Meanness In The World

There is so much meanness in the world. The only thing a person can do to fix it is to not contribute. I must try harder to be kind.

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Much to the impressed surprise of my coworkers, friends, and family, a crime has revealed something new about me.

I've lived in New York City in various neighborhoods for 4 years now. 2 years in Manhattan, 2 in Brooklyn. I've walked through the 'hood at 1am, wandered the project wastelands between wealthy streets alone, and waited for the subway on deserted platforms all in various states of sobriety and awareness. The only kind of harassment I've ever received is unwelcome pickup lines.

My office is in Harlem, one street away from the gentrified Morningside Heights. I often take my lunches in Morningside Park. On Monday, I went to have a very regular lunch half-hour on a bench in the sun. I called my mother, and we had our usual conversation about my niece and nephew. A large crowd of middle schoolers ambled by, shouting and goofing off. As the children reached the end of the park, suddenly two punk teens ran up to me, snatched my purse off of the bench and began to run away.

Everything that I did after that kid took my bag was instinctual. I didn't have a moment to process that I was being robbed, I didn't consider being scared, I didn't call for help. I didn't think at all.

My body took over. My mouth hollered a particularly loud obscenity without hesitation. My body leaped off of the bench into a full sprint after them. Then my lucky break - the kid with my purse tripped - and before my brain could question the wisdom of the action, my feet left the ground and I pounced on him. I didn't think about the pain of throwing myself on the pavement or the possibility of him holding a weapon. I tackled him with all my weight and made sure he couldn't pick my purse up. He twisted out from under me and escaped to join his cowardly cohort, who was several yards away before he turned around and saw me jump on his friend. As they ran out of the park and the still-shocked pedestrians looked on, my mouth screamed after them, "Get out of here! Get out of here!" and it wasn't til that night that I realized my throat was sore from my victorious cry.

Only when they had almost left the park did I regain logical function. My cell phone, still clutched in my fist, began to ring, and I rejoined civil society. The park came rushing back at once and I had to remember what I must do. Like my first car accident. A blur, a trauma, and then suddenly the world demands answers. I must give my terrified mother a brief reassurance. I must count my possessions. I must not ignore the old woman in the park repeatedly asserting that I am "a fighter." I must tell the people on the sidewalk that I'm okay. I must push through my shock. I must decide the next step. All at the same time.

I extricated myself from the conversations with the observers. A little shaken, more at my transformation than the robbery, I headed back to my office. I did not call the police, but someone told a passing cop about the situation. He drove up next to me, heard my story and did his duty of looking for the kids. I could not give him a detailed description. I couldn't remember anything except that they were skinny teens wearing hoods and jeans.

I returned to the office, received permission to go home, and clutched my purse tightly the whole way back to Brooklyn. I was almost at my stop when a real classy guy threatened to beat up an old man for not moving further into the train. I considered saying something to him, but realized that not even mentioning the example he was setting for his son would change his demeanor or elicit remorse. The only way to combat that everyday nastiness is to not be nasty, not even to those who treat you nastily.


I'm not upset about what happened. The robbers were unsuccessful and my involuntary ferocity has left me feeling more powerful and less careless.