Privacy of the Poor

“Anguish...anguish is the only way I can describe it.” That was my answer to the Ramsey County dispatch on a hot summer night in describing the sounds emanating from the nearby building. It was one of those calls I teetered with - do I call or not? On the one hand, it could be someone who had been physically hurt...a woman? a child?...I couldn’t distinguish which. Could it be a child alone? In fear? Could it be a woman trying to stifle the wails caused by a lovers’ argument?
Like so many old buildings these small apartments had no air conditioning. Windows open directly onto the street, inviting the immediate world to share in whatever life is dealing to the inhabitants at the moment. At that moment, I thought how unfair and humiliating life had to be for those who didn’t enjoy the privacy and emotional safety of a private home, set back from the sidewalk with trees, grass and shrubs to filter and separate street noise and life from within what should be personal space.
True, sound can carry from any house if loud or piercing enough. But for apartments stacked on top of each other, often crammed with too many people or excessive energy, no air conditioning to muffle sounds or cool the interior, sounds of personal conversation, sex, sobbing, and family arguments waft or even leap into public domain. On this night, the sounds stopped and I called back to dispatch to cancel the call; dispatch indicated it was my decision on whether to cancel or not. What does ‘stopped’ mean? That someone died, fell asleep? I opted to cancel, being of the mind that someone had been emotionally hurting, not physically harmed; and though I was unable to offer comfort to the unknown person, neither would I encourage the intrusion of police banging at the secured door and possible embarrassment to the tenant. Privacy works the other way, also.
I recall last year, dozens of mourners gathered on the corner opposite me, grieving for a young man killed in our intersection. For many nights the families within an apartment building were separated by only a thin wall from the angry talk, drinking, grieving, mournful murmuring, shouting, and the occasional smashed bottle. All this was taking place just inches on the outer side of their window. Some who were within had already lived through their own hell of death, shooting, and the unknown. As unwilling prisoners in their own apartment, were they now reliving nightmares?
I’ve recently come across several articles referring to ‘privacy of the poor’ in terms of data privacy. Important, yes. However, it’s the daily humiliations that erode our spirits. What can we do?

sh 11/2012 (published in Dayton's Bluff District Forum)
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Passing of Friends -

At the beginning of April a friend of mine died. She was buried on her 87th birthday. She had been having health problems and had only one lung, so her passing wasn't totally unexpected. That knowledge doesn't soften the hurt. I wrote to Vernelle often, almost every week, and called her every weekend. Today I was clearing out phone messages and came across her number. I called it, just because. The number you have called is not in service.....

Playing Santa - one very special Christmas

Christmas holiday is approaching too quickly. So much is keeping me busy, yet so little has any connection to Christmas. That can be a good thing - I'll be spending the holiday with my Sam, so I'm not putting up a tree or going to great lengths for Christmas decorations...lack of money this year doesn't allow for that any way. The weather forecasts that I've heard so far tell of a brown Christmas...that's ok, too, but not for the kids. I heard on the radio some days ago, perhaps it was Dick Gordon's 'The Story' on NPR, about Santa Claus experiences. It brought to mind on year when I played Santa in the Cherrypoint Mall, Sturgeon Bay Wisconsin.

I was unemployed and the season was looking dreary with a tight job market and no positive responses to my resumes. One of the volunteers from my previous job was the manager of the local mall. Bob called me and asked if I would want the paid job of his mall Santa. I don't remember if it was for one week or two, but it was a job and I was thinking of the fun that could evolve. The current Santa had been showing up under the influence of alcohol or wasn't dependable - I don't really remember. When I appeared for my first stint and donned the flimsy, velour suit, it was evident that I didn't need extra padding. As I pulled the beard and moustache over my face I had second thoughts. All the disinfectant spray in the world never removed the sense of disgusting residue from the netted backing of the beard around my mouth.

I took my place on Santa's 'throne' and waited for the first child who still believed in what Santa represented, or even Santa himself. I had rehearsed in my head how to answer children without really promising what they requested. Having worked with families who often existed day to day, I was not working under the assumption  that their Christmas dinner, decorations, or gifts would be plentiful. Also, that people who didn't lack money would be taking their kids to a 'real' Santa at one of the upscaled northern Door County businesses that catered to tourists.

An adult woman approached with three children. The youngest was a typical visit, the oldest talked with me and asked for some help for his younger brother, the middle child. Looking for help from the adult, I found that she was the foster mom to the three. She told me they were here visiting me/Santa to see if I could talk ith the youngster, 6 or 7 years old, and encourage him to positive behavior. The boy came and sat on my lap. I asked what had been happening and his older brother said that the boy on my lap had killed a pet while chasing it with a shovel. He then chased the youngest child with a shovel, trying ti hit him. Quite a request for Santa. I talked quietly with him and later talked with an acquaintance at the area Social Services. They were aware of the circumstances.

'Are you a lady?' asked a little girl. She nodded yes when I confirmed her suspicions and asked if she was ok with that. Perhaps that was some of the Christmas magic. A few children later, a girl, about nine years of age said she and her family had just moved. Having learned never to assume anything and keeping the conversation open, I learned that they were living out of boxes in someone's basement. She was worried that Santa wouldn't find her.

I tried to play a little safe even in the decorations and tree area, having been told by several that they couldn't afford a tree that year. On boy, there with his grandmother, asked Santa to keep his Daddy safe. He was in the Iraq war. His mommy, he said, was in the hospital with cancer. 'Santa, could you pray for them?' I told him we could pray right then, which we did.

At one point during my Santa stint I was feeling particularly low....the number of Santas in tv shows who were degenerates, drunks, lonely old men who looked older than they actually were, taking jobs as department store Santas to be able to buy one more bottle of gin! Wow, except for the gender and alcohol, I felt like something from an old movie!  There was humor in the time that the mall janitor left early, locking my purse, car and house keys and street clothes in the closet where I changed. I called a friend who picked me up and drove me home...then waited while Santa climbed through a side window to get into the house. Fortunately, no one saw me; or, if they did, it remained their story to tell!

As to feeling depressed or too much like an out of work failure, my friend Randy Warner, brought me to grateful tears as he encouraged me that I was in a perfect place over the Christmas season - kids, people, of all ages came to share their hurts and secrets with Santa. And adults as well as children did come and talk; there is something so safe and emotionally freeing in talking to Santa - whoever is inside the red and white costume. Randy reminded me that as people let go of their hurts to Santa, I could take all of it and offer prayers, then and there, either with them or quietly, privately, and lift them all, and their very specific needs, in prayer. Who else would be given such gifts over such a precious season!? Hugs to you, Randy Warner!

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

Community, Neighborhood

Neighborhood. That's become an important concept in my life since I moved to Dayton's Bluff in the spring of 2000. Neighborhood, community - how many meanings, how varied, what boundaries, who is included, how accepting, and how emotionally integrated are those who live within the confines. What is it that creates a neighborhood or a community? Is it a police grid, defined city districts or wards, the end of a comfortable block, or just those with whom we are comfortable? Are the boundaries physical as major streets, perhaps the heaviest traffic areas? Is a neighborhood as small as the closest neighbors, perhaps four houses that connect with my own? Does it extend to the kids I know, whether at the end of the next block or two doors down? Is it a physical boundary or is a neighborhood made up of the people I actually know.

I've found that my own conversational definition of 'neighborhood' changes depending on.... My neighborhood sometimes extends to the Payne/Phalen area where some of my favorite people meet at Polly's Coffee Cove on Saturday morning for round table discussions and solutions to community problems...or up to Suburban, including Byerley's restaurant, where they know exactly how I like my poached eggs on a weekday morning; though I don't personally know any other customers there, I enjoy eavesdropping, and know many details about family, friends, jobs, and love life. At other times my neighborhood narrows to the two or three blocks in any direction of my home.

Local coffee shops become communities and even families, sometimes quite close knit. Recently, I've heard several 'community' references made to places where people gather even on a temporary basis such as a group waiting for an event. At a recent discussion a woman repeatedly identified a local bar as her community, though, she said it was difficult to get to know anyone there. While others in the large group exchanged ideas for their neighborhood communities, she consistently returned to the bar community. Comfort zone? Isolation outside of the bar?

Community to me is probably more intangible than my neighborhood. Community is at least in part, the attitude of a collected people and how they interact with each other. Community - individuals as well as the 'sense' they create.

Part of this thinking came about yesterday evening when three of us were out picking up trash on Conway, between Maria and Bates Street. It's one short block that too often looks, as one person described it, 'a devastated third world country'. My own block looks like a ghost town with a minimum of litter to pick up and, with all the boarded houses, no overflowing garbage bins.

When I drive down this block of Conway, I do get an eerie feeling as if I'm very far removed from my own life. Shari/Sherry (sp) at the Thursday DC4 meeting mentioned this block and three of us at that moment agreed to meet Friday evening to clean it. Amazing things can happen in one short hour! With guerrilla gardening, why not guerrilla clean-up? I can do it when I feel the urge and have a high energy level...without a doubt, my legs hurt for two days afterward!

Though I often contemplate the concept of community, this came more recently to mind with our Conway clean-up. Of three of us, I was first to arrive. A young man double parked and began blaring his horn. I approached him and asked if he wanted someone to come out from the house. He angrily told me that someone was in his driveway...that they were often parked there. I asked him if he had talked with them about it, and informed him that it was actually illegal to sound his horn except in an emergency. When I asked who his landlord was, and suggested he talk to the landlord, he hemmed and hawed. Upon more conversation, it's his girlfriend's apartment, not his. Therefore, it's not even his driveway!!! He did park at the curb, and didn't honk again until about 45 minutes later...when he squealed off, sounding his horn for me. Ahhh, civility!

At the house next door to his girlfriend, there was an empty garbage bin in the street. On the grass at the curb was a pile about three feet high and spreading over about eight feet out of pizza boxes, an old, artificial Christmas tree, miscellaneous 'stuff' clothes, and scattered litter. It had rained all day, so everything was soppy wet and further falling apart. Once the sun dried it all out, the trash would be flying for blocks around. I went to the door and said I was with a neighborhood cleaning crew from Dayton's Bluff. I said that I see that the garbage service didn't pick up everything and if they needed help, I would be glad to help them. 'No', their landlord would be out to do it, the woman said. I asked her if she knew that if the city knew this was here, her landlord would receive a big fine. Oddly enough, within the hour, everything was picked up.

Across the street, as we picked up broken glass bottles, the pieces well embedded into the wet soil - I couldn't help but remember when my youngest sister, Gail, was a toddler, she walked into a puddle and severely cut the sole of her foot. We lived in a rural area at the time, no car, and while I held Gail still, my mother stitched her foot with household thread. How could people in this neighborhood disregard the safety of all the children who darted about? A young woman came to the door. She was cradling a baby. She thanked us and asked why. I understand that a young mother would not possibly have time or facility to be picking up litter in her front yard...but the man who came and stood behind her?

At the corner, a man came out and asked what we were doing. When Sherry told him, he said that was for his landlord to do. He smiled, glad that it was being cleaned. My whole thought to this is the line drawn between a landlord's responsibilities and a tenant's...and the blurry grey area. When I've mentioned it to others, some have said it's because when some people rent, they feel no responsibility for the property, especially outside the walls of the dwelling. There's much, of course, connected to that: resentment of the landlord for lack of maintenance response, high rents a person may feel sucked into. I'm not saying it's right, just that it exists.

Perhaps the renter lives only within the walls of the apartment, duplex, or house. Going from the door to the car, to the bus stop, to the store is simply no different than walking through a parking lot at Target. It's an access. How many times do you see people picking up litter in a parking lot?

I'm a renter. For about ten years before we divorced, my husband and I owned a home. My parents were renters all their lives. I can remember times as a child when my world was only within the walls of the apartment; when we didn't dare go outside except to go elsewhere, not to play or visit near our home. But I also remember, as a family of seven (five kids) living in a one room motel-like unit for about a year, planting watermelon seeds outside, in a 'garden' my sister and I dug up with a soup spoon. Surely, we didn't 'garden' because we cared as 10- and 5-year olds about 'improving' the landscape of this gravel-covered 'yard'. I don't know what we wanted - to see something grow, to see results of planting seeds, to nurture something? We had seldom been really attached to a neighborhood. Perhaps we were seeking that attachment to something outside of the way we hid ourselves from 'normal' people?

I can see this - the lack of attachment - in some of my neighbors. Next door there are those who visit on the porch and have somewhat of a connection to people who walk by. Then there are those who simply walk from their door, to the waiting car, and they casually toss their garbage over the fence and into our yard. I ask myself, how welcoming are people who own homes in my neighborhood...the block group that existed some years ago was made up only of a few homeowners...by invitation...that was also their 'national night out'. I often would hear renters as a group, disparaged at neighborhood meetings. I would hope it's 'only' because the persons speaking had in their minds a specific behavior they were attaching to a group and they were so focused in their anger, they couldn't see beyond. I had said at one meeting that if they substituted 'Black' or 'Asian', they could be accused of racism.

Perhaps if our district or neighbors offered to help disenfranchised renters to set up a raised garden or encouraged the landlord/property owner to do some landscaping (this instead of always calling Code Enforcement or not contacting the landlord. Perhaps if neighbors could look at their neighbors who could use a hand in planting, in connecting with the outside we could establish better relationships and build a community. Community = caring about your neighbor, not just your friends. Community = extending yourself. Community = building from within, one to one relationships and spreading to include others.

sh 4/10/2000

I'm so blessed, I could burst!

We had great interest and turnout for the city-owned vacant house tour today and Tuesday. It took me 35 minutes to walk from work to my house tonight....and for reasons I treasure. Neighbors take time to talk and to exchange news. My friend, Linda M. gave me two lovely tomatoes from her garden and shared a continuing story about her once lost cat and some neighborhood activity that surrounds the adventure. At the end of the story is a thank you note that the boys wrote on their own, to Linda. It's a bit involved, but this is a reflection of relationships in our neighborhood, between kids and adults.

Linda had given me, several weeks ago, a lovely, unusual plant. Two of our boys helped us plant it and set stone around it. Then Linda gave their mothers cut flowers and a potted plant. During the following two weeks when our weather was so dry, another neighbor told me that the boys had been carrying water over to water my plant (our plant).

Wednesday when I got home, I found a stack of beautiful postcards of Europe and Egypt. I noticed one had been addressed to Linda and called her to thank her. She told me that they were given to me by Firmen, who had received them from Linda. He knows my love for art , books, etc. and left them for me.

And then when I got home tonight after hosting the open house, I found more tomatoes from another friend. Linda C. and I shared fresh tomato wedges, olive oil, French bread fresh from Toast to Bread, and iced tea.

Many if not most people who work for the city and make daily decisions about our neighborhood and people who make the regulations for houses and streets in Dayton's Bluff don't live here. It is not enough to drive through or even walk through once or twice and think they 'know' the neighborhood. No one will know the flavor, the personality, or the heart of our neighborhood unless they make a few porch visits with us.

Think of the times you've been so happy, or so filled with pleasure that you feel you could burst, or blurt out you happiness so loud in public. That is what I feel for where I live and the people around me. I am so blessed.

"The Kindness of Strangers...."

Almost done with a book by Marc Freedman. Insightful, well thought out and researched, this book discusses the history and birth of mentorship, its relationships and value, and real-life mentoring experiences. I highly recommend "The Kindness of Strangers: Adult Mentors, Urban Youth, and the New Volunteerism". From about 1989 to 1993 I was foster parent to teen girls who had been sexually abused and to teen boys who were aging out of the foster system, but were not wanted at home. At a foster parent conference, a co-worker of Marion Edelman-Wright spoke and used an example that remains imbedded in my values:

Picture an island of children, of all varieties and ages. It's an island of only children, no adults or adult influence. Some 50 or 100 yards away is another island - of adults. In nature's way, each child will one day, in his/her own time, feel an innate desire to move to the adult island. However, the islands are separated by roiled waters, great depths, and unknown challenges. Some of the children have made it to the adult island on their own, worn, but safe. Others are afraid to even set out into the water. Others try, but make it only partway, some not surviving, some turning back, perhaps to try again, perhaps not. The children can all use in one way or another, the help of an adult - meeting halfway, perhaps meeting a child right on the water's edge of the child's island. Some children just need an outstretched hand to claim the imposing beach of the adult island. The children need us to meet them where they are...and we are the only ones who can help them.

This book takes me back to that conference. It's a reminder I appreciate and would like to pass on.

A neighborhood convergence

Our Bates/Fourth area Neighborhood Night Out went very well. I had conversations with quite a number of people who have offered no more than a returned 'How are you?' in the past as they've walked by; and an insightful conversation with a young man, Darnell, who had quite a bit to say about how other young Black men should dress and conduct themselves in order to receive the respect they say they want.

I was able to chat with Diane and others who live a block and a half away, who I haven't seen outside in quite a while. A few more kids have started coming to movie night as a result of getting to know them a bit. I love that Ariel is a reader, lover of books, and enjoys art.

Today three young women walked to our 'paint the pavement' mural and I talked with them about it. One had stopped here on NNO and she was explaining how it came to 'appear'. These three young women had just moved in a block and a half down. Now, this moment, I'm thinking of where I might know them. I kept saying how one looked so familiar. I think she's the one I believe is a prostitute who walked by a few days ago and, for several reasons, made an impact on me. I could be wrong. If not, I'll can be a good contact. That's funny.

I was telling them how delightful it is when I see older teens 'dancing' on the mural late at night, or how our kids like to skate on the curves of the mural. Then there is the comparison of the once blank, dirty intersection. The bright colors of the painting fill in the stark grey expanse from corner to corner and proclaim: "people here care", "drive cautiously, children play here", "residents here see what happens and respond".

I love it when a driver pauses on the mural and exclaims a 'wow!' that I can hear from my window. I love seeing the smiles and the questioning looks; or when someone realizes that weird little character on the log is a bear...and some, even, the Hamm's Bear!

Unfortunately, some cars still drive right through the four way stop. It's a step; and people seem to love to step on it, almost in it, as if grass and water....they seem to want to become integrated in the mural...like disappearing into a painting to enjoy the other life....

Our kids

Last night we were visited by a Minneapolis Trib photograper as we held our Friday movie on the porch. We showed Gran Torino (kids got permission). Kyle gave an occasional commentary to relate the action or comments so the kids could relate them to their own lives and experiences. They all stayed for the end and they'll be talking more about it when they're over later today.

When I'm asked for a description of our neighborhood, all too often I fall into the sociological or physical description...I become a parrot of those who don't live here and know it. What our neighborhood is, is the kids. They keep me grounded, they make me smile when I come home and I see them on our porch or at the fence waiting for me. Bonni is home during the day right now and has been engaging them in watercolor. Cesar, especially enjoys art...how would we have ever known? Phermin, oldest at 'almost 14' is the most shy, but opening up. Last night he giggled a lot, but didn't pull his shirt up over his face as a couple weeks before when his photograph is being taken.

Mario, Cesar's brother will follow in his brother's outgoing, confident steps, I think. Pedro is a bit quieter....Last night, Ariel finally joined us. She walks past our house very often and we've invited her up. After talking at Neighborhood Night Out, she's become a bit more open...she's a joy and I'll look forward to getting to know her.

Adrian, Brandon, and Riley all stopped by later and stayed for the end...Chris, starting eighth grade this fall, tries to be so cool...too bad he couldn't have stayed for 'Pretty in Pink' or 'Sixteen Candles' last weekend! All that young male angst...

Besides movies, we've started group video games on the porch and Jeopardy (they love the adults getting excited) with the projector.

We REALLY need our own multi-use projector to use with the DVD/VHS players and game attachments.

It's a beautiful day in my neighborhood.....

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

'That woman with the garden hose' (Video)