As I go about my daily business around town, I recognize people who are regulars, selling Street Spirit newspapers or asking for money or food. I often chat with them, buy a paper, sometimes bring them a cup of coffee or a roll from the bakery.
For a while, there was a sweet African-American woman who sat by the curb on an upturned bucket in front of my bank. I talked with her several times, hearing about her children and grandchildren. I knew her life had been difficult. She was positive and funny, though, keeping a good attitude despite the uncertainties, and trying to make a better life for her family.
One day several years ago, after dropping the kids off at school, I went to the bank on my way home. As I walked in, I greeted her and noticed a man, unshaven and wearing khakis and a wind-breaker, sitting in the open door of a car parked in the street behind where she was sitting. He was talking to her.
When I came out, he was still there. I overheard bits of what he was saying as I walked by. He kept up a steady stream of disparaging words, calling her names–lazy, worthless, stupid. I paused and listened, hoping it would stop. It didn’t, and impulsively, I turned around, walked back and said, “Why don’t you leave her alone?” I started to go to my car, but the man’s angry words continued to pour out. He turned them on me, calling me back.
I can’t remember exactly what he said–it was a barrage of violent, hateful, ugly insults and threats that came crashing down on me and my friend. I stood next to her, put my arm around her as if to shield her from the words, and spoke close to her ear. “Don’t listen to him. It’s not true.” She just nodded.
As the onslaught continued, I appealed to the security guard outside the bank for help. He refused, saying it wasn’t bank business. At some point, the man said he had a gun in his trunk. I took the threat seriously and went inside the bank for help. A bank employee called the police and handed me the phone.
When I went back out, the man had moved to the middle of the sidewalk, and the homeless woman was trying to get back to selling her papers. The man focused on me, attacking me in every conceivable way. I have never heard such words–the hate and ugliness that poured out of his mouth was astonishing and numbing. I could not leave, though. I was determined to keep this verbally abusive man there until the police arrived.
Another man, who had been sitting at the cafe next to the bank, got up and walked over to stand with me as I took the verbal blows. I was responding as little as possible, engaging just enough to keep the angry man from getting in his car and driving away. His breath smelled like coffee as he leaned in to hiss his arrogant, denigrating account of me and my life. My supporter said nothing to me or to my assailant. Simply standing next to me, listening to everything, seeing it all, he was my witness.
The man from the cafe is the one I remember the most and the least from the day. I can’t remember what he looked like, only that he was holding a clipboard. His presence, though, was like an anchor in a storm. This was really happening. I wasn’t crazy. I needed to stand and do this. Just by staying next to me he gave me strength. I can’t believe I withstood the encounter, looking back. I cry just thinking about it. Adrenaline and anger pulled me into the fray, but having someone stand with me kept me from losing my head or my courage.
Two Berkeley police officers finally arrived on bikes. One of them took the man a short distance away, hand-cuffed him and questioned him. The other policeman stayed with us, getting the story from each person separately. He asked me if the hand-cuffed man had ever touched me–or if he had only talked to me. No, he had not touched me, I told him, only hammered me with words and sprayed me with spit and rancor.
We have to let him go, the officer told me. Freedom of speech, no matter how offensive, is protected by law. The threat of a gun in the trunk was not true. There was officially nothing they could charge him with, not even illegal parking. I was shocked and disappointed. No one should be allowed to do that.
The police officer agreed and told me, as a fellow citizen, he appreciated that I had stepped in to stop the tirade. Most people just walk by, he told me, afraid to get involved. It makes a difference, he said. The woman from the nearby flower stand told me she was glad I stopped him, too–he had been going for a long time before I got there. My friend on the upturned bucket didn’t really say anything. Maybe she was used to this kind of thing. I don’t know.
The man who stood by me talked to the police, said good-bye and disappeared. I didn’t get his name, and I don’t think I’d recognize him if I saw him again; he was beside me, but my face was turned away from him, engaged with the ugly man.
When I don’t know how to help someone in their battle, or how to engage with the pain others are experiencing, I think about that good man. He didn’t jump in or take over, he didn’t give me advice. He just stood by me.
I can do that.
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