I could hear the boys murmuring, plotting, as children do. Then suddenly, they were running. One boy broke from the pack, yelling,
“I’m not gay!”
As he came up behind me, I braced myself. I saw the other boys running away in the other direction as I felt it… The lone boy smacking me on the butt as he ran past.
I paused. Initially, feeling a parent’s anger, I wanted to give chase and spank him over my knee! Taking a long deep breath, I realized I would never catch up in the heels I was wearing. Besides, in another decade, I would look back at the moment as flattering.
A small grin crept up on my face as I approached my car.
“Did those guys assault you?”
I turned to see a Caucasian man with a long white pony tail step out from his font vestibule.
Wiping the smirk off my face, I admitted, “The one smacked my ass. Just young kids, daring each other.”
“I’m calling 911.” He was already dialing."
“It was just kids playing pranks, really,” I insisted.
He was not listening to me, “You have to report them. The police don’t protect us unless we tell them we’re not safe.”
The boys were waiting within eye-shot, curious to see what would happen next. We could hear them murmuring again as I listened to him tell the operator his series of events. I was a young defenseless girl, going as far as to claim I might be as young as 21. They were a gang of hoodlums, planning to assault us again. We were in danger.
I was trying to leave, but he was urging me to stay; “They are targeting Asians, you know. Holding them up, especially the Asian men- Because they don't go to the police.”
I thought to myself, "Probably not. They can be pretty proud." Then paused to question if he had expected his sympathy for Asians to help his case, “They were just kids being kids. Somebody ought to know their parents, talk to them,” I told him. I provided speech therapy to families in the 50’s and 60’s, and I understood the disconnect. This man did not know his neighbors beyond the 40’s. He was from here. They were from somewhere else.
The families here do not allow their young children to be out by themselves after 10 PM. The thin line between families with new cars and day jobs versus those taking the trolley who were more likely to work third shift lay somewhere between the parents. Whenever I turned on the radio I would hear both sides blaming each other. Depending upon what time of day I tuned in, either side of the pole was complaining about something...
Voting.
Charter school admissions.
Gentrification.
No one speaks on the radio to accept responsibility-
Unless they are running for office... and no one likes politicians.
No one is trying to take the blame-
Unless they like pain... and no one likes masochists.
Everyone has a solution, and very few are interested compromising with creativity.
Except maybe comedians... and no one likes a comedian.
It's why they kill themselves.
When the police did not show up, he called campus police. Although we were just outside University City, where the majority of Drexel and University of Pennsylvania students reside, we often saw their bike officers enter our streets. This time the pony-tailed man handed me the phone, “Can you give them a statement?”
Reluctantly, I took the phone, “Hello.”
“Hi. You are the young lady who was assaulted?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I welcomed the opportunity to correct the misrepresentation, “Some kid smacked my butt.”
“And you are a student at which university?” the operator inquired.
“I’m not a student,” I answered.
On the other end, the lack of concern was evident without a word. “We don’t usually get involved in disputes outside of our area.”
Suddenly, I felt irritation arise within my chest, “Wait. What?” At that moment I put aside whether I had an actual complaint. Instead I was thinking of how I politely greeted the bike officers everyday outside my coffee shop, one block from where we were standing. “So you don’t care because I’m not a student.”
“I can take a statement for a report, but-“
“Fine,” I sighed. At least there would be a record of the actual series of events from me rather than the my aspiring good Samaritan. I accurately explained the details, handed the phone back, and waved goodbye.
With the butt-smacker and his peers still watching, I was urged to wait for the police.
As I started my car, all I could think was,
This. This is HOW
black boys
get shot in the street
by cops.
No wonder they don't want to answer your calls.
What if they’d believed you? Ran to rescue me?
I can’t be your damsel in distress…
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