#ally fail

While galavanting through G-train Brooklyn, I encounter a woman pushing a man away.

“Don’t touch me,” she says in a loud, clear voice, as he continues his attempt to hold and calm her. “I don’t want you to touch me!”

I slow my walking. Private conversations are often loud in New York, but this could be a call for help. Other people walk by. I slow down even more.

“I said I don’t want you to touch me!”

I don’t know how to rescue. I’ve never been interested in the job. Heck, I don’t even know how to BE rescued. Once while I was playing in the subway tunnel a drunk man got way too close to me and tried to hug and kiss me. A man asked me if I needed help. I told him that I didn’t, even though I did. He lingered for a while and then left. The drunk man went away eventually as well.

“Get away from me!”

I’m a small woman, but I happen to be wearing my camo leggings. I look like a militant Afropunk lesbian superhero. What would a superhero do? I keep hearing the word “engage” on the internet. I’m pretty sure I don’t know how to do that.

“Excuse me, ma,” I could say. “You good?”

They’d both look up. He’d bark at me to mind my business.

“I wasn’t eem talking to you, sir,” I could say in my best Brooklyn accent. (I used to live in Brooklyn.) “Ma, you good? You want me to call the cops?”

I reject that immediately. Calling the cops would be a good way to get all three of us Sandra-Bland-ed. I could call someone else. I could let her use my phone. She probably has a phone. I could walk her somewhere. She likely lives close by. I could walk her home.

I’m walking creepily slowly now. I don’t want to be a hero. But we’re living in the safety pin era now. Everyone is vulnerable, and everyone is accountable. I don’t get to say “somebody else will do it.” I don’t get to assume that. I’m responsible now. I am.

This is not the first time this has happened since the election. A few weeks ago, near my block on the upper west side, a man sitting in a parked car seemed to hit the person sitting next to him. I couldn’t see the person he seemed to hit, because it was raining and the windows were fogged. I only assumed it was a woman. I didn’t know for sure. I told myself they were just playing around. I told myself it was maybe not a woman in the passenger seat. I told myself it was okay to walk away. I pictured myself tapping on the window to confirm. I did not tap. I did not confirm. I went home.

And now here I am, lurking in front of the projects in Brooklyn. This is not a good look.

I look back one last time. He has stopped touching her. She has stopped yelling. I resume a normal pace, and assume she’s okay.

I hope she's okay.

the reality for so many people, outside of the uppermost tiers of their particular social hierarchies, is living isolated and reviled and alone. perhaps i’m a terrible old cynic, but it just seems disingenuous and deceptive and maybe actually dangerous? 

Me: .... *brain implodes*