It was an uneventful evening. I’d just finished putting on my favorite Johnson and Johnson Baby Sleepy Time lotion and was prepared to cap off my night with an episode of “The Office” when I heard a loud noise echo through my house. BANG! BANG! Followed by what sounded like shattered glass hitting the floor. I, instinctively, out of fear yelped “OH SHIT”!
I raced into my living room grabbing the first item I
could get my hands on, a shoe. I’m assuming adrenaline must’ve momentarily
blindsided the portion of my brain that controls rational behavior because I
don’t know why instead of dialing 911 or calling the police I believe that
somehow I was much better off defeating one or more unknown intruders with my
multi-colored platform pump but nevertheless I was prepared.
I scurried to find the source of all the commotion with
heart palpitations that I thought were sure signs that I was headed for cardiac
arrest.
“Oh God. Oh God please,” I pleaded whispering a silent
prayer.
“I looked through my front door window letting my eyes
quickly dart left and then right but I saw nothing. I kept my back against the
walls imitating “Law and Order: Special Victims (SVU) detective Olivia Benson,
hoding my shoe as if it was a gun as I checked every window but again I saw
nothing. A sense of calmness drifted through my body and I was hoping that I
had mistaken a raccoon rummaging through the trash for a home invasion until I
looked through my backdoor. Since the door stopper hadn’t budged I was sure it
had been unfazed. My sense of security quickly went down the drain when I
opened the back door and was immediately greeted with a dented screen and a
puddle of shattered glass.
Hours after the incident and the police left I still
felt uneasy. I double, triple and quadruple checked every lock and ever pushed
my couch against the front door that evening for added security. I stayed awake
every night clenching my grandfather’s switch blade for dear life just in case
I would need to defend myself. Unfortunately, it did nothing to keep me from
flinching at any and every rattle of the bushes and meows from the neighborhood
stray cats. I was terrified, but worse, for the first time in my entire life, I
felt like a foreigner in my own community.
I mean, sure I lived on the south side of Youngstown
and was far from a stranger to crime. Hell, just watching the news let me know
that no home, community or town was immune from danger and crime but now it
seemed that the perils of my city and I had come face-to-face and I,
admittedly, was unprepared for the meeting.
Was the neighborhood the neighborhood that had been the
stage of such happy childhood memories and many adolescent love affairs
transformed into a city of terror where I now needed cutlery to feel safe
enough to fall asleep in my own bed? I felt like a child who’d just learned
Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy weren’t real( Spoil Alert to those who never
knew. Sorry).
Although the feeling of being petrified to close my
eyes in my own bed was horrible, the backlash I received from my family and
friends for actually being scared was like I had been violated twice. I had
repeated the story to several people that I was close to only to be met with
laughs, chuckles and ridicule for actually admitting fear.
“Ain’t you from Youngstown? Damn cause I can’t tell,”?
Someone told me as I described how I felt unsafe.
For several
consecutive nights I didn’t sleep. I knew the situation could have ended
terribly different but gratitude wasn’t enough to keep my mind from wandering.
“What if someone had gotten in,”? The residue of this incident left me
questioning my safety during every stupid decision that I had made during my
youth. Like my sophomore year in high school when I walked home alone after
sneaking to a house party, or the many drive-bys I experienced at my
grandparents house during summer nights. I still remember the itchy tingling on
my stomach from my grandparent’s furry green-carpeted steps as I slide down
trying to dodge stray bullets (The early 1990s were very unkind). These moments
that seemed like harless adventures now I realized cold have ended rather badly.
I had always been surrounded by violence and crime.
It’s just as embedded in my childhood as bedtime stories and learning to ride a
bike, but that didn’t somehow exempt me or anyone from Youngstown from being
afraid.
I felt ashamed and started thinking that maybe there
was something wrong with me. “ Stop actin like a B@#ch.Toughen up, Eartha,”. I
started telling myself. I even joined in on a few jokes about the sitution but
no matter how many pep talks I silently gave myself it still didn’t help. I was
afraid and fear mixed with the shame of feeling fear was a pill I couldn’t and
wouldn’t allow myself to swallow.
Living within my city limits we are trained to follow
unspoken rules that, generally, make absolutely no sense. Like UNDER NO
CIRCUMSTANCE should you be a “SNITCH” whether or not you, a family member,or
friend is the victim of the crime in question. If one choses to reject this
belief they are somehow eliminated from authenticity or some abstract “Hood”
pass.
After I was a victim of a potential home invasion,
which is one of the most tramatic ordeals to face, I was expected to somehow “MAN
UP” and pretend to be unaffected because somehow being from the “Hood”
supreceded the fact that I am a human being.
To this day I still double check my window and I’m
catious when I’m home alone. I’m sure the intruders were some random teenaged
boys that I probably pass everyday on my
way to work but never again will I let
others dictate what emotions I’m allowed to feel and express. Whether happy,
sad, strong, or scared, I’ll always be from Youngstown.
