To dream of worlds we cannot see
To dream of worlds we cannot see
The story of a man, a 911 call, and the illusion of safety
There are moments in our lives that test our values. Like a pop quiz from the cosmos, the Universe swoops in and jabs you with her elbow like, “Hey, quick question. I heard you talking about it. Are you gonna be about it?”
One such test arrived quite literally on my doorstep last Thursday. I just happened to walk by my living room window when I noticed a man with a fistful of weeds in one hand and a sharp object in the other. He was shoeless, shirtless, and aimless as he meandered through the neighborhood in a zombielike state, bending down every few steps to grab at more weeds.
Sadly, and for context, this is not an unusual occurrence in my neighborhood. I wouldn’t say we live in a “bad” neighborhood per se. Rather, we live in a neighborhood with no street lights or gates which is incredibly convenient for sketchy people. Not only that, it sits steps away from a Park & Ride where two freeways intersect. There’s only one way into the neighborhood and one way out, unless you count the street that runs alongside an old motel rumored to be a pit stop for folks with housing vouchers. In what feels like an island some days, my neighborhood is rife for smash-and-grabs. In and out.
“Welcome to the neighborhood!” yelled Mike and Chris days before our moving truck arrived. “Be sure to lock your car doors. We have lazy thieves around here.”
Ring cams and flood lights be damned, they were right. In the three years since we moved in, our car has been rifled through several times. Mail thieves have become more efficient, yanking lids clean off of boxes as they speed by. Aside from looking out for each other, there’s not a whole lot we can do as a community. As for me and Josh, we don’t stress. As long as thieves stick to checking car doors, we reason, we’ll be fine. It’s not like they break into people’s homes.
Home alone and with my hackles raised, I watched the man stumble over to my neighbor Chris’s house, continuing his non-commissioned landscaping project. I saw them converse. And then, as if Chris hadn’t been there at all, the man walked over to his vehicle and swung the doors open. Naturally, the conversation turned to screaming as Chris ran him out of the cul-de-sac and back toward my house.
I continued to watch as he stumbled past my window toward the homes of two elderly female neighbors who live alone. Oh hell no. I stepped outside to flag Chris down, suggesting we keep eyes on our new friend. But by the time we were done strategizing, we’d lost him. Chris walked up the road in search of the man as I hung back and waited in the middle of the street.
Not even a minute later, I turned around to find the man staring at me. He had come out from behind a bush—from which direction I wasn’t sure. All I knew in that moment was that I was afraid to be alone in the street with him. My fight or flight response kicked in as I told the man very firmly to get the fuck out of our neighborhood. I’m not sure what I expected given the fact that this eerily quiet, bug-eyed man had attempted to steal my neighbor’s shit right in front of him, but I didn’t expect a confrontation. I guess I had hoped my redirecting him toward the Park & Ride would snap him out of whatever mental fog he was in and remind him he wasn’t invisible.
He continued arguing with me, moving in such a way that prompted a quick decision on my part. Would I run up the street so he wouldn’t know where I live or get to safety behind my locked door? I chose the latter as he followed me to the sidewalk just outside my home, taunting me to call the police as I’d threatened.
With my husband at work and my dog completely disinterested in the ordeal, I made good on my threat.
I called the police.
Most people would probably deem this a completely reasonable response to the situation. But what you need to understand about me is that I’ve spent the last four years encouraging people to not call the police on the unhoused, the addicted, and the folks experiencing mental health crises. In the wake of George Floyd’s murder, I participated in community Zoom calls and made flyers offering Encinitas residents alternatives to 911.
I didn’t remember any of this until about 8pm last Thursday when my adrenaline wore off, leaving me with an unshakeable heaviness. The man was eventually arrested and removed from my neighborhood, but not before threatening self harm and screaming at me that he hoped I was happy now.
Police abolitionists often pose one very important question: “Do police keep us safe?” And my answer is the same as it has been despite calling on them last week. Put an armed officer up against a civilian and it’s clear who has the power and control over any given situation. But power and control do not equal safety to me.
In reflecting on the events of last Thursday, I feel I did the right thing within the wrong system. And that micro/macro paradox has been fucking me up. There is no space for that nuance in many social justice spaces which is why I’ve largely abandoned them—but that is a topic for another day. To return to the question posited by the (non-toxic) activists I align with: No. I don’t think policing keeps us safe because if it did I would feel safer now. But I don’t and neither does that man.
I did not feel safe as I gave a description of the man who, as I was talking to police, opened the gate to my side yard and let himself in. I did not feel safe as I waited close to two hours for sheriffs to arrive while neighbors made additional calls. I don’t feel safe knowing he knows where I live, nor do I feel safe knowing he will be returned to the same system, maybe even the same motel, to which he was relegated.
To heal the collective is to meet people where they are and give them what they need. For addicts that means decriminalization whether you agree with it or not. It means safe havens for use—clean needles, taper programs, and people who see them as human beings. Safety is not another charge on that man’s record. It’s not more prison time which perpetuates cycles of isolation, violence, and fear. More than I am interested in keeping sketchy dudes out of my car, I’m interested in building a stronger community less reliant on police.
“Well, what’s your plan then?” ask the naysayers. “If there are no cops or prisons, how will you deal with bad people?”
I have ideas, one of which is to begin by breaking open this belief that people are inherently good or bad. But as
reminds us, it is OK to not have all the answers. It’s OK to simply look around and say: “Not this.”In replaying the events of the afternoon in my mind, I find no black and white. No lesson, just more questions. What happens when we’re forced to make a snap judgment about another human being in accordance with our intuition? How do we reconcile self protection with the good of the collective?
I wonder if I should have left it alone. I wonder what would have happened if Chris and I hadn’t followed the man. And then I remember I am someone who takes great responsibility for people and circumstances and behaviors that are not my own. And that if he had walked into a neighbor’s home and I hadn’t tried to stop him, I would have taken ownership of that too.
I did what I felt was right in the moment and yet right doesn’t feel good. I’m saddened by the grim realities of mental illness and addiction and homelessness in this country. I’m mad at the neighborhood NIMBYs and mad at myself for being mad at them because they deserve peace too. I mourn the lives lost to trigger happy cops. I’m not the praying kind, but I’ve been sending the man who scared me last Thursday love and healing. He is someone’s brother, son, father, uncle, or friend. He is my brother who has likely scared strangers like me in active addiction. The man deserves help and compassion. And so my non-religious prayer to whoever or whatever receives remains—
Not this. Not this. Not this.
With this retelling, I release the burden of other people’s decisions and give thanks to gut feelings—a force I am still learning to trust. In having to rely on a system I do not believe in, I give myself permission to continue to dream the impossible. I’d like to believe that, in another lifetime when we are all resourced in care and compassion, we’ll gather together to help men like him find what they are looking for.
Man, if this ain't the struggle of modern day America. Finding that balance of helping, and showing compassion and empathy, but also drawing lines of self-preservation that shouldn't have to be drawn. Appreciate your writing as always, Fraley.