I don’t want to tell you how embarrassed I was.
When they parked their car (a small, orange hatchback) about a half a block away and walked up behind us, I was mortified when my mom turned around and asked them what they were doing. Any high school age kid was by definition way cooler than I felt as an awkward 8th grader. Please mom, don’t embarrass me in front of these two unknown teenage boys who appeared on the sidewalk right behind us.
I don’t want to tell you about how they walked through us (my grandfather, my aunt, my mom and I on a walk around the block after Thanksgiving dinner, 1986), walked ahead of us a few paces, then turned around and came back.
I don’t want to tell you about how the force of his hand on my face knocked me to the ground.
I wouldn’t tell you if I was screaming, but I can’t remember if I was. But I think somebody was.
I don’t want to tell you about the glimpses I got of my mom on the ground behind me, kicks coming at her ribs, or my aunt pushed up against the fence, fists coming at her face.
I don’t want to tell you about my grandfather unsure of what to do and unable to stop it.
I don’t want to tell you about the drops of blood on my jean jacket and how my first thought was that I hoped they would wash out because how would I explain that to people at school?
I don’t want to tell you about how I kept ice on my cheek all evening to ward off any possible bruise, about how the police told me that the statement I wrote was so detailed and specific, about my aunt’s broken nose, my mom’s bruised ribs, about how when we took my aunt and grandparents to the airport the next day people looked sideways at us, drawing their own conclusions about my father’s bandaged hand (from a recent surgery) and my aunt’s horribly bruised face.
I don’t want to tell you about how because my face didn’t bruise and the blood washed out of my jacket I didn’t have to deal with any questions from the kids at school, but Chuckie Griffey stopped me in the hall, “I heard about what happened to you, and I’m really sorry.” I am still grateful for his kindness that day.
Then, I didn’t understand why these two boys weren’t with their families on Thanksgiving and instead made us unwilling participants in what the police told us was likely a gang initiation.
Now, I know that the gang they were trying to get into was the most stable family they had.
Being a victim isn’t a bad thing, but maybe I didn’t want to tell you about this because I have never considered myself a victim after this. Not then, not now.
The whole thing has always just made me sad. Sad for my relatives visiting from rural Ohio for who had to confront big city violence. Sad for the two boys whose lives gave them no other choices. Sad for what we heard about in the news, that a few weeks later these gang initiations started including golf clubs.
When they parked their car (a small, orange hatchback) about a half a block away and walked up behind us, I was mortified when my mom turned around and asked them what they were doing. Any high school age kid was by definition way cooler than I felt as an awkward 8th grader. Please mom, don’t embarrass me in front of these two unknown teenage boys who appeared on the sidewalk right behind us.
I don’t want to tell you about how they walked through us (my grandfather, my aunt, my mom and I on a walk around the block after Thanksgiving dinner, 1986), walked ahead of us a few paces, then turned around and came back.
I don’t want to tell you about how the force of his hand on my face knocked me to the ground.
I wouldn’t tell you if I was screaming, but I can’t remember if I was. But I think somebody was.
I don’t want to tell you about the glimpses I got of my mom on the ground behind me, kicks coming at her ribs, or my aunt pushed up against the fence, fists coming at her face.
I don’t want to tell you about my grandfather unsure of what to do and unable to stop it.
I don’t want to tell you about the drops of blood on my jean jacket and how my first thought was that I hoped they would wash out because how would I explain that to people at school?
I don’t want to tell you about how I kept ice on my cheek all evening to ward off any possible bruise, about how the police told me that the statement I wrote was so detailed and specific, about my aunt’s broken nose, my mom’s bruised ribs, about how when we took my aunt and grandparents to the airport the next day people looked sideways at us, drawing their own conclusions about my father’s bandaged hand (from a recent surgery) and my aunt’s horribly bruised face.
I don’t want to tell you about how because my face didn’t bruise and the blood washed out of my jacket I didn’t have to deal with any questions from the kids at school, but Chuckie Griffey stopped me in the hall, “I heard about what happened to you, and I’m really sorry.” I am still grateful for his kindness that day.
Then, I didn’t understand why these two boys weren’t with their families on Thanksgiving and instead made us unwilling participants in what the police told us was likely a gang initiation.
Now, I know that the gang they were trying to get into was the most stable family they had.
Being a victim isn’t a bad thing, but maybe I didn’t want to tell you about this because I have never considered myself a victim after this. Not then, not now.
The whole thing has always just made me sad. Sad for my relatives visiting from rural Ohio for who had to confront big city violence. Sad for the two boys whose lives gave them no other choices. Sad for what we heard about in the news, that a few weeks later these gang initiations started including golf clubs.
I didn't want to tell you all of this.
But now I'm glad that I did.
