009
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