I’ve lived in a lot of different places. I grew up in Navy Housing, which in my earliest years, seemed like a safe place to be. That is, until, we were told that we weren’t allowed to go trick or treating because some kid got his guts torn out with a fish hook. It happened in another neighborhood down the road from us, and in front of some kid’s house that I went to school with. I remember, too, the time that someone was shooting the windows out of people’s houses at night. My Mom moved the entertainment system in front of the window. Then there was the wife beater next door- his wife ran over to our house one night with her baby and asked to be let in. My Mom let her in and locked the door behind her, which was a good idea, because the guy decided to come and bang on our door until the police came and took him away. I loved those doors in Navy housing. They were painted white, but I remember scratching them with my ruler and hitting metal underneath. It was not the kind of door you wanted to fall and hit your head on. NOT the kind of door that you wanted to slam your fingers in. Fingers didn’t stand a chance.
Fast forward a few years, and I’m living in and working in Brixton and Peckham, London. I’m out until 9pm, regardless of whether or not it gets dark at 5 or 8:30. I’m visiting with people in their houses, and walking through brawls on the street. When I moved to Reading, I thought I was safer. But Reading provided me with one of the scariest experiences of my life: I actually thought I was going to be killed. But I wasn’t. I was fine- I got through it all and miraculously didn’t loose any sleep over it. I loved when I lived in Brixton because we lived at the top floor of a townhouse. To get to us, you had to go up three flights of stairs. The bottom floors belonged to Maggie and Stan. We had to walk through their living room and through a level of empty bedrooms to get to our rooms. Maggie was a sweet woman who, interestingly enough, wouldn’t take anything from anyone. Stan was a large man from Israel who delighted in making us curries hot enough to sear our brains on Sunday afternoons and telling “callers” that we were women of God (we lived and worked there as missionaries) and that he never wanted to see their faces again, and that we better not, either.
Why am I going through all of this? Well, I’ve had a lot of time this weekend to reflect on times of my life when I’ve felt unsafe- or, times when I should have felt unsafe and didn’t. I thought about my Mom, who lived on her own with two children most of the time, and who never flinched when things got dicey. When my Dad got home from sea and was put on permanent shore duty- sure, I saw her get nervous then, but never once in all my years living with her alone did I ever once see her cry and say that she was scared. On Friday night John ran someone out of our backyard, it’s someone who’s been caught peeping in our windows (and the upstairs windows) two or three times. John spoke to some people about it yesterday, and it ended up that a few people came forward and told us exactly who and what we were dealing with. The new knowledge did not make me feel any better. We spent Saturday night putting up more blinds in our windows, and I made makeshift curtains to hang over them so I didn’t have to worry about this man looking through the cracks at me. We’ve made more plans to replace a door, get some better lighting, and made a few other purchases that make me feel more secure, and give me a way to take care of myself. I’ve also got a list of people sitting on my bureau that have told me to call them, anytime, day or night, if I need them to come over. One man sat in our living room yesterday and I couldn’t help but see my Grandfather and my Father in him- the big type of guy that comes of gruff, has the reputation of being an opinionated guy who has his own priorities, and could probably beat the crap out of you if it came to it. But here’s the thing: I’ve learned the secret. When they’re eyes are that kind and that soft, you’re probably ok. That’s coming from a girl with a lot of experience in seeing through the “tough” ones. I have a giant of a father who has run off more than one date that I probably would have liked to go on, and had a grandfather that probably scared the pants of most of the community although he only stood a little over 5 feet tall. And I love those men. But anyway- back to my story.
So, what we’ve got is a guy with a warped sense of entitlement looking through the windows, hiding in the backyard. And more than that, we’ve got an entire neighborhood walking by once in awhile, looking our their windows more often, and keeping an ear out for my phone call. More than THAT we’ve got the police department, who probably knows more than we do, even, involved and in the loop with what’s been going on around here. Even with all of that, I’m not sure how to not be scared. Honestly, a little fear can keep us smart sometimes. But I’ve taken back my living room. I don’t know if my Mom was scared sometimes, and just didn’t show me, or if she just decided at one point it’s not worth it trying to protect yourself from everything, because you just can’t. I feel angry, violated, and more than anything- incredibly defensive of my space and my home. But honestly, I’ve been through worse.
