"WHAT, N*GGA?!" he shouted, before pistol-whipping me in the face. Then the other four closed in around me, and a desperate battle for my survival ensued.
Every person of color who moves south of the Mason-Dixon Line has that fateful moment, when they realize that they are not in Kansas any more. Mine occurred on a blisteringly cold day in the winter of 2006, when I was 24 years old.
As was my custom, I was leaving a coffee shop on a small and homely college town's main road, a few minutes after dark. As I made my way to my car, a van pulled up beside me. In naivety befitting my youth at the time, I assumed they were stopping to ask directions, and so I slowly approached them.
It was a trap. The side door swung open, and five armed men leapt out, quickly surrounding me. Each had a bandana covering their face. They demanded I get into the van with them, and a brief standoff ensued.
"I don't want any trouble" I somewhat timidly said, to which the one closest to me, who I could only assume was the leader, shouted his fateful epithet, and then struck me.
The rest was a blur. I'm not sure how many blows I sustained. And then, by either dumb luck or some higher power intervening on my behalf, I was able to break free, and so I was able to flee.
I ran, farther and faster than I had ever run before. I ran, long after there was any fear of pursuit. And I ran, until I could run no farther, and then I collapsed.
Finally, a group of good Samaritans called the police, who interviewed me, and wrote down my official statement. The ordeal was over, or so I thought. In hindsight, my naivety was still getting the better of me.
After a while, it became clear that the authorities were in no mood to help me. I learned that they had down-coded the crime, from attempted murder to simple robbery, most likely in an attempt to make their sleepy backwater town appear safer on paper than it actually was.
I of course protested. But this was, after all, the Deep South, and I was, after all, a person of color. Which meant that, when push came to shove, I had no real rights to speak of.
At some point the police tired of my protestations, and so they decided to arrest me, the victim. And so I spent the night in jail.
The next morning I was transferred to a hospital, where I spent the next four weeks recovering from my injuries, both physical and spiritual. The absurdity of it all would under lighter circumstances be rather comical. But the truth is that I was in no mood for humor. Not with a broken body and a broken soul.
When a person is victimized, it is as if an evil force invades their soul. The subsequent battle within can take days, months, or even years to resolve. In the end, some win, some lose, and some are at war with themselves until the end of time.
In my case, the battle is still being fought, years later. Some days are more difficult than others. And I would be remiss to claim foreknowledge of what will eventually become of me. I can only truthfully testify to having hope that some day, far from these days of trial and turmoil, Lord willing, I will be whole once again.
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