I wear hoodies. I have, for years. Since childhood, actually. Even when "hoodies" were just called "sweatshirts".
Black has always been my favorite color. Most of my wardrobe is black. Even my sneakers--which I wear more often than "dress shoes".
I occasionally have been known to eat "Skittles" and drink an "Arizona", though rarely at the same time...
I often walk in the rain--enjoying the elements--avoiding the masses of runners or children or people with untrained dogs out after dinner.
When visiting relatives, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to run down to the store on the block to buy ice, or beer, or bread. When visiting friends, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to go down to the store on the block and pick up flowers or chips and dip or even gum.
When staying for an extended visit with relatives or friends, I have been known to take a night stroll around the neighborhood, for a little exercise, after a day of being inside, visiting and talking. I have walked to my car, which was parked on the street, before coming back, inside. Sometimes, I've just walked around the block, checking out the scenery.
When I lived at the beach, I often just meandered down the street, right off the sand, or sauntered with my hands in my pockets, on quiet boardwalks, at night. In Newport and in Venice Beach, houses are right up against the water's edge. Picture windows take up half the front of the house. There are few shutters or blinds. One can't help but "look in" at folks watching t.v. , or sitting down to dinner and drinks, or playing cards. T.V.'s flicker blue and white, sending ghostly auras right into the yards, but I know they can't really see out. (Nor even really hear the waves, just outside their doors.)
These houses often house strangers--weekly vacation rentals--transient professionals working on creative projects--moving families. Many are not locked up safely. Many don't know their own next-door neighbors. Many are vacation homes broken into on a regular basis, even in daylight. (You can live in a "community" and not know who to trust nor who's a suspect.)
I have walked alone, at night, enjoying the moonlight or the mild rain. I have worn a hoodie and shorts and sneakers. I have looked from the edges of the sand, into those houses, as they were occupied or deserted, because I am a curious human presented with a panoply of "scenes" that were momentarily interesting. I have not been armed.
I am short and somewhat "round". In the dark, with my hoodie on, at night, I have been mistaken for a young boy, until I turned around and faced who was calling out to me. (My heart thundered; my head ached with the sudden rush of adrenaline; my fists raised up, ready for a fight...)
Once, at Dana Point Harbor, standing at the door of the Ladies Room, my hair cut very short, a hoodie over my wetsuit, a white man, (about seventy-five), crossed the grass, and told me to "Stop!"
I wasn't going anywhere.
(I was waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom.)
He put his arm out, about to grab my shoulder, even as I faced him.
He was taller than me. He was white. I am white. He was heavier than me. He was not smiling.
I stepped backwards and pulled the hoodie off my head. Then I spoke, asking him what he wanted.
He withdrew, blazing red-faced and muttering to himself, clear I was a female, (and had every right to be standing outside the Ladies Room).
Who was HE protecting?
He never gave me an apology.
I have been kicked off private land when hiking. I have been confronted, while simply "strolling through an abandoned field", with men with rifles. They did not care if I was "only walking by".
I have been kicked off public waters, at night, by single "officials", in bigger craft, who didn't want me "hurt".
I have been followed by groups of men, both white and mixed, as I walked alone, in a city park, in the daylight, in Los Angeles.
I have been encircled by a group of young men, in MacArthur Park, at noon, while they whistled and made obscene sounds, calling me foul names, even as families strolled by, averting their eyes. I was armed only with my half-eaten lunch; seated on the grass, by the duck pond, minding my own thoughts.
When I stood, angrily, shouting back, ready to fight, they backed off, laughing.
(I wasn't laughing.)
I have been "profiled".
I've been threatened.
I have been terrified.
On two occasions, I have had weapons pulled on me.
Once, a six foot three drag-queen saved my life, as a street-person tried to slice my throat. (I intervened in an argument she was having with another drag-queen: a black teen-ager she accused of bad-mouthing her reputation on Santa Monica Blvd.) She had already stabbed the teen-ager. As I attempted to stop his bleeding, kneeling with him on the street, she reached down furiously, and took a swipe as I looked up. I was rescued by a third street-person, who grabbed her arm. No police showed up, even when called. Even after the paramedics arrived on the scene. No police investigated.
It was a simple "street brawl". No one was killed. The knife, and the six foot drag queen, disappeared.
Only the victims remained.
Everyone in my family has permits to carry guns for self-defense. One of my brothers is a life-long officer. All of them know how to shoot. We all now live in small-town New England.
I have friends who are African-American. I have friends who are Middle Eastern. I have friends who are Asian-Pacific. I have friends who are Native American. I have friends who are Caucasian.
We all have friends who are members of gangs.
We know Crips and Bloods and Neo-Nazis.
All of us know people who have died violent deaths.
Some of us are mothers. Sisters. Aunties. Grandmothers.
We love our children.
We cry rivers at their passing.
We feel the need for vengeance. We scream for justice. We pray in a thousand tongues to a God who often feels absent. We are left with unanswered questions and gnawing personal guilt.
I work with teens who smoke drugs, eat too much sugar, sip illegal alcohol, spray paint buildings, argue with adults, make racist comments about other groups of people they barely know and other cultures they do not understand. They come in all colors, all sizes, all religions, all kinds of family constellations. Some are smart. Others are dull. Many are depressed. A few are violent. All wear hoodies and curse and walk in the rain by themselves at one point.
I personally know adults who have failed. I have failed. Or lost an "original dream". Been unable to follow the calling they have heard since childhood. Have delusions of "being a hero". Of saving their friends. Of earning the ultimate respect of their peers. Of earning "a name for themselves".
Some carry guns.
Some are legal.
All have had moments of terror or panic.
At any given moment, all of us have cried for help and been alone.
(Meanwhile, the press, the manufacturers, the politicians continue to make money on the memories of our dead.)
Black has always been my favorite color. Most of my wardrobe is black. Even my sneakers--which I wear more often than "dress shoes".
I occasionally have been known to eat "Skittles" and drink an "Arizona", though rarely at the same time...
I often walk in the rain--enjoying the elements--avoiding the masses of runners or children or people with untrained dogs out after dinner.
When visiting relatives, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to run down to the store on the block to buy ice, or beer, or bread. When visiting friends, in neighborhoods I don't live in, I have been known to go down to the store on the block and pick up flowers or chips and dip or even gum.
When staying for an extended visit with relatives or friends, I have been known to take a night stroll around the neighborhood, for a little exercise, after a day of being inside, visiting and talking. I have walked to my car, which was parked on the street, before coming back, inside. Sometimes, I've just walked around the block, checking out the scenery.
When I lived at the beach, I often just meandered down the street, right off the sand, or sauntered with my hands in my pockets, on quiet boardwalks, at night. In Newport and in Venice Beach, houses are right up against the water's edge. Picture windows take up half the front of the house. There are few shutters or blinds. One can't help but "look in" at folks watching t.v. , or sitting down to dinner and drinks, or playing cards. T.V.'s flicker blue and white, sending ghostly auras right into the yards, but I know they can't really see out. (Nor even really hear the waves, just outside their doors.)
These houses often house strangers--weekly vacation rentals--transient professionals working on creative projects--moving families. Many are not locked up safely. Many don't know their own next-door neighbors. Many are vacation homes broken into on a regular basis, even in daylight. (You can live in a "community" and not know who to trust nor who's a suspect.)
I have walked alone, at night, enjoying the moonlight or the mild rain. I have worn a hoodie and shorts and sneakers. I have looked from the edges of the sand, into those houses, as they were occupied or deserted, because I am a curious human presented with a panoply of "scenes" that were momentarily interesting. I have not been armed.
I am short and somewhat "round". In the dark, with my hoodie on, at night, I have been mistaken for a young boy, until I turned around and faced who was calling out to me. (My heart thundered; my head ached with the sudden rush of adrenaline; my fists raised up, ready for a fight...)
Once, at Dana Point Harbor, standing at the door of the Ladies Room, my hair cut very short, a hoodie over my wetsuit, a white man, (about seventy-five), crossed the grass, and told me to "Stop!"
I wasn't going anywhere.
(I was waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom.)
He put his arm out, about to grab my shoulder, even as I faced him.
He was taller than me. He was white. I am white. He was heavier than me. He was not smiling.
I stepped backwards and pulled the hoodie off my head. Then I spoke, asking him what he wanted.
He withdrew, blazing red-faced and muttering to himself, clear I was a female, (and had every right to be standing outside the Ladies Room).
Who was HE protecting?
He never gave me an apology.
I have been kicked off private land when hiking. I have been confronted, while simply "strolling through an abandoned field", with men with rifles. They did not care if I was "only walking by".
I have been kicked off public waters, at night, by single "officials", in bigger craft, who didn't want me "hurt".
I have been followed by groups of men, both white and mixed, as I walked alone, in a city park, in the daylight, in Los Angeles.
I have been encircled by a group of young men, in MacArthur Park, at noon, while they whistled and made obscene sounds, calling me foul names, even as families strolled by, averting their eyes. I was armed only with my half-eaten lunch; seated on the grass, by the duck pond, minding my own thoughts.
When I stood, angrily, shouting back, ready to fight, they backed off, laughing.
(I wasn't laughing.)
I have been "profiled".
I've been threatened.
I have been terrified.
On two occasions, I have had weapons pulled on me.
Once, a six foot three drag-queen saved my life, as a street-person tried to slice my throat. (I intervened in an argument she was having with another drag-queen: a black teen-ager she accused of bad-mouthing her reputation on Santa Monica Blvd.) She had already stabbed the teen-ager. As I attempted to stop his bleeding, kneeling with him on the street, she reached down furiously, and took a swipe as I looked up. I was rescued by a third street-person, who grabbed her arm. No police showed up, even when called. Even after the paramedics arrived on the scene. No police investigated.
It was a simple "street brawl". No one was killed. The knife, and the six foot drag queen, disappeared.
Only the victims remained.
Everyone in my family has permits to carry guns for self-defense. One of my brothers is a life-long officer. All of them know how to shoot. We all now live in small-town New England.
I have friends who are African-American. I have friends who are Middle Eastern. I have friends who are Asian-Pacific. I have friends who are Native American. I have friends who are Caucasian.
We all have friends who are members of gangs.
We know Crips and Bloods and Neo-Nazis.
All of us know people who have died violent deaths.
Some of us are mothers. Sisters. Aunties. Grandmothers.
We love our children.
We cry rivers at their passing.
We feel the need for vengeance. We scream for justice. We pray in a thousand tongues to a God who often feels absent. We are left with unanswered questions and gnawing personal guilt.
I work with teens who smoke drugs, eat too much sugar, sip illegal alcohol, spray paint buildings, argue with adults, make racist comments about other groups of people they barely know and other cultures they do not understand. They come in all colors, all sizes, all religions, all kinds of family constellations. Some are smart. Others are dull. Many are depressed. A few are violent. All wear hoodies and curse and walk in the rain by themselves at one point.
I personally know adults who have failed. I have failed. Or lost an "original dream". Been unable to follow the calling they have heard since childhood. Have delusions of "being a hero". Of saving their friends. Of earning the ultimate respect of their peers. Of earning "a name for themselves".
Some carry guns.
Some are legal.
All have had moments of terror or panic.
At any given moment, all of us have cried for help and been alone.
(Meanwhile, the press, the manufacturers, the politicians continue to make money on the memories of our dead.)
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